Welcome to the veil of chaos. I yap both in and out of writing and have an odd paternal connection toward Flat Eric.
they/them. but they/she is okay too. || queer. asian-hispanic. uni student. || frankly. a v-card haver that writes smut sometimes (they're often in the drafts, lol) || currently obsessed with Dispatch || most of my content of x reader is GN unless rq otherwise!
Main Masterlist | Request/Ask Box Open / (Submit Also Possible) | My Ao3
Recent Works:
Updated. 11/10/25. : What If ; Chapter 9. "Again."
New Releases: Cupid My Cupid, A Sonar x Reader, NSFW
RQ = Request(ed)
Currently Working On: Chapter 9. of What If.
General Waterboy Requests + Add. Ch(s) to "It's not, not a date!" (because my Waterboy fans made it clear they are dehydrating)
Sonar (2/3 RQ)
Phenomaman (1 RQ. NSFW)
Malevola (5 (all from my own grool (brain)
Robert (4 RQ)
I just wanted to apologize for my sudden disappearance and explain.
My life had really crumbled at the time I went dark and in reality, I was using writing to escape. Hence why the posts were so quick as I honestly wasn't sleeping. In the end, it couldn't help me when the next thing happened.
To put it short, I’ve been taking care of a bedridden family member for several years. It was the first day of the New Year, the morning of it, where I woke up and noticed the signs of a stroke. While it was heartbreaking, we at least had hope when they came home from the hospital, that we would've gotten two months like the doctor said.
Unfortunately, we had only a few days.
As they were put on hospice care almost immediately after coming home.
I was the main provider so I had also been up around the clock administering the required medication. Which obviously took a toll on me and my overall physical and mental health. I still have timers and recite the medication randomly through my day without meaning to. Which is probably not a good thing but…
I’m getting back to my feet, slowly. I’m not sure how steady but… that’s just how it is, y’know? I haven’t had the stomach to really read comments or left inbox messages, so I apologize for that.
Anyhow, I want to get back into writing, even properly rewrite ‘What If’ after mulling over what could’ve been different. Make it better. Maybe I’ll do smaller things too? Shorts or something. I don’t know yet.
Just taking it day by day.
But thank you.
Thank you for all the support and concern and I promise I’ll find my way back to you guys.
if we ever get to a point in the robert fic where he’s shirtless, pls show his freckles some love. i head canon that they’re kinda dense on the high points of his shoulder (っ˘ڡ˘ς)
GET OUT OF MY HEADDDDD
Random Rob Stuff, #1 || Suggestive below, Robert x You
"Mm." The sound rumbled low in his throat, brows raising even as his eyes remained stubbornly shut. You hummed back, matching his tone, and he felt the curve of your smile against his neck. His own lips twitched in amusement despite the grumbled protest.
His annoyance was paper-thin—a performance you both knew he didn't mean. He could never truly tire of this. Of your touch tracing the scars that mapped his body. Of your warmth bleeding into him, chasing away the lingering shadows of whatever nightmares had plagued him. It only became a problem when you teased him. When you worked him up with wandering hands and wicked whispers, then slipped away, leaving him aching and hard while citing his responsibilities as dispatcher, the team waiting for orders he could barely focus enough to give. Of the things he thought about doing that had his just getting comfortable slacks suddenly very uncomfortable again. The bathroom sees him more frequently during those days… or his car… where he’s pointedly parked farther when he knows it’s going to be bad…(he invested in sunshades after that one date and needless to say, he’s getting his money's worth).
Your fingers dragged lower, nails scraping lightly over his stomach, feeling the muscles jump beneath your touch, the skin growing warmer as the heart quickened. You smiled wider, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the hollow of his throat, tasting salt and warmth.
"You're trouble," he muttered, voice rough with sleep and something darker. Something that had you softly laughing against his shoulder, admiring the freckles sprinkled there—beauties you’ve admired from a distance for far too long.
And no, he won't confess that he shifted his head so you had better access. Or well… He will, after you have him a flushed pink, panting mess with new marks blossoming across his scarred and freckled body. Breathless as your name falls from his lips pathetically… “Please… Please, please—"
The next time he goes to work his shirt collar is pointedly all the way buttoned. Multiple comments of he’s gotta loosen it… Chase sees it at one point, pausing in his hassling. The older man raised a brow, followed by that mustache bristling as that smirk grows. The man squinting behind his glasses knowingly as he wags a gnarled finger up and down.
No amount of ‘it’s not what it looks like’ will halt the teasing of ‘leopard spots’ and ‘new freckles’ and whatever old man terms Chase conjures up either.
Because it is, for a fact, exactly what it looks like…
Not entirely freckled focused but I was honestly somewhat inspired to release this knowing I’m not using it or building on it anytime soon. Might do that with other small WIPs, just to keep y’all occupied while I’m working on stuff. Idk yet, we shall see
EDIT: My dumbass found a draft literally called ‘freckle worship’ right after posting this. 😭😭 I hate myself omg… I’ll post that later <3
<- Chapter 8. || Chapter 9. [You ARE Here]
tgs: mention of child (no y’all don't got a kid, there's just a glazed over topic; no child in this economy but I don't want to possibly scare people in ‘not tagged’ or something), depression, fading feelings (for now), robert needs to ring doctor monster asap
a/n: I"M ALIVEEEEEEEEEEE! it's joeover // Is this technically me making it into a Bestfriends to Strangers to Bestfriends again (then lovers)?
[wrds: 22, 538 | chrs: 135,381]
[NOT BETA READ]
Read on Ao3
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Robert stood on his balcony; the small concrete rectangle jutting out like a king’s exclusive view. The railing was wrought iron, painted black, with intricate scrollwork that probably cost more than a person’s first guess. Plants hung from hooks screwed into the overhang—real plants, lush and healthy, the kind that required actual care instead of sporadic neglect. Ferns and trailing pothos and something with purple flowers he couldn't name but knew how to water given explicit instructions… something drilled into him after far too many previous killings that promised his skin if he doomed another.
A promise that wasn't empty as he remembers the expression, remembers fleeing around the apartment with a mix of startled laughter as he was chased. Hands reaching for him, threats of violence wrapped in affection, the kind of mock-anger that was really just concern dressed up as indignation. Beef barking in the background, egging on the chaos like the little instigator he was.
The memory brings a smile to his face as he stared out to the city. A real smile, not the hollow ones he'd been manufacturing lately. Not the professional mask or the self-deprecating smirk. Just... genuine warmth at the memory of being ridiculous about plant care. About caring enough about something living to threaten him over its demise.
Los Angeles stretched before him in that particular predawn blue-grey, where streetlights still glow amber against the fading darkness but the sky has already started its slow brightening. The sun still hidden but making its sleepy ascent as its little humans drag themselves out of bed. Or maybe are finally making it to bed after too many long hours of working. The city never really sleeps, not truly. Just shifts. Changes. Moves from one rhythm to another like a massive organism with millions of moving parts.
He waves at a neighbor down below. A nice man. In his residency or something at the hospital. On the perpetual state of sleeping and waking and screaming—the kind of exhaustion that came with saving lives and accumulating student debt in equal measure. There's a simple lift of a hand that's exchanged between them, one that means 'good morning, have a good day, see you around' (and everything else) all at once. While well meaning the action also reminds Robert that he's shirtless—at the very least he's in some good sweatpants rather than those boxers he's been meaning to replace for months now.
The morning air is cool against his bare skin. Not unpleasant. Just present. Real. Grounding in a way he needs right now. The kind of physical sensation that reminds him he's actually here, actually alive, actually experiencing the world instead of just floating through it on autopilot.
As he contemplated finally going inside, a sound behind him draws his attention. The balcony door sliding open with that particular whisper of glass on metal tracks.
Footsteps. Familiar ones. The kind he'd recognize anywhere because he's spent years cataloging every detail of their existence without consciously meaning to. The weight of those steps. The rhythm of that movement. The slight hesitation before crossing thresholds.
A soft sniffle and audible shiver.
Before arms wrap around him from behind.
The touch sent electricity through his entire nervous system. Not unpleasant. The opposite of unpleasant. Warm and solid and right in a way that made his breath catch. Made his heart do that stupid jackrabbit thing it only did around one person. Made everything else—all the noise and chaos and confusion of his life—fade into insignificance.
The hands caress against his exposed skin, warm against the chill that lingered under the flesh. They embrace his scars without disgust, without hesitation, without that particular careful avoidance most people employed when touching damaged things. Fingers even caressing along one particularly nasty mark till the palm settled comfortably against his stomach, the other against his chest. Right over his heart. Like you were checking to make sure it was still beating. Still functioning. Still his.
Holding him. Anchoring him. The kind of embrace that wasn't about passion or possession but simple connection. Simple being together. Simple existing in shared space without needing justification or explanation or anything beyond this.
A cheek pressed to his shoulder. Weight settling against his back in a way that spoke of absolute trust. Of comfort so complete it didn't need justification. Of safety that went both ways—you feeling safe enough to be vulnerable, him feeling safe enough to be held.
"Traumatizing our neighbors again?"
Your voice. Muffled slightly against his shoulder blade. Sleep-rough and warm and so achingly familiar that Robert's chest constricted painfully. That particular timbre that came from just waking. From being pulled from dreams. From comfort and safety and belonging. The slight rasp that meant you'd been sleeping hard, deeply, the kind of rest that only came when you felt secure.
God, he'd missed your voice. Even though it's been less than 24 hours since he'd last heard it. Just a couple before the two of you finally succumbed to the pull of rest. But every moment without it felt like deprivation. Like going without air. Like something essential had been removed from his environment.
He huffs in amusement, shifting. His weight settling more comfortable against you, hands lifting to cup the back of yours. Holding you there. Making sure you know he wants this. Wants you. Wants this moment to last as long as physically possible. "Of course. Unless you've forgotten my favorite pastime." He squeezes your hands gently, thumb tracing the familiar topography of your knuckles. "Half-nude, staring at innocents as they—" a pause. His brain catches up to his mouth, processing how that actually sounds. "I sound like a creep... should probably stop talking.”
He could feel you shake, a tremble of laughter vibrating against his back. That particular silent laugh you do when something catches you off guard. When you're trying not to wake the whole building with your amusement. When joy bubbles up so naturally you can't contain it.
You pull away slightly and he turns in your arms, his hand settling on your side—caressing in a motion he's done dozens of times before. Hundreds, maybe. Thousands. The movement so practiced it's become instinct. Muscle memory that exists independent of conscious thought. You were warmer from deep slumber, sleep mused and looking ready to return to hibernation once given the chance. Your hair is doing that thing where it sticks up in odd angles. Your face still has pillow creases. Your eyes are heavy-lidded and soft.
It was—is—perfect.
"What are you doing up anyway?" You ask before breaking into a big yawn, face scrunching and eyes watering. The yawn is contagious—it always is—but Robert fights it. His eyes still water though.
Robert catches one of the sleepy tears with his thumb, lips twitching. Fighting the urge to smile like an idiot. Failing. "Have to get ready for work." The words came automatically. His tone lighter with you, has been for a while thanks to you. No constant undercurrent of exhaustion and stress that had been his default for the majority of his life. Just... ease. Comfort. The ability to exist without armor.
He tilted his head slightly, examining your face. Cataloging details. The exact shade of your eyes in this light. The way your lashes cast shadows on your cheeks. All these tiny details he'd memorized without meaning to. Without permission. Just absorbed through proximity and attention and the desperate need to know everything about you.
You meet his eyes, mirroring his tilt. A unconscious mimicry that speaks to how in sync you've become. How you've started adopting each other's mannerisms. How the lines between where one of you ends and the other begins have blurred into something beautiful and terrifying.
The warmth that flooded through him at that simple action felt almost painful in its intensity. Paired with that soft eye contact. Like staring directly at the sun. Like something too bright and good to look at directly but impossible to turn away from. Like he was Icarus and you were everything he shouldn't reach for but couldn't help flying toward anyway.
You presenting the comfortable intimacy of someone who belonged here. Who belonged with him. Not as a guest or a visitor or someone temporarily occupying space. But as someone who had a right to be here. Who had earned their place through time and care and all the small moments that accumulate into something bigger than their individual parts.
"At 4 AM?" Your tone carried amusement. That particular affectionate exasperation reserved for when someone you love does something adorably stupid. The kind that says 'I'm judging you but I'm also endeared by your ridiculousness.'
"Yes at 4—" He paused. Brain catching up with reality. Processing the information that didn't quite align with his internal clock. "It's 4 AM?"
Your laughter vibrated against his skin before it filled the air as your head briefly fell back. Draws his eyes to your throat. The laugh is warm and genuine, a kind of sound that made his entire body relax involuntarily. Made tension he hadn't realized he was carrying bleed out of his shoulders. Made everything feel lighter just by existing. "Yes, 4 AM." You confirmed, peering at him with those eyes that always saw too much. That cut through his bullshit with surgical precision. And after a beat, you pointedly add in a teasing whisper: "On a Saturday."
The information filtered through his brain slowly. Too slowly. Like his neurons were trudging through molasses trying to make connections that should be obvious.
Too early.
Way too early.
And he doesn't even work weekends.
What the hell had he been thinking? How had he gotten so turned around that he thought it was a workday? That he needed to be anywhere other than here, in this moment, with you?
"I'm an idiot." He said it out loud. Felt your arms tighten around him in response. Felt your smile against his chest as you nuzzled closer. That particular burrowing motion you do when you're comfortable. When you're content. When everything is exactly as it should be.
"You're my idiot." You corrected. The possessive so casual it felt like breathing. Like stating a fact of the universe. "But yes. An idiot."
The possessive should probably bother him. Should trigger all his usual hang-ups about being a burden, about being too much, about not deserving to be claimed by anyone let alone someone like you. All those deeply ingrained beliefs his father had instilled. All that toxic masculinity about being independent and strong and never needing anyone.
Instead it just made him feel... good. Warm. Safe. Wanted in a way that went beyond physical attraction or temporary affection. Permanent. Solid. Real.
Like coming home.
He hugs you in turn, caressing as he breathes you in. Feels the slight stiffening as his scruff tickled you, followed by the melt as he presses a kiss to your skin.
"Come back to bed?" The question was soft. Hopeful. Your hands had started tracing idle patterns against his skin. Nothing sexual. Just touch for the sake of touching. For the comfort of connection. For the simple pleasure of feeling him beneath your fingertips.
Robert didn't hesitate.
"Okay."
The word came so easily. No internal debate. No weighing of pros and cons. No anxiety about whether this was the right choice or whether he was being weak or whether he should push himself to stay awake now that he was up. No complicated calculations about what staying meant or what it implied or how it would look.
Just: Okay.
Because you asked. Because he wanted to. Because the idea of crawling back into bed with you sounded like the best possible use of his time. Because everything else could wait. The world could spin without him for a few more hours.
You unwrapped yourself from him slowly. Reluctantly. Your hands sliding away in a way that suggested you'd rather not let go at all. But the promise of bed—of warmth and comfort and more contact—made the temporary separation worthwhile. Robert reached almost unconsciously to find your hand. Fingers threading through his without hesitation, without thought. Without second guessing. Because this was natural now. Normal. Expected.
Because why would it be second-guessed? You've been doing this for years.
You both pause when you first step inside, letting him slide the balcony door shut and fix the curtains before resuming the journey to bed. The apartment is dark still. Quiet except for the ambient sounds of life—the hum of the refrigerator, the distant traffic, Roast's soft snoring from wherever the little demon had decided to sleep.
It took some time for him to get used to it. Having a place that was actually a home.
Where Robert's usual dwellings over the years were sparse to the point of depressing—furniture sold off to make rent, walls bare except for water stains, the general aesthetic of "gave up"—this space was lived in. Actually inhabited by people who gave a damn about their environment. Who thought comfort mattered. Who believed that where you lived should reflect who you are rather than just being a place to store your body between shifts.
Cozy in ways Robert hadn't experienced since childhood. Where he does remember having a nice home. But even that felt empty when your father was consistently absent. When "home" was more concept than reality. When the space you occupied felt more like a training facility than a place to actually live.
But this? This was warm.
Art on the walls—actual art, not just whatever came in the cheap frames you could buy at Target. Framed photographs; all consisting the two of you and of course, Beef. The newer additions also include Roast. Concert posters from shows you'd attended together. Some hand painted pieces from your visits to Painted Earth in Temecula. A drive that is over an hour and often only taken during necessary visits but worth it each time. Shelves lined with books and plants and small sculptures. Personal things. Collected things. The kind of objects that accumulate over time when you actually think a place is worth decorating. When you plan to stay. When you believe in permanence.
Thrifted things that seemed horrible together but were actually perfect thanks to you and doing whatever the fuck you wanted. Because your home was never meant to be a touchless place that made people wonder if it was okay to even use a couch. A couch that looked actually comfortable with throw pillows and blankets. A coffee table covered in what appeared to be a half-finished puzzle—something abstract and complicated that you'd been working on for weeks.
The TV was larger than Robert's had been. Mounted properly instead of being balanced on cardboard boxes (and later sold for extra cash). Evidence of actual adult life. Of having priorities beyond immediate survival. Of believing you deserved nice things.
There are signs of life everywhere too. A jacket thrown over the back of the couch—his from a couple days ago that he keeps forgetting to put away and you simply let be. Never nagging. Never making him feel like a slob. Just accepting his mess as part of the ecosystem. Shoes by the door in haphazard arrangement, whether it was because you scolded him to take them off (he forgot) or because Roast decided to play with them. A few dishes in the sink visible through the kitchen doorway, submerged to avoid any ants swarming through the night but still technically dirty. Books stacked on the coffee table next to what looks like unfinished paperwork. A blanket half-draped off a beanbag where someone—if not the both of you—had been using it recently.
All these little things make it perfect. Because it's real. Because it's the kind of space that exists when two people share a life together. When they're comfortable enough to not constantly maintain appearances. When home means safety instead of performance. When you can leave evidence of your existence without fear of judgment or complaint.
The bedroom door was slightly ajar. Warm light spilled through the crack. The kind of amber glow that came from a salt lamp or one of those sunrise alarm clocks people swore by. The kind of lighting that was supposed to help with circadian rhythms or mood or whatever the latest wellness trend claimed.
But it's what is at the door that makes the both of you pause.
Beef, plopped there, waiting. Patient but clearly displeased.
Of course Beef was waiting.
The dog looked deeply offended. Those dark eyes fixed on them with the particular accusation only a dog can achieve when they've been wronged despite the narrowness that spoke of sleep also clinging onto his canine form. His whole posture screamed betrayal. Ears slightly back. Tail tucked. The full performance of a creature who has been abandoned.
You left me, those eyes said. You got out of bed and LEFT ME ALONE and I am VERY UPSET about this.
Robert felt laughter bubble up while you were already giggling. Already dropping yourself to scoop up the offended canine. Beef went willingly despite his obvious displeasure, allowing himself to be cradled like an overgrown baby. Which is what he is. What he's always been. A twenty-pound infant trapped in a dog's body. Your face buried in his fur, pressing exaggerated kisses to his head while making those ridiculous cooing sounds people make at animals. The kind that would be embarrassing if overheard but felt perfectly natural in private.
"I'm sorry, baby boy. I'm so sorry we abandoned you. That was so mean of us. Yes it was. Yes it was." Your voice had gone up an entire octave. That special baby-talk register reserved exclusively for animals. The one that made Robert's chest warm even as he fought the urge to tease you about it. "Did you think we weren't coming back? Did you? Poor sweet potato. Poor little bowling ball."
Robert moved to join you. His hand finding Beef's head as his other settled on your opposing shoulder. Scratching behind those ears in the exact spot that made the dog's eyes half-close in contentment rather than sleepy-fury. The chubby body wiggling with pleasure despite the continued offense. Tail starting to wag despite himself. Forgiveness coming easily because dogs are better than people that way.
"We're terrible parents," Robert said solemnly. Trying to keep his face straight. Failing. "The worst."
"Absolutely awful," you agreed, looking at him with an equally solemn expression that was undermined by the smile tugging at your lips. "Should probably be reported to dog protective services."
"I hear they're very strict about the proper cuddle-to-abandonment ratio."
"Oh definitely. We've probably violated several regulations tonight alone."
Your giggles twine together, a symphony of pure elation that makes him feel so achingly alive. It brings the two of you closer together too, heads dipping like a happy little family that has years of memories ahead of them. Like this is just one moment in an infinite series. Like there will be thousands more mornings just like this. Like the future stretches out warm and welcoming instead of uncertain and terrifying.
"Okay, okay, back to bed," you whisper, smooching Beef as you return to your shuffling. There's but a slight adjustment so you can shift a hand free, finding Robert's once more. He's there, of course. He's always there. His hand settles in yours once more, pressed close and doing a sort of waddle-walk to remain so. He's mimicking the hold you had on him on the balcony, the hug from behind, pressing his face to your shoulder blade then the shoulder. Close enough to breathe you in. To feel your warmth. To exist in your immediate orbit.
The bedroom is just as lovingly put together as the rest of the home. Not just a room with a bed in it, but an actual space designed for rest. For intimacy. For the kind of vulnerability that comes with sleep. For shared existence in its most basic form.
Filled with things that neither of you would've had years ago mixed in to the everyday items. Because being with another also meant loving yourself. As even before being in a relationship, it means you should find love in yourself too. Sometimes it just becomes easier when someone else is there to encourage or simply be the anchor in the tedious ways of life. When someone else believes in you enough that you start believing in yourself. When their faith becomes scaffolding for your own.
There's an actual bed too. A proper one with a frame and a headboard and everything. Not a mattress on the floor or a plastic chair or any of the sorry excuses for sleeping surfaces that Robert's been making do with years ago. This is furniture. Real furniture. The kind that requires assembly and probably cost more than Robert's entire current living situation. The kind that represents investment. Commitment. The belief that you deserve comfort.
The bed itself is... it's almost obscene in its comfort-promising appearance. Made but not military-made. Covers pulled up but rumpled in that way that suggests recent occupation. Pillows arranged in haphazard comfort rather than decorative precision. The kind of bed that looks like it would be a pleasure to sink into. That invites you to stop fighting and just rest. That promises safety and warmth and the kind of deep, dreamless sleep that actually restores instead of just passing time.
But it's also clearly been disturbed. There are two distinct Robert-and-you-shaped indentations in the covers. Two sides that have been occupied. Two spaces marked by body heat and weight. Evidence of shared sleeping. Of bodies arranged around each other through the night. Of unconscious adjustments and instinctive movement toward warmth and comfort.
A nest.
That's what it looks like. The bed has become a nest, not nearly circular like a bird's but still considered nesting. Covers pulled this way and that. Pillows migrated from their original positions. The sheets twisted in ways that suggest movement. Restlessness. Or the opposite—such complete comfort that staying still wasn't necessary. Wasn't required. When you trust someone enough to be completely vulnerable. When you can surrender to unconsciousness knowing you're safe.
This is where you sleep together.
Not sex—though that too, though that's happened, though that's part of this equation, definitely part of the equation—but sleep. The actual act of sleeping. Of being unconscious and vulnerable beside another human being. Of trusting them with those hours of defenselessness. Of believing they'll still be there when you wake. Of knowing that even in sleep, you're not alone.
This is where you rest.
Together.
You set Beef down on the bed with excessive care. The dog immediately begins the complex ritual of circling, pawing, circling again before flopping down dramatically right in the middle. Claiming the prime real estate. Establishing himself as the center of this universe. The axis around which everything revolves. His parents' parents, as it were.
You're already climbing back in. Sliding under covers that accept you like water. Moving to your side and settling in with the ease of habit. Of routine. Of having done this countless times before. Of this being normal. Expected. Right.
Robert hesitates.
Just for a moment. Just long enough to really look at this scene. He's done this before. He always does this actually. Because even after years of it, he can't help but bask. Can't help but stop and appreciate. Can't help but catalogue this moment like he's afraid it might disappear if he doesn't consciously acknowledge its existence.
You. Beef. A real bed. A real home. A real life.
This is what he's always wanted.
Not the hero work or the legacy or any of the things he spent years destroying himself over. Not the approval he never got. Not the impossible standards he could never meet. Not the weight of expectations that crushed him slowly. Just this. This simple domestic scene. This quiet intimacy. This peaceful existence. The mundane magic of waking up next to someone you love. Of shared space and shared life and shared future.
And now he has it.
Actually has it. Not as a dream or fantasy or distant possibility. But as reality. As his life. As something he gets to keep. As something that chose him back.
"You coming?" Your voice is already going drowsy again. Sleep reclaiming you now that the brief adventure of retrieving your human is complete. You're propped on your elbow slightly, looking at him with fond exasperation. Like he's being ridiculous. Like this is silly. Like obviously he should be in bed already. "Or are you gonna stand there all night analyzing the bed?"
"All night?" Robert glances at the windows. The curtains are drawn but he can see the edges of predawn light seeping through. "It's morning."
You roll your eyes, a silent 'ok, smartass'. That particular look that says you're judging him but also endeared by his need to be technically correct. "Fine. All morning then." You pat the space beside you. His space. The right side. Where he belongs. The dip in the mattress that's shaped itself to his body over time. "Come on."
Robert climbs in.
The bed is amazing as always. The mattress supports his weight properly. The pillows are real pillows, not flat sad things that gave up being useful years ago. The blankets are warm without being suffocating. Everything is just... right. Perfect. Exactly as it should be. The kind of comfort he'd convinced himself he didn't deserve. That he didn't need. That was frivolous or weak or unnecessary.
But it isn't unnecessary. It's essential. This comfort. This rest. This safety. All of it matters. All of it contributes to being able to function. To being able to think clearly. To being able to exist as something other than survival mode.
He settles on his back. Head sinking into the pillow that knows the exact contours of his skull. Looking up at a ceiling that isn't water-stained or concerning. Just a ceiling. Plain and boring and perfect. Clean white paint. No cracks. No evidence of structural damage or neglect. Just... a ceiling being a ceiling.
He feels Beef's bulk pressing against his side, creating a buffer between his parents. A warm, furry, gently-snoring buffer that radiates contentment and dog-warmth. The weight of him familiar and grounding. Proof that this is real. That this isn't just another dream he'll wake from in his empty apartment.
You're on your side. Facing him. Having let yourself melt and cushion against arm and pillow. Staring at him with that particular angle you do when you're thinking. When you're processing something. When you're trying to figure out what to say or whether to say it at all. When you usually answer his 'what are you looking at?' (playfully) with your unrepentant, 'you” that leans to laughter and kisses.
It's soft. Open. Vulnerable in ways you usually aren't when you're fully awake and aware. The kind of expression that exists only in safe spaces. Only with safe people. Only when you trust that what you're feeling won't be weaponized against you. When you can be honest without fear of rejection or ridicule or abandonment.
It's love.
That's what Robert is seeing.
Not friendship or obligation or habit or any of the things he usually told himself to explain your presence in his life. Not gratitude or pity or convenience. Just... love. Pure and uncomplicated (at least to the two of you) and utterly terrifying in its simplicity. The kind that doesn't demand. Doesn't keep score. Doesn't require justification. Just exists. Steady and constant and real.
You love him.
The realization should be earth-shattering. Should remake his entire worldview. Should change everything. Should send him into a panic about whether he deserves it, whether he can keep it, whether it's real or just wishful thinking.
But Robert takes it as fact. Has for awhile. As obvious. As something that exists as naturally as breathing or gravity or the sun rising every morning. Not something to question or doubt or agonize over. Just... truth. Simple and absolute.
Of course you love him.
And he loves you.
That's just how it is.
How it's always been.
How it was always going to be.
There's a slight shift between the two of you. Beef sniffing and huffing at the other small dog that jumped onto the bed with that particular graceless thud that suggested he'd misjudged the height. Roast, a fellow small dog that was one of those generic 'crusty white dogs'—Shih Tzu Maltese's mix. So two crusty white dogs mixed… and it was brown instead of white… So not the same but also yes? Genetics were weird. Biology didn't care about human expectations. The guy was still crusty in his own way.
He was found during the initial move here by a curious Beef. A street pup—although he's actually quite an old puppy, maybe eight or nine—that had been digging through trash and chewing on things he shouldn't be. Matted and skinny and mean. Snapping at anyone who got close. Feral in that way street animals become when humans have proven untrustworthy. Now the thing is a mini tank. Not at all like Beef just yet but filled out since being snatched up and domesticated. And despite your scolding, you and Robert often let Roast and Beef play vacuum during meals. Cleaning up whatever dropped or was offered.
A little human food never hurt nobody.
Unless that human food is chocolate or grapes or onions or any of the other surprisingly long list of things that are toxic to dogs. But you're both responsible pet parents. Mostly. When you remember. When it's convenient.
There's that audible huff off and in the peripheral you can catch Roast throwing his head with a dismissive toss. Those bangs bobbing indignantly. The attitude of a creature who believes himself far superior to the plebian Beef despite being roughly the same size and significantly less well-behaved. Roast is a gremlin. A menace. The kind of dog that would absolutely start problems at the dog park against much bigger peers if given the chance.
It makes you smile, it makes him smile, now the two of you are smiling at each other. Again. For the thousandth time. For the millionth time. Never getting tired of it. Never finding it boring or routine or anything less than exactly what it should be.
"Miss Matilda wants us to visit soon." You say eventually, watching as he moves; rolling and adjusting to his side so he can look at you properly. So he can give you his full attention. So he can read every microexpression and know what you're actually saying beneath the words.
"Does she?" He isn't particularly interested in your former landlady. Not as much as he is in staring at you. In memorizing the exact angle of your nose. The way your eyelashes cast shadows. Everywhere he loves to kiss. "What for?"
Your expression reading 'you clearly know what' before you speak. That particular look that says he's being deliberately obtuse. That he knows exactly what Miss Matilda wants and is pretending ignorance to be difficult. "The usual."
Ah, the usual…
"We have children for her to baby though," he argues. His voice taking on that particular stubborn quality he gets when he knows he's fighting a losing battle but refuses to surrender. "Fur babies are still babies." Cue the slight scuffle of said two well-fed old pups playing with each other. Roast trying to assert dominance. Beef completely unbothered.
"She has dozens of fur babies, Rob." You smile, lifting your head to watch Beef roll while pawing at the air toward Roast. The larger dog playing along despite clearly being able to overpower the smaller one. Gentle despite his strength. Patient despite his size. "Now she wants a distinctly non-fur grandbaby."
"Yeah well," he huffs, adjusting again, punching his pillow into a more comfortable position. It pulls him closer by simple coincidence, of course. Totally accidental. Not at all intentional. "That hag can lay off."
"Rob." But there's laughter in your reprimand. That particular tone that says you're scolding him but don't actually mean it. That you're delighted by his irreverence even as you pretend to disapprove.
"You know I mean it affectionately," he murmurs in the pillow, pointedly making a visible show of hiding away from the conversation. Becoming one with the bedding. Refusing to engage. "Usually."
“Usaully.” You echo with a giggle.
The silence stretches between you after that. Comfortable. Full of things that don't need saying. The kind of quiet that exists between people who know each other well enough that not everything requires words. When presence is enough. When just existing in the same space is its own form of communication.
Neither of you really care to have the conversation of children—human children, that is. Whether it be by more physical means or adoptive, it just isn't a topic either of you focus on. The biological clock thing isn't ticking yet. The societal pressure hasn't become unbearable. You have your whole lives to decide if you want to involve a little spawn; especially longer as adoption can be visited. Years to figure out if you want that responsibility. That permanent change. That complete upheaval of everything comfortable and familiar.
And maybe you won't. Maybe it'll just be the two of you and whatever animals you accumulate. Maybe that's enough. Maybe that's perfect. Maybe the nuclear family ideal is overrated anyway.
He manages to open his eyes in time to see your hand reach out. Fingers tracing idle patterns on the sheet between you. Not quite touching him but close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating from your skin. The gesture is unconscious. Soothing. The kind of movement people make when they're thinking. When their mind is working through something and their hands need occupation.
Then—
"I love you."
The words fall into the space between you.
Simple. Clear.
Definitive.
No hesitation. No qualification. No uncertainty. Just statement of fact delivered with the weight of absolute truth. The kind of truth that rewrites reality. That changes everything. That can't be taken back or ignored or dismissed.
Robert can see the way your lips form around the words. Can see the slight purse between the "I" and "love." The way your mouth shapes the "you" with particular care. Deliberate pronunciation. Making sure each syllable lands properly. Can see every micro-expression that accompanies the statement—the slight nervous tension in your jaw, the hope in your eyes, the vulnerability of putting these feelings into words. Of making them real. Of giving them weight and substance instead of leaving them safely implied.
But he can't hear it.
Can't grasp onto the sound.
There's a strange sudden muffling. Like his ears have suddenly filled with cotton. Like he's underwater and the words are reaching him distorted. Like there's interference on a phone line causing the most important part of the conversation to cut out. Like the universe itself is conspiring to prevent him from hearing what he needs most.
He sees your lips move.
Sees you say it.
Sees the truth of it written across your face in expressions he's spent years learning to read. In the soft vulnerability of your eyes. In the slight nervous energy in your shoulders. In the way you're holding your breath waiting for his response.
But the words don't land. Don't register. Don't reach the part of his brain that processes language and meaning and the world-altering significance of what's just been said. Don't sink in deep enough to become real. To become something he can hold onto. To become something he can believe.
"Again."
His voice is urgent. Demanding in a way he rarely is with you. Too raw. Too desperate. Too much need bleeding through the single word. His hand reaches out—moving faster than should be possible, but desperation allows him to close distance without the normal constraints of movement and physics. Without considering whether he has the right to demand anything.
"Say it." He's pushing himself up. Moving closer. His hand finding yours and gripping with intensity that slightly hurts. Fingers wrapping around your wrist with bruising pressure that he doesn't register. That he can't modulate because all his control has evaporated. "Say it again."
Your expression shifts. The openness clouding with confusion. Concern. That particular worry that appears when someone you love is acting strange and you're not sure why. When something has gone wrong but you don't understand what. When the script has suddenly changed and you're scrambling to catch up.
"Rob—?"
"Please." He's definitely moving too fast now. Closing the distance between you with jerky, uncoordinated movements that speak to panic rather than intention. His other hand reaching for you. For your face. For anything he can hold onto. "Say it again. I need—"
He needs to hear it. Needs the words to land properly this time. Needs them to sink into whatever part of him has been starving for them without knowing it. Needs them to be real and solid and something he can carry back to waking with him. Needs proof that this isn't just another fantasy his broken brain has constructed. Another elaborate lie he's telling himself.
"I don't—" You look lost now. Actually lost. The confidence and warmth from moments ago dissolving into uncertainty. That expression dissolving into something that's almost fear. Almost withdrawal. The vulnerability closing up like a flower sensing frost. Petals curling inward protectively. "What's wrong?"
No.
No, that's not right.
This isn't how this is supposed to go.
You're supposed to say it again. Supposed to smile and repeat those three words with patience and understanding. Supposed to cup his face and kiss him and tell him everything is okay. Everything is fine. Everything is exactly as it should be. Supposed to see his desperation and meet it with reassurance instead of confusion. Supposed to understand what he needs even when he can't articulate it properly.
Not this.
Not confusion.
Not fear.
Not you pulling away from him like he's done something wrong. Like he's scared you. Like he's ruined this perfect moment through his own desperate neediness. Like he's revealed something about himself that makes him unlovable. Unworthy. Exactly as damaged as he's always believed himself to be.
"I just—" His grip on your hand is too tight. He can see it now. Can see the way his fingers have gone white-knuckled. Can see the slight wince you're trying to hide. The way you're instinctively trying to pull back even as you're fighting that instinct. Even as you're trying to stay present with him despite his spiral. "I need you to—"
But the words are failing.
Dying in his throat. Choking him. Because what is he even asking for? What does he need? Why can't he just accept this? Why does he have to ruin everything good in his life? Why can't he just be normal for once? Just be okay with happiness when it's offered?
"Robert—"
You're looking at him with something that might be pity. Might be sadness. Might be the horrible realization of what he's really like—desperate and broken and so starved for love that he can't even accept it properly when it's freely given. When it's offered without conditions. Without expectations. Without the demand that he earn it or deserve it or prove himself worthy.
That he's fundamentally unlovable. That something inside him is twisted wrong. That he's exactly the disappointment his father always said he was.
"I'm sorry," he tries to say. The words tumbling out in a rush. Overlapping. Tripping over each other. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
But before he can finish—before he can try to explain or apologize or fix this—
Robert's eyes snap open.
No gradual awakening. No gentle drift from sleep to consciousness. No merciful buffer of grogginess to soften the transition. No slow realization of where he is or what's real. No moment of disorientation.
Just instant, terrible, complete alertness.
Terribly wide awake.
The kind of awake that happens after nightmares (like the one he had of you not so long ago). After dreams so vivid your brain forgets they weren't real until reality comes crashing back with malicious clarity. That spike of adrenaline that floods your system. That horrible moment of disorientation before everything clicks into place.
Where am I?
When is it?
What's real?
His heart is hammering. Actually hammering like he's been running. Like he's in danger. Like his body is preparing for fight-or-flight despite being completely stationary. The rhythm is wrong. Too fast. Too hard. The kind of pulse you can feel in your throat. In your temples. In your fingertips where they're pressed against—
Against the floor.
He's on the floor.
Of course he's on the floor.
That's where he sleeps now. Has been sleeping. Ever since... when? He can't remember when it started. When the plastic chair stopped being enough. When even that minimal comfort felt like too much. Like he didn't deserve it. Like the floor was somehow more appropriate for someone who's fucked up as completely as he has.
The floor is cold. Not just cool or slightly chilly. Cold. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones when you've been lying on it for hours. When your body heat has been slowly leeching away all night into concrete and cheap wood flooring that provides no insulation whatsoever.
His back screams. Aches.
Immediately. Obviously. The dull throb that comes from sleeping on an unsuitable surface spreading across his spine like spilled ink. His shoulder blades feel bruised where they've been pressed against the hard surface all night. His hips hurt. His neck is stiff from whatever angle his head ended up at.
Every old injury makes itself known. Every scar tissue area that doesn't quite bend the way it used to. Every place that took damage during his career as Mecha Man and never properly healed because proper healing requires rest and Robert has never been good at rest.
The cold is worse on his exposed skin. Seeping into the scars particularly. Those areas where flesh isn't quite right anymore. Where nerve endings got damaged and temperature regulation is off. Where the body's natural defenses are compromised in ways that make every sensation feel more acute. More painful.
It's not just uncomfortable.
It's actively hostile.
Like the floor is alive and intent on punishing him.
He pushes himself up.
The movement is automatic. Mechanical. Requiring no thought. Just muscle memory and the grim determination that comes from having done this countless times before. Wake up. Sit up. Begin the process of existing for another day.
His hands press against the cold floor. Taking his weight as he rises. The floor is slightly gritty under his palms. Dust and dirt and whatever else accumulates when you don't clean regularly. When you've given up on maintenance. When existing takes all your energy and things like "sweeping" feel impossible.
He doesn't look around.
Doesn't need to.
Doesn’t want to.
He knows exactly what he'll see because nothing ever changes. Because this is his reality and reality doesn't spontaneously improve just because you want it to. Because dreams lie but waking never does.
The apartment is exactly as he left it last night.
Same empty walls. Same lack of furniture. Same general air of neglect and abandonment. Same evidence of a life not being lived so much as endured.
Everything is just how he left it.
Same old same old.
The phrase cycles through his mind with bitter familiarity. Because yes. Same old. Every day the same. Every morning the same. Every waking the same crushing disappointment of reality.
He hates it.
God, he hates it.
He's always hated it.
But he'd accepted it somewhere along the way. This is what he deserves. This is what his life is. This is the natural consequence of every choice he's made and everything he's failed to do.
Living like this—if you can call it living—is his penance.
Except he mulled over this exact thing just last night. Lying here in the dark. Staring at the ceiling. Cataloging all the ways his life is a disaster and doing nothing about it.
That dream didn't help.
It made it worse.
So much worse.
Because now he knows. Now he's seen it. Now he can visualize exactly what he's missing. What he could have if he wasn't such a fucking coward. If he could just do the bare minimum of basic human communication and emotional honesty.
The dream showed him the life he wants.
The life he can't have.
Not because it's impossible. Not because circumstances prevent it. Not because of bad luck or wrong timing or any of the external factors that people usually blame.
But because of him.
Because he's too broken. Too damaged. Too fucking scared to reach for it.
The apartment feels emptier now. Colder. More hostile. Like the dream's warmth has made the reality's chill more obvious by contrast. Like seeing what home could be has made what home actually is unbearable.
There's a specific quality to this emptiness. This nothingness. It's not just the absence of things—though god knows there's plenty of that. The missing furniture. The blank walls. The lack of any personal touches that would make this place feel lived-in instead of just occupied.
It's deeper than that.
Emptier.
A vacuum.
The kind that can't be described to someone who's never felt it. Who's never experienced that particular brand of hollowness that settles into your bones and makes everything feel pointless. Makes existing feel like too much effort. Makes the gap between how things are and how they could be feel insurmountable.
The dullness.
That's what it is.
That grey flatness that coats everything. That makes colors seem muted. Makes food taste like cardboard. Makes music sound distant. Makes laughter feel impossible. Makes everything that's supposed to bring joy feel like too much work for too little payoff.
Like trying to find warmth in a photograph.
Like trying to taste honey through glass.
Like trying to feel something—anything—when your emotional range has been compressed down to variations of numb.
This is depression.
Depression is its real name.
Not sadness. Sadness would be easier. Sadness has edges. Has specific causes. Has the possibility of resolution. You're sad because something happened. Remove or resolve the something, and the sadness goes away.
Depression isn't like that.
Depression is the absence. The void. The nothing that eats everything. It's not about being sad. It's about being nothing. Feeling nothing. Caring about nothing even when you desperately want to care.
It's the constant exhaustion that sleep doesn't fix. The constant ache that painkillers don't touch. The constant static in your head that makes thinking feel like wading through concrete. The constant weight on your chest that makes breathing feel like a chore.
Most people call it a pain in the ass.
Filled with whys and won'ts—particularly "why won't it go away no matter what I do?"
But Robert hasn't really done anything, has he?
The thought hits him like a punch to the gut. Sharp and accusing in ways his usual mental fog doesn't allow. Maybe because he's still partially in that space between sleeping and full consciousness. Maybe because the dream has left him raw and vulnerable. Maybe because eight days (for yesterday still doesn't seem like it counts) of avoidance have finally accumulated into something that can't be ignored anymore.
He hasn't done anything.
Sure, he's written messages, stared and zoned out in thought and played scenes behind his eyes. But none of it happened.
And nothing is nothing.
Unsent messages resolve little, personal thoughts apologize to no one other than the fantastical mind.
He’s just been sitting in his self-pity. Drowning in his own inadequacy. Feeling sorry for himself while doing absolutely nothing to change the situation. Like somehow if he suffers enough, if he punishes himself thoroughly enough, it'll count as atonement.
And that dream—
God, that dream was his guilt and shame and insecurities painting him as someone deserving of such warmth. Someone worthy of forgiveness he hasn't even tried to earn. Someone who has their shit together enough to have a real home. A real relationship. A real life.
Someone who isn't him.
It was a fantasy.
A fantasy that felt so terribly real.
Robert closes his eyes. Pressing against his eyes again, chest heaving as he feels emotion prick the corners.
Three words.
That's all it takes.
I am sorry.
Or I'm sorry.
Or even just: Sorry.
One word would be better than the nothing he's currently offering. One word at the very least.
A stifled sound vibrates against the back of his throat, making his shoulders hunch and head dip. Forward, curling in on himself like he's trying to make himself smaller. Trying to disappear. Trying to fold himself into nothing because nothing is what he deserves.
He's crying.
Crying like a pathetic loser.
Hot tears sliding down his face unchecked. Dripping off his chin onto his bare chest. His breathing has gone ragged. Uneven. Each inhale catching on something sharp in his chest. Each exhale shuddering out with sounds he can't control. Sounds he doesn't want to make. Sounds that prove just how broken he really is.
His father was right, he was always right.
The thought comes unbidden. Unwanted. But true. Has to be true. Because look at him. Look at what he's become. A grown man crying on his apartment floor at dawn because he's too much of a coward to send a simple text message. Too weak to do the right thing. Too pathetic to deserve the good things in life.
You're soft. Weak. You'll never be half the man I was. You'll never live up to the name.
His father's voice echoes in his memory with perfect clarity. That particular tone of disappointment tinged with disgust. That look that said Robert would never measure up no matter what he did. That certainty that he was fundamentally flawed. Fundamentally insufficient. A disappointment from birth.
And he'd spent his whole life trying to prove that wrong. Trying to be strong enough. Brave enough. Good enough. Worthy of the Mecha Man name. Worthy of the legacy. Worthy of existence.
But here he is. Proof positive that his father was right all along.
Robert shouldn't be here this early. He doesn’t want to be actually. Not today.
But after that dream, the apartment felt more suffocating than usual.
So he'd gotten up after wiping it all away. Showered. Put on his SDN uniform with the kind of mechanical precision that comes from muscle memory rather than conscious thought. Fed Beef. Grabbed the dog and his backpack and left before he could second-guess himself into paralysis.
The drive had been... autopilot. Dangerous, probably. The kind of thing that should worry him more than it does. He has zero recollection of most of the route, his brain both too occupied with things that he can't quite remember now.
What he does know that he’s been shivering since he started moving about this morning. It was cold. A sudden downpour from last night that didn’t make sense to have during this season but couldn’t be a surprise because of the climate. Since his coma, since the struggle to truly return to what he once was, the shift in weight made it easier for him to get cold. Made him shiver like some stick in the wind. But the best thing he had is that hoodie and he was too out of it to put it on before leaving the house. The only reason he had turned on the heater in the first place was because of Beef in the back of his mind. Said dog content in his arm (bundled with said hoodie) to keep him warm and off the damp ground.
"Mornin', Doc!"
Robert freezes, faltering his step toward the building.
That's Punch Up's voice. Unmistakable Dublin accent, that particular cheerful bellow that suggests the man has never encountered a volume he couldn't exceed. Coming from somewhere near the employee entrance.
Your voice answers immediately, filling the morning chill with alert warmth that makes something in Robert's chest constrict painfully. "Morning, Knockout."
Knockout?
The word hits him like a physical blow, especially after the morning he had. Settles in his stomach like lead. Because that's a nickname. Clearly. A personal one. The kind you usually don't give to someone you barely know or only have professional interactions with.
Knockout.
For Punch Up.
What the fuck?
Since when was that a thing?
Robert's frown deepens, carving lines into his face that mirror the permanent furrow between his brows. His fingers tighten on jacket—the dog having lifted his head happily at the sound of your voice, sniffing the rain-scented air to seek yours.
"How are you? Have a good night?" Your voice continues, casual and friendly in a way that makes Robert's throat feel tight.
He should leave. Should just walk inside or get back in the car like he forgot something or literally do anything other than what he's currently doing which is standing there like a creep in the parking lot listening to a conversation that doesn't involve him.
But his feet won't move.
His perfidious eyes lock onto the scene unfolding down the way, to a car parked on the opposite side near the middle. Lock onto you—stepping out of a car that is definitely not yours. Not your grandfather's beloved Toyota-something with its mysterious smell and decades of history. This is a newer model. Nothing fancy, but functional. Well-maintained. The kind of practical vehicle someone who actually has their life together would drive.
You're smiling. It's genuine despite the whisper of sleepiness that kisses the corners of your eyes and the edges of your lips. That soft, natural smile that used to be reserved for him. For lazy mornings when you'd show up at his apartment with coffee and breakfast sandwiches. For late nights when exhaustion made you both punchy and everything was funny. For quiet moments when Beef did something adorable and you'd both just... look at each other and smile because words weren't necessary.
Now you're smiling like that at Punch Up.
"Aye. Had a night of drinkin' and knockin' some fellas down a peg at the bar." Punch Up's voice carries across the parking lot as he makes his way over. There's a pointed flex of those considerable arms—‘Theresa and Susan’ getting their morning stretch—before his fists settle at his hips in that classic strongman pose. "What about you? How did ‘Margarita Thursday’ fare?"
Margarita Thursday.
The words feel like they're in a foreign language. A phrase from a life Robert isn't part of and doesn't understand. Because when did Margarita Thursdays become a thing? When did you start having regular social events with coworkers? When did you build this entire social calendar that exists completely separate from him?
Somewhere in the back of his mind, if he wasn’t so addled with that dream, he would’ve remembered that Galen has definitely texted him about it. That it’s the whole thing and they make their own margaritas and enjoy themselves among coworkers, make cammadrie, become friends. But he’s been so busy with the Z-Team…
"Mm." You make a sound—acknowledgment or just a verbal placeholder as you heave your backpack strap onto your shoulder, adjusting it with a slight bounce. "Fun is one word. Regret is another."
You went out drinking. Had enough to drink that you're experiencing regret. Which means probably too much. Which means you were relaxed enough, comfortable enough, safe enough to let your guard down like that.
With them.
With people who aren't him.
Because when’s the last time the two of you shared a drink? Cracked open a beer just for the fun of it?
Didn’t you hate drinking?
Robert's jaw clenches hard enough that his molars grind together. The sharp pain in his temple intensifies, spreading across his forehead in waves that make his vision blur slightly at the edges.
"Hey!" Another voice. Male. Unfamiliar for a split second before Robert's brain catches up and identifies it as Galen. Speak of the devil.
Galen's head appears above the car roof, popping up from the driver's side with the kind of casual ease that suggests this is easy now. Just like it was easy for you to carpool home with Waterboy yesterday, making sure he got to his place safe then—unknown to Robert, just said fuck it and told Galen you’d attend the event that night. (Partially because you really didn’t want to linger in your apartment or perhaps bother Herman with your personal mess). You don’t regret it though.
So while you drive Waterboy home, where the two of you likely can have dinner or talk or do things friends are expected to do together… Galen drives you to work, the two of you likely doing the same as you do with the janitor but in terms of coffee and breakfast.
And if you drank last night, that could also possibly mean you slept over at his place?
A coworker you've known for less than a week. Getting you to open up in a way Robert wasn’t sure he ever was able to allow you to.
"We had fun!" Galen's grin is visible even from this distance. Genuine. Warm. The kind of expression people wear when they've actually had a good time instead of just going through motions. "You had fun. You said you did.”
"We did, we did." You reassure, fond and exasperated in a way Robert wished that was him on the receiving side. "But I definitely had too much too.”
There's a moment where you're sliding a box from the backseat. Maneuvering it with that particular care that suggests fragile contents or at least things you don't want damaged. Probably more stuff for your office. More personal touches to make that space yours. More evidence that you're settling in, making yourself at home in this new life.
The box looks heavy. Awkward. The kind of thing Robert would normally be helping you with because that's what he does—did. Past tense. That's what he used to do before he fucked everything up so completely that asking him for help probably didn't even cross your mind.
"Allow me."
Punch Up steps forward before Robert's brain can even process the offer. Those hands taking the box from you with the kind of ease that comes from literal superhuman strength. Making it look effortless even though Robert can see from the way you'd been holding it that it wasn't light.
"Oh, why thank you." Your voice is warm. Appreciative. You exchange a look with Galen over the car roof—something knowing and amused that speaks to inside jokes Robert isn't privy to. "What a gentleman."
Gentleman.
The word echoes in Robert's head with uncomfortable intensity.
Because you used to call him that. Used to say it teasingly when he'd hold doors or carry your bags or insist on walking you home even when you said it was unnecessary. "Such a gentleman," you'd say with that particular tone that made it clear you were making fun of old-fashioned chivalry while also appreciating the gesture.
Now you're saying it to Punch Up.
With the same warmth. The same genuine appreciation.
Like it means the same thing.
Robert's fingers have gone white-knuckled on the jacket. The bundled Beef is looking up at him with concerned brown eyes, sensing the tension radiating off his human. That particular anxiety dogs pick up on instinctively, knowing something is wrong even if they can't articulate what.
He should move. Should do something other than stand here like a stalker watching you interact with people who aren't him. This is creepy behavior. Obsessive behavior. The kind of thing that would absolutely justify you being uncomfortable around him. Something that wouldn’t have existed in the first place if he had just said sorry within 24 hours.
Run to your apartment, Beef in arm straight after the shower. Beg for forgiveness outside your door, something that likely both earned and lost your landlady’s approval. He knows you probably beat yourself up over it, that you argue with yourself and anyone else that it wasn’t that big of a deal. But that’s not true. Sure, it wasn’t a fight, it could've been worse and you’d tell yourself that; that you could just forgive him. But he hurt you. It hurt you more than ever, made you uncomfortable, confused you, beat you down in the way that ‘simple’ words do to everyone. Because words aren’t just words and even the most ‘basic’ comment can cling to someone like stepped gum. Gum that never truly goes away.
So he stands there with that echoing once more in his thoughts, unable to look away. He can’t.
Can't stop cataloging every detail of this interaction. The way you laugh at something Galen says. The comfortable way you walk beside Punch Up toward the building. The casual camaraderie suggests you’ve hit it off and time is simply a construct when itcomes to making friends.
While Robert has been arriving deliberately late to avoid exactly this kind of scene.
The small group is heading toward the entrance now. Moving past his position in the parking lot. Close enough that he should say something. Should acknowledge them. Should act like a normal person who just happens to be arriving at the same time as his coworkers.
It’s Punch Up that looks at him in passing. There’s a pointed once-over, something that is both dismissive and knowing. Perhaps even hints of what? Disgust? Pity? Judgement? Followed by a slight shake of his head and… an eye roll?
That was definitely an eyeroll.
Robert's brows furrow. What the hell is his problem? Sure, he knows they're whatever with him but… He doesn't say anything, doesn't make a deal about it yet as the odd party stalk off. You're too busy talking to Galen about something—drinks, the party, another coworker, comedy night—to notice the interaction.
To notice him.
You don't see him standing there. Don't look his way even once. Just continue your conversation like Robert doesn't exist. Like he's invisible. Irrelevant. Part of the background scenery instead of someone who used to be the center of your world.
The realization hits him like something physical, like the air had been knocked from his lungs.
You're moving on.
Not just professionally. Not just building a career and making friends and thriving in this new environment.
You're actually, genuinely moving on from him.
Building a life that doesn't include him. Finding people who make you laugh and drink margaritas with you and drive you to work and call you Doc with casual affection. People who haven't spent years taking and taking and taking until there's nothing left of you but exhaustion and resentment and the kind of deep, bone-tired weariness that comes from caring for someone who can't—won't—take care of themselves.
People who give you the confidence to drive but also don’t mind driving you. People who aren’t him. And in some selfish way, in his own turmoil, he wants that back. The codependency, the slight reliability you had on him for some things. It’s shameful thinking, something he shouldn’t wish upon you now that you're actually settling in.
But again, seems like Robert has been making rash decisions these days that ruins years of relationship.
“I’m just saying, Margarita Thursdays should move to Fridays so I can actually suffer with a hangover without the promise of work the next day.”
“No one wants to deal with each other on Fridays. Aren’t you also technically on call over the weekends too?”
"Y’know,” a pause as you squint at Galen. “I had forgot about that. I don’t appreciate the reminder.”
Galen laughs, pulling the door open to allow Punch Up and you ahead. “It’s not set in stone, dude. I doubt you’ll be called in most days given we’re off on the weekends. Prime time to party.”
“You’re jinxing it.”
“Oh, c’mon. I’m not!”
“You definitely are, right now. You’re dooming me to 7 days a week.”
Robert is envious again. In the way that is more painful than blinding in stupid, undignified irritation and anger. Jealously is normal, he can remember you saying some time ago. He doubts it feels the same, that reassurance, that understanding, especially while on the lashing, confusing receiving end.
"Hey. Blabbering bitch, the fuck are you doing?"
Fuck.
The voice cuts through Robert's spiral with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Flambae. Because of course it's Flambae. Of course the universe would send literally the last person Robert wants to deal with right now to interrupt his pathetic parking lot stalking.
Robert forces his eyes away from where you've disappeared into the building. Forces himself to turn and face the hero approaching from the other side of the parking lot. His signature sunglasses on even without the sun out, keys in hand. He has a car. Guess that makes sense. Can't really fly properly in rain, can he?
"What?" Robert's voice comes out more defensive than he'd intended. Sharper. Like he's been caught doing something wrong and is preemptively arguing against the accusation.
"You're standing there like a creep." Flambae doesn't slow his approach, doesn't modulate his volume, doesn't show any concern that this conversation might be overheard. "You peeping at people?"
"No." The denial is automatic. Too fast. Too forceful. Exactly the kind of response that makes you look guilty even when you're not.
Except Robert is guilty. He was absolutely standing there watching you like some kind of obsessed weirdo. Has been standing here for several minutes just... staring. Processing. Spiraling.
Being pathetic. Again.
"Right." Flambae's tone makes it clear he doesn't believe that for a second. "So you just habitually stand in parking lots staring at people for fun? That's your thing? Your hobby? Like a creep? You a fuckin’ creep or something?”
"I wasn't—" Robert cuts himself off. Because what's the point? He can't explain without sounding worse. Can't articulate that he wasn't being creepy, he was just... what? Gathering intelligence? Confirming suspicions? Watching his best friend interact with people who've clearly become important to them in the span of days?
Yeah. That definitely sounds better.
“Sure. Yeah. You caught me. It’s my favorite hobby.” Robert accepts dryly. “Standing in parking lots. Staring at people for fun… Like a creep.” Seems weirdly like a callback to the dream. At the very least he wasn't shirtless this time.
Flambae’s face scrunched lightly in disgust. "Whatever, man." Flambae waves a dismissive hand, clearly losing interest now that Robert isn't providing entertaining resistance. He starts to turn away, heading toward the building entrance.
Robert should let him go. Should just get inside and start his shift and pretend this didn't happen. Should absolutely not engage further with someone who's clearly looking for reasons to antagonize him.
His mouth opens anyway.
"You know I know, right?"
The words hang in the air between them. Loaded. Significant. Carrying weight that Robert can't quite articulate but feels with absolute certainty.
Flambae pauses. Doesn't turn around. Refuses to, maybe. Prism had commented not long ago—during one of the team's many arguments that Robert pretends not to hear—that Flambae is too expressive sometimes. That his face gives away his lies, his tells, his secrets. That he's terrible at poker for exactly that reason.
Microexpressions. Which Flambae swears is a load of bullshit.
So he simply stands there, frozen mid-stride. Peering into his peripheral to keep Robert in that barely visible view. His shoulders have gone tense. Not fight-ready exactly, but alert. Wary.
"Know what?" Flambae's voice has lost its aggressive edge. Carefully neutral in a way that's somehow more telling than anger would be.
"I know." Robert repeats, letting his own voice go dry. Matter-of-fact. The tone someone uses when they’re absolutely certain of something and wants the other person to know that lying would be pointless. "And because I know, I just wanted you to know that I do."
It's vague enough to be deniable. Specific enough to be threatening. The kind of statement that could mean everything or nothing depending on context and interpretation.
Robert doesn't actually know. Not for certain. Not with the kind of evidence that would hold up if questioned. But he suspects, has been beyond his wallowing. Has enough puzzle pieces to see the shape of the picture even if some details are still missing. The Z-Team's sudden interest in Medical—followed by their actual kindness toward them, toward you. Their coordinated behavior. The mysterious baked goods. Your appearance at SDN days after that disastrous Friday.
Someone—probably multiple someones—had orchestrated your hiring.
Had made sure you got this job. Had created circumstances that led to you working here. Had integrated you into their weird little found family before Robert even knew you were in the building.
And Flambae knows something about it. Robert knows that now at least. Can see it in the tension radiating from the man's shoulders. A vague lick of flames quickly reeled in. In the careful way he's controlling his expression by not showing it at all. In the fact that he's not immediately denying or demanding clarification.
The silence stretches between them. Heavy. Significant. The kind of moment where what isn't said matters more than what is.
Beef whines softly, pulling against the leash. Wanting to move. To go inside where it's warm and there might be treats and certainly there's you because Beef can probably smell you from here. Can sense your presence somewhere in the building calling to him like a beacon.
"You don't know shit," Flambae finally says. But his voice lacks conviction. Sounds more like he's trying to convince himself than Robert.
"Sure." Robert agrees easily. Too easily. "I don't know anything. Just making conversation."
"Conversation." Flambae repeats the word like it's foreign. Like he's testing how it tastes. "Right. Fuckin’ weirdo.”
He starts walking again. Faster than before. Not quite fleeing but definitely retreating. Putting distance between himself and whatever mess this conversation might become if it continues.
Robert watches him go. Watches the way Flambae's shoulders stay tense even as he disappears through the entrance. Watches the door swing shut behind him.
He shouldn't have done that. It was unnecessary. Rash. But he's learning quite quickly when it comes to you, he’ll probably continue making rash decisions till it finally comes to bite him in the butt. More than it already has.
—
Work was mechanical. He fell in the dangerous rhythm of zoning out and reaching for thoughts that slip between his fingers. And while he isn’t restless like yesterday, he isn’t sure this is any better. While yesterday he was forgiving and unable to sit still, today he’s motionless and unfairly sharper with the Z-Team.
Their attitudes grating his nerves, literally. Scar tissue pulsing in irritation because it’s just one of those days—the unexplainable irritation that makes even the most mundane sounds upsetting and overstimulating.
His father, if he were still alive, would've thought he was utterly pitiable. Not just for what happened this morning—not like he would ever tell him about that if he was alive—but for everything else. His father would say things that would irritate him too, call you things that would probably make Robert lash out. Take him down himself before Shroud ever had the chance to.
It’s morbid and horrible. Especially because his heart aches—has ached for years in starvation to prove himself to a man that never seemed satisfied with his existence. A hate-desperately want-love relationship. Daddy issues to the T. Issues that he hated were so complicated and exhausting and when it did get worse, when maybe he came seeking you during his truly vulnerable moments (sometimes after a mission or with liquid courage in his veins, both isn't far fetched either)—your words comforting and so painfully understanding that you swear you could talk anyone away from a path of villainy.
You would argue that may not truly be possible but again, he’s never quite listened to you. In more ways than one.
"The fuck is your problem today?"
Robert's hand freezes on his mouse. Every nearby dispatcher turns slightly, trying to pretend they're not listening while absolutely listening as the voice is clearly heard through the headset. Or reality have also been eavesdropping this entire time because in reality, they caught his harsh tune too.
"You have to be more specific," Robert replies carefully. Professionally. Even though his first instinct is to snap back with something cutting.
"You're on our asses for no reason," Invisigal continues, frustration bleeding through every syllable. "We're doing exactly what you asked. Following protocols. Not causing problems. And you're still being a dick about it."
"Am I?" Robert's voice comes out flat. Detached. "I didn't notice."
The sarcasm is unintentional. Automatic. A defense mechanism that's been honed over years of deflecting actual concern with false levity.
It lands poorly.
"We're doing the shit you're asking us to do," Invisigal's voice rises slightly. "What more do you want?"
Robert stares at his monitor. At the GPS markers representing his team scattered across the city. At the incident reports and status updates and all the documentation of another day of barely-controlled chaos.
What does he want?
For them to stop meddling. Stop interfering. Stop reminding him that they care more about your wellbeing than he apparently did.
"Uh," he looks around his cubicle in mock thought, even though they obviously can't see him. "I don't know what you want me to say to that."
"We're just asking maybe you could be nicer or some shit," Prism's voice joins in. "Your tone is not it."
And there it is.
The thing Robert's been trying to hide. The irritation and hurt and frustration that's been bleeding into every interaction whether he wants it to or not.
Something in him snaps.
Not violently. Not loudly. Just... breaks. Like a frayed rope finally giving way under sustained pressure.
"So what? You want a cookie each time you do your job?" The words come out cold. Cutting. "Or praise for each time you guys do something right like you're in kindergarten? 'Wow, you colored in the lines, good job!' Which would really just be, 'wow, thanks for not killing anyone, you're the best.'"
Robert knows he's being an asshole. Knows he should stop, should back down, should find some way to defuse this before it escalates.
He doesn't stop.
"Hey, man—" Sonar tries to interject but Robert simply cuts him off:
"Flambae probably told you that I know so you guys can drop the innocent act." His tone is sharp but controlled. Making it somehow worse than if you'd been yelling. More deliberately cruel. More calculated in the way it's designed to cut.
The silence that follows is different. Charged.
"And yeah, I know. Took longer than I'd like to admit—probably should've noticed the first day but hey, I figured it out. In what? Three days, if barely, given today just started.”
Robert can picture them. Scattered across the city, frozen in their various assignments, probably exchanging glances or gestures or whatever non-verbal communication they've developed. Realizing their little secret is out.
"I know you guys don't like me or whatever," Robert continues, his voice carrying that particular edge that comes from hurt masquerading as anger. "But I'd prefer you stay out of my personal life."
"Listen, we were just trying to help.” Malevola's voice. Serious with growing irritation.
“By what? Putting doing 'let's do good to get our dispatcher to quit' project? Maybe next time pick something that doesn't involve forging federal documents and stalking someone for days."
He should stop. Should leave it there. Should let them process and regroup and figure out how to respond. He dosen’t.
“Really makes a guy wonder what else you’ve been lying about.” His fingers are drumming on his desk now—rapid, agitated movements that match his racing heartbeat. “What other little operations you’re running behind my back. Whether anything you do is actually about rehabilitation or just…”
He trails off deliberately.
Just criminal behavior with a hero veneer. Just manipulation wearing a different mask. Just the same old shit with better PR.
“That’s not fair.” Coupé’s voice cuts through, and the words are childish—something a kid would say on a playground—but coming from her mouth they carry weight. Accusation. Hurt that she’s probably not equipped to process in healthy ways.
“You don’t know what we saw,” she continues, and there’s something dangerous in her tone now. That assassin edge creeping in. “What we—”
“What you saw?” Robert’s laugh is sharp. Cutting. “Let me guess. You saw one argument. One bad night. One moment of conflict and decided that gave you the right to interfere in someone’s entire life?”
“There’s no way in hell you all stalked me back from home together on Friday,” he continues, his logical mind catching up with his emotional spiral. Working through the logistics even as anger clouds his judgment. “Had to be one of you. And then you twisted what you saw—or thought you saw—into pieces and told the others until everyone was convinced they’d witnessed something that required intervention.”
“Telephone game with someone’s life,” he adds bitterly. “Real heroic.”
“I know what I saw—” Invisigal’s voice returns, defensive and sharp.
“Of course it was you, Invisigal. I’m not even surprised.” Robert’s voice drips with venom he didn’t know he possessed. “I know you have issues but projecting them onto someone else’s life is a whole other level of psycho.”
The words land like a physical blow. He can hear the sharp intake of breath through the comms. Can sense the collective shock from the team.
“Maybe behind bars really is a better place for you,” Robert finishes, and the words are quiet. Deadly. The kind of thing that can’t be unsaid.
The kind of thing that will haunt him later when his anger fades and he’s left with the wreckage of what he’s done.
“Hey, asshole!” Invisigal’s voice is furious now. Properly furious. Beyond hurt into rage.
“Okay you need to chill the fuck out—” Prism’s voice overlaps, her own anger rising to match.
“Obviously we hit a nerve and you wanna be whiny about it—” Flambae adds.
“—but don’t go—” Malevola tries to finish.
The voices overlap and tangle. Multiple people trying to respond at once. The comms channel devolving into chaos as the team collectively loses their shit at their dispatcher’s completely inappropriate behavior.
Robert can't handle it. Can't process the cacophony of angry voices all trying to defend themselves or attack him or both simultaneously.
He removes the headset.
Just pulls it off and lets it drop to the desk with a clatter. The voices cut off abruptly, leaving blessed silence in his ears.
His hands are shaking. Slightly but noticeably. From anger probably. Or adrenaline. Or the crash that comes after an emotional explosion. This has been a build up, sure. Which he hates. Because it feels like just because he finally (yes, maybe he wished long before he had more dreams that involved sweet ole you) had a dream with you that he’s acting out like some… some….
He stares at his hands—at the slight tremor, at the white knuckles, at the physical evidence that he's not as controlled as he pretends to be.
Robert knew, intellectually, that he has better control than this. Usually. Has spent years practicing emotional regulation because his father demanded it. Because weakness couldn't be shown. Because Mecha Man didn't get to fall apart.
Usually he can maintain his composure even when everything inside is screaming.
Usually.
Always the usually. Always the qualifier. Always the asterisk that means except when it really matters.
Always the same shit that's barely any different than before despite his insistence that he's changed, he's better, he's learning.
"You handled that well."
Robert's head snaps up so fast to the left something in his neck cracks. Painful and sharp. Ouch.
Galen is standing there, visible over the cubicle. Coffee mug in hand—one of those oversized ones with some sarcastic saying Robert can't make out from this angle. Robert just knows it reminds him specifically of you. Is that where you got that mug he saw yesterday? His headset for his own team is hooked casually around his neck instead of on his ears.
But his expression remains unreadable behind his glasses. That same neutral look he always wears. The one that makes it impossible to tell if he's being sarcastic or sincere.
"Didn't ask for your opinion," Robert mutters, and the harsh tone is completely unnecessary. Uncalled for. Misdirected anger at someone who's done absolutely nothing to deserve it.
He hasn't had a problem with Galen. Ever. The man's been nothing but professional. Helpful even, in his quiet way. Never intrusive or judgmental or anything that would warrant hostility. The only thing Robert’s mind deems ‘threatening’ is him spending time with you. And just like he has previously with Royd (only once, very briefly during some mutual work on the suit), he lashes out on them.
Because that's what Robert does now, apparently. Because when he’s jealous—or would it be envious? The distinction feels important but Robert's too wrecked to parse it properly—then they become his next punching bag. His next target.
Galen seems surprised at the bitterness. Robert can see it in the slight widening of his eyes, the fractional lean backward. But by grace—or perhaps just years of dealing with difficult people—he remains unoffended.
Not yet, at least.
"Didn't offer one," Galen's tone is dry. The usual dryness that's casual and expected if you don't know him well. Plain without being cruel. "Just made an observation."
Which is somehow worse than if he'd been sarcastic. Because it means Galen genuinely thinks Robert handled that well. Thinks calling out the team was the right move.
Or—more likely—he's being genuinely neutral. Simply stating a fact without judgment attached.
The tone is so different from this morning. From the light and playful spirit Galen had shared with you (and perhaps, by some extension, Punch Up) as you guys headed in for work. The casual warmth Robert had witnessed as he stood there like an idiot; listening, watching you laugh with Galen, watching the easy comfort between you, watching another person slot seamlessly into your life while Robert fumbled and failed.
"They crossed a line," Galen continues, adjusting his mug so he can cradle the warmth of coffee. "You called them on it. That's appropriate."
The validation should feel good. Should provide some relief. Some confirmation that Robert's reaction was justified.
"Then why does it feel like shit?" Robert asks, and his voice comes out smaller than intended.
"Because you're human." Galen shrugs one shoulder, the gesture casual but somehow profound. "And because despite everything, you were starting to care about them. Which makes this harder."
He pauses. Tilts his head side to side in that particular way that means he's considering whether to say more. Whether to push further or leave well enough alone.
Apparently he decides to push.
"And because maybe you were an asshole… Just a little bit."
The words are gentle. Non-judgmental. Stated as simple fact rather than accusation. It still hits Robert hard.
Robert doesn't respond. Can't respond. Because Galen is right and admitting it feels like weakness. Like confirming that he's exactly as pathetic as his father always believed. As incapable of emotional regulation as everyone probably suspects.
"For what it's worth," Galen continues, and his voice has dropped lower. More confidential. The tone of someone sharing something they probably shouldn't. "I think they genuinely thought they were helping. Doesn't make it right, but..." He pauses. "Intent matters sometimes."
"Intent doesn't unfuck the situation," Robert says flatly. His eyes are still on his hands. On the tremor that's starting to fade but hasn't disappeared entirely.
"No," Galen agrees easily. "But it might be worth considering why they thought your friend needed help in the first place."
Robert's jaw clenches. His hands curl into fists on his desk.
"What they saw," Galen continues relentlessly, and his voice is still gentle but there's steel underneath now. Purpose. "That made them decide to risk their rehabilitation—their freedom—to get them out of what they perceived as a bad situation."
The words land and they land hard.
Hit right in the center of Robert's chest where all his guilt and shame and self-loathing live. Where he keeps all the truths he doesn't want to examine.
Because that's the real question, isn't it?
Not what gave them the right but what did they see that made them think intervention was necessary.
What was so bad—so obviously wrong—that criminals decided helping you was worth risking everything they'd worked toward?
"You saying this is my fault?" Robert's voice is dangerous now. Low and sharp. The tone that precedes either violence or complete shutdown.
Hold your horses. Because no one said that… eh. yet. well...
"I'm saying maybe everyone fucked up here." Galen's expression doesn't change. Doesn't soften or harden. Remains perfectly, maddeningly neutral behind his glasses. "Them for how they handled it," he elaborates, ticking off points like he's presenting a case study. "You for whatever you did that made them think it was necessary."
He pauses. And Robert can see the moment Galen makes another decision. Can see the slight shift in his expression that means he's about to say something he knows wil now, likely cause problems.
"Your friend for..." Another pause. Longer this time. Like he's weighing his words carefully. "Actually, your friend seems like the only innocent party in this whole mess."
The statement is delivered with finality. No room for argument. Just fact as Galen sees it.
And Robert—
Robert wants to argue. Wants to defend himself. Wants to point out all the ways this isn't his fault, how he's been trying, how he's doing his best with limited emotional tools, that he will. (Lies, lies, lies.)
Instead what comes out is:
"You barely know them to be talking like that. You guys met a day ago."
Defensive. Territorial. Exactly the kind of response that proves he's not handling this well. The same kind of response he had yesterday when Waterboy came stumbling into your office. Where he reared and just had to make a point to mention somehow ‘I’ve known them longer than you’ like he’s some child declaring his greater friendship with some kid at the playground.
Galen arches a brow. Expression shifting into something that might be amusement if Galen did amusement. "Three days ago, actually."
The correction is mild. Factual. Devastating in its implications.
"Met on their first day," Galen continues, and now there's definitely something in his voice. Not quite smugness but close. Satisfaction maybe. Pride. Or maybe, again, Rob is reading too much into it. "Became real good friends since then."
And—
Okay.
Maybe Galen said that with intent to provoke.
Maybe he recognized Robert's jealousy—because apparently everyone can see it except Robert himself—and decided to poke at it. See what happens when you press on a wound that's already infected.
It works.
Robert shoots to his feet. Chair rolling backward with enough force to hit the cubicle wall behind him. Several staff and dispatchers look over with varying expressions, some of which remain unseen. Chase’s head turns sharply from his neighboring space, Beef—in the bed at Chase’s space—even lifts his head from where he’s been dozing, ears perking at the commotion.
"Listen," Robert's voice is low. Dangerous. Every word precisely enunciated through clenched teeth. "You may have had a little fun time making your little margaritas with them last night," The jealousy that floods through Robert is immediate and irrational and so intense it's almost nauseating.
"But you still don't—" Robert starts, voice rising.
An alarm emits from his headset.
Loud. Insistent. The distinctive pattern that means emergency. A disturbance, something that the team or someone needs guidance one. Given the just-seconds-ago confrontation with the Z-Team, it had to be either an intentional thing—someone acting out, causing a scene to annoy him or prove a point—or an actual emergency.
Robert's eyes strain, an instinct driving him to look to the monitor but that male posturing bullshit making him feel lesser if you chooses to back down from Galen.
His jaw clenches.
And Galen—
Galen, being Galen, with his perfect timing and his dry delivery and his ability to read situations with uncomfortable accuracy:
"You should probably deal with that."
Robert wants to scream. Wants to throw something. Wants to continue this confrontation until someone bleeds—emotionally if not physically.
He doesn't.
With visible reluctance. With a glare at Galen that promises this conversation isn't over. With hands that shake slightly as he reaches for his headset.
He pulls the headset back on. The voices flood back in—chaotic, overlapping.
Robert is aware of Galen still standing there. Watching. Evaluating.
Then, with a slight shake of his head that could mean anything or nothing, Galen takes his leave.
Walks away like he hasn't just dropped multiple emotional bombs. Like he hasn't just highlighted every one of Robert's insecurities and jealousies. Like this is just another day at the office instead of a complete disaster in progress.
This dude has issueeessss… Galen can’t help but thing has he does leave.
And yes.
Yes, he sure as hell does, Galen.
Issues upon issues upon issues. Layers of dysfunction and trauma and emotional constipation that would take years of therapy to even begin unpacking. Speaking of, he should really make an appointment with Doctor Monster. Or preferably, apologize to you THEN make an appointment with Doctor Monster.
Robert found Chase about an hour later.
Or rather, Chase found Robert.
The moment lunch was called, Robert fled. Fled being the most accurate term because simply "went on break" was inadequate and yet another lie to add to the growing collection he'd been accumulating. One more brick in the wall of self-deception that was slowly burying him alive.
The hallways of SDN had blurred together. Robert isn't paying attention to where he's going, just moving on autopilot. Taking turns based on muscle memory rather than conscious decision. His mind is too full—too loud, too much, too everything. A cacophony of thoughts that won't shut up, won't give him peace, won't let him breathe.
He's spiraling. Again. Each thought dragging him further and further into the depths, each one worse than the last. Each one picking at wounds that haven't healed—perhaps never actually healed in the first place, just scabbed over with denial and avoidance. Exposing truths he doesn't want to examine. Revealing the ugly reality he's been running from.
That he's the problem.
Not Shroud. Not his father's legacy. Not the accident or the coma or the loss of the suit.
Him.
Just him.
Robert Robertson III, professional fuck-up. Expert in destroying the good things in his life. Master of pushing away the people who care about him until they have no choice but to leave.
Inevitably, he finds himself in one of the more isolated hallways. The kind that connects different wings of the building but rarely sees foot traffic because there are more direct routes. The fluorescent lights here flicker occasionally, adding to the general atmosphere of neglect. The walls are a dingy beige that might have once been white, decorated with the occasional water stain that speaks to plumbing issues no one bothered to fix properly.
Plus, it's also the farthest place from you that he can be on the second floor.
Why not go to the first floor? Take the stairs if not the elevator? Because some part of him doesn't want to. Can't stand being completely apart—at least not anymore—even when he finds himself breaking apart and knows you were always the one to gather the pieces and put him back together every time.
Even now, even after everything he's done, some pathetic part of him still gravitates toward you. Still seeks your proximity like a plant turning toward the sun. Still can't quite let go even though letting go would be the kindest thing he could do.
He leans against the wall, slides down until he's sitting on the rough carpet that Torrance SDN likely doesn't have the budget to clean properly. The industrial fibers scratch against his slacks, catch on the fabric of his uniform shirt. His head hits the wall with an audible thud. It hurts but it's barely anything compared to the tolerance he's grown over the years. Barely registers against the constant background noise of chronic pain that's become his new normal since the accident.
Fuck.
The word echoes in his mind like a mantra. Like a prayer to a god that stopped listening years ago.
Fuck fuck fuck.
He should have apologized. Should have done it that night. Should have knocked on your door—on Miss Matilda's door when you inevitably fled there—and said the words that needed saying.
I'm sorry.
I was an asshole.
Please don't leave me.
Three sentences. That's all it would have taken. But Robert's never been good with words when they matter. Can banter and joke and deflect with the best of them, but actual vulnerability? Actual emotional honesty?
Might as well ask him to fly without the suit.
"You going to keep running away?”
The voice makes Robert's head snap up. Pain lances through his neck—he'd been holding tension there without realizing, muscles locked tight enough to strain. Chase is standing at the end of the hallway, hands shoved in his pockets, expression unreadable under that distinctive office lighting that makes everyone look slightly corpse-like.
"Jesus Christ," Robert breathes out, heart still hammering from the surprise. "How do you keep doing that? Are you actually teleporting now? Is that a new power?"
"I'm old, not magic." Chase approaches slowly, deliberately. Like he's approaching something volatile that might explode if startled. Which, given Robert's current mental state, isn't far from the truth. "And you're not as subtle as you think. Half the building heard you lose your shit."
"Great," Robert mutters, dropping his head back against the wall with another thud. "Professional."
"Professional went out the window when you started giving shit to your team then got snappy with Galen of all people." Chase stops a few feet away. Doesn't sit—his joints probably can't handle floor-sitting anymore, the price of aging fifty times faster than he should have—but leans against the opposite wall. Creating space while still being present. "You don't get snappy with Galen. That's like... the last person you get snappy with."
"Yeah, well." Robert's voice is hollow. "Apparently I'm full of bad decisions lately."
"Lately?" Chase's eyebrow arches. "Kid, you've been making bad decisions since you were old enough to walk. The only difference is now they're affecting someone other than yourself."
The words hit harder than they should. Robert flinches, actually flinches, and Chase's expression softens marginally.
"You wanna talk about it?" Chase asks, and the gentleness in his voice is almost worse than if he'd been harsh. Worse because it suggests he actually cares. Worse because Robert doesn't deserve that care.
"Not particularly."
"Tough shit. We're talking anyway." Chase settles more firmly against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. The posture is deceptively casual—Robert knows from experience that Chase can move fast despite his age when he wants to. "Because whatever's eating at you is affecting your work. Affecting your team. And it's clearly tearing you apart."
Robert laughs. The sound is bitter, scraping out of his throat like broken glass. "My team. Right. The team that went behind my back to meddle in my personal life. The team that stalked my best friend and forged federal documents to get them hired. That team?"
"Yeah, that team." Chase doesn't blink. Doesn't flinch away from the anger in Robert's voice. "The team of reformed criminals who looked at a situation and decided intervention was necessary. Who risked their freedom—their second chance—because they thought someone needed help. They had no right—"
"They had every right to be concerned about what they saw." Chase cuts him off, voice going hard. Sharp in a way that makes Robert's mouth snap shut. "You know what it takes for criminals to give a shit about someone they barely know? What kind of situation has to exist for them to risk everything they've worked toward? Listen, I hate those fuckers just as much as the other guy but I’m not an idiot to ignore that they clearly are taking this seriously.”
Robert doesn't answer. Can't answer. Because he knows. Deep down, he knows exactly what Chase is getting at.
"I won't say they aren't fucking idiots for how they handled it," Chase concedes, and there's a weariness in his voice that makes him sound every one of his chronologically-mismatched years. "But I also won't say you aren't a fucking idiot either."
"They forged documents, Chase." Robert's voice rises slightly, frustration bleeding through as he rises. "Did everything illegal to get my best friend hired. Which also means they stalked us—or at least them—since Friday."
"Where they saw something." Chase's response is immediate. Pointed. "Something that made them believe that your friend, your alleged best friend, needed saving."
The emphasis on "alleged" cuts deep.
Chase pushes off the wall slightly, taking a step closer. His dark eyes are sharp behind those reading glasses, seeing too much. Always seeing too much.
"Saving from you."
The words hang in the air between them. Heavy. Undeniable.
Robert’s eyes turn sharply toward Chase. "Who's side are you on?"
"I'm on my own fucking side." Chase counters. "I'm just saying—they're criminals and assholes and whatever else you want to call them. But obviously they give a shit about your friend. More than you seem to, apparently. Because those idiots know what it's like to be hurt. And if they saw you hurting—"
"I would never put my hands on them!" Robert explodes the words erupting before he can stop them. Defensive. Immediate. Automatic.
"Hurting someone doesn't just mean physically, you dumbass!" Chase cuts him off, voice rising to match Robert's volume. "Last I remember, feelings aren't physical and words sure hurt like hell."
Robert's mouth opens, closes, opens again. No sound comes out.
Because Chase is right. Chase is always fucking right.
Robert did hurt you. Maybe not with his fists—he'd never, could never—but with his words. With his coldness. With his deliberate cruelty wrapped in the guise of having a bad day. With every moment of that Friday evening where he chose to push you away instead of letting you in.
The silence stretches. Robert can hear his own heartbeat in his ears. Can feel the familiar tightness in his chest that precedes either a breakdown or a blowup.
"So what?" Chase looks him over. "You saw them yesterday, didn’t you? Then what? Your balls shriveled up and disappeared just because you didn’t what to say sorry? That what this is about?"
"It wasn't the time!" Robert argues. "I couldn't just—it wasn't—"
"When will it be the time then?" Chase's voice cuts through Robert's stammering. Quiet but devastating in its simplicity. "You just keep jumping around the fucking pool and that shit ain't drying up anytime soon."
"I don't—" Robert's hands come up, gesturing helplessly. "I don't know what to say to them."
"How about 'I'm sorry'? Like I fucking told you to do.” Chase suggests, and the sarcasm is thick enough to choke on. "I. Am. Sorry. Or hell, even just 'sorry' if you're really struggling with syllables."
"It's not that simple.”
"It's exactly that simple." Chase takes another step forward. He's in Robert's space now, close enough that Robert has to adjust to meet the fiery gaze. "You fucked up. You apologize. You do better. That's how it works. That's how it's always worked. The only thing making it complicated is your pride and your fear. And whatever fucking twisted ass masculinity shit you’re dragging with you.”
"I'm not—"
"You're scared." Chase's voice has gone gentle again. Soft in a way that makes Robert's throat tight. "You're scared that an apology won't be enough. That you've broken something that can't be fixed. That they'll tell you to fuck off and you'll have to accept that you destroyed the best thing in your life."
Each word is a direct hit. Chase isn't even trying to be subtle about it anymore, just laying out Robert's deepest fears in plain language.
"So you do nothing," Chase continues. "You avoid and deflect and make excuses. Because doing nothing means you never have to face rejection. Never have to hear that you're not forgiven. Never have to confront the possibility that you've finally pushed them too far."
Robert's vision is blurring. He blinks hard, refusing to let tears fall. Not here. Not now. Not in a goddamn SDN hallway where anyone could walk by.
"But you know what doing nothing gets you?" Chase asks, silver brows tense. Perhaps because in a way, he had his own once upon a time. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No closure. No resolution. No chance at fixing it. Just you, sitting in your shitty apartment, drowning in your own misery while they build a life without you. While everyone enjoys their lives and you fester like some stubborn mold.”
The description is too accurate. Too close to the reality Robert's been living for the past week. It makes something crack in his chest, splinter apart like ice under pressure.
“I didn’t raise you to be like this.”
The words are quiet. Disappointed in a way that cuts deeper than anger ever could.
"You didn't—" Robert starts, the automatic protest forming before he can stop it.
"You say I didn't raise you and I'll do more than slap you silly." Chase's finger jabs into Robert's chest. Hard, precise, an additional four times with his pointed (literally) comments. “You know I did. We both know I did. That's why you have such a bad mouth on you. I did that."
Despite everything, Robert feels a ghost of a smile tug at his lips. Because it's true. Chase had been more of a father figure than his actual father ever was. Present in ways that mattered. Teaching him things—good and bad—that shaped who he became. And yeah, he got his potty mouth from Chase. That’s what happens when you have an teen take care of some kid.
"I wasn't around for as long as I wanted," Chase continues, and there's genuine regret in his voice now. Old pain that he's carried for decades. "But at least I was around. And I sure as hell didn't teach you to be a coward."
Coward.
Is that what he is? Is that what he's become?
"You man up and apologize, Robert." Chase's voice goes firm again. Final. "Or so help me—"
"Woah."
The new voice makes both of them freeze. Turn toward the source.
Blonde Blazer stands at the entrance to the hallway, hands raised placatingly to her sides. Her blue eyes are wide behind her mask, darting between Chase's aggressive posture and Robert's defensive one. She looks uncertain in a way that's isn’t uncommon for her. But clearly uncomfortable with having walked into what is clearly a private moment.
"Am I interrupting something?" she asks carefully, like she's defusing a bomb. "Because I can come back later. Or never. Never works too."
Chase straightens, immediately shifting back into professional mode. The transformation is seamless—from aggressive mentor to casual coworker in the span of a heartbeat. "Nah, we're done here. Just having a conversation. Isn't that right, Robert?"
It's not a question. It's a statement with the weight of expectation behind it.
"Yeah," Robert manages, his voice rough. He clears his throat, tries again. "Yeah. Just... a conversation."
Chase gives him one final look—meaningful and pointed and full of everything they just discussed—before turning and heading past Blonde Blazer. He pauses briefly as he passes her, says something too quiet for Robert to hear. Whatever it is makes her nod slowly, expression shifting into something that might be understanding.
Then he's gone, leaving Robert alone with his boss in an isolated hallway that suddenly feels far too intimate for a professional conversation.
Blonde Blazer approaches slowly. Cautiously. Like Robert might bolt if she moves too fast. Which, given his current mental state, isn't an unfair assessment.
"Is—are..." She looks after Chase's retreating form, then back to Robert. "Is everything alright?"
"Yeah." Robert brushes it off automatically, the deflection as natural as breathing. "Yeah. Just, a conversation."
"Looked like a really serious conversation." Her voice is gentle. Concerned in a way that makes Robert's defenses rise. "Almost had to go hero and step in.”
It's meant to be a joke. Light-hearted with a small laugh that's meant to ease tension. But Robert's face must show his discomfort because she immediately stops. The laughter dies. The smile fades.
"Sorry. This isn't the time, clearly." The awkwardness is palpable. Although that seems like Blazer's perpetual state sometimes—trying so hard to be approachable and relatable that it sometimes has the opposite effect.
"Right, anyway." She gently claps her hands together, the sound sharp in the quiet hallway. "You wanted to talk to me about something?"
Robert blinks. Had he wanted to talk to her? His brain feels like static, struggling to remember what he'd been planning before everything went to shit today. He texted her at one point. ‘Need to talk’—he wanted to talk about the Phoneix Program.
But all of that feels distant now. Irrelevant compared to the mess of his personal life.
"I forgot," he says finally.
Blonde Blazer's brows furrow. "You forgot?"
"Yep. I forgot. My bad." He shrugs, hands sliding into his pockets. "Brain fog. Whatever I was going to tell you slipped my mind."
It's obviously a lie. A transparent one. But Blonde Blazer seems torn between pressing the issue and letting it go. Her hand half-lifts, like she's considering reaching out to him, then drops back to her side.
"Robert," she starts, and her voice has gone softer. More personal. "I know we haven't known each other very long, but if you need to talk about anything—work-related or otherwise—my door is always open. Literally and metaphorically. You can knock anytime. Or text. Or email. I check my email obsessively, it's probably not healthy. But we’re friends—”
She's rambling now. That nervous thing she does when she's trying to be supportive but isn't quite sure how. It would be endearing if Robert had any emotional bandwidth left to appreciate it.
"Thanks," he interrupts gently, cutting off what was about to become a dissertation on her email habits. He nods, trying to inject some sincerity into the gesture even though he feels hollow inside. "But I got a..." He waves his hand vaguely. "Therapist. Wouldn't really be, y'know, appropriate to talk to my boss about personal issues."
He steps backward as he says it, creating physical distance. Letting Blonde Blazer's hand—which had started moving toward his shoulder in a gesture of comfort—fall away naturally. Not quite avoiding her touch, but not accepting it either.
"Professionalism and all that," he adds, and the words taste like ash in his mouth.
Because it's another lie. He doesn't have a therapist. Has Doctor Monster's business card sitting on his kitchen counter, untouched and likely to remain that way. Because therapy requires vulnerability and honesty and all the things Robert is spectacularly bad at.
"Oh, right. Yeah. Of course." Blonde Blazer pulls back immediately, respecting the boundary he's established. "Gotta be 'profesh.'"
The word is a callback to his first day—the whole conference room stripping incident. It should be funny. Should lighten the mood.
It doesn't.
"Don't want any issues and having to talk to HR," she continues, trying to maintain the lighter tone even though her eyes show concern.
At this point does SDN—or at least the Torrance branch—even have an HR department? Robert's brain latches onto the irrelevant question, grateful for the distraction from more painful thoughts. I mean, surely if you're getting paid they must. But if gossip is true and he's connected the dots, it's probably a different branch giving funding specifically for your position. For your skill set that they likely want to snatch once they deem the time is right.
Or he's just got the short end of the stick.
Again.
"Right." He flashes a closed-lipped smile. The expression feels wrong on his face, like wearing someone else's skin. "Sorry, again."
For what, he's not entirely sure. For lying? For wasting her time? For being a disaster of a human being who can't seem to get his shit together long enough to do his job properly?
All of the above, probably.
Blonde Blazer watches him for another moment, clearly wanting to say more. Wanting to push past his deflections and get to the actual problem. But she's also professional enough—or perhaps uncertain enough in their relationship—to respect his boundaries.
"Alright," she says finally. "But the offer stands. If you change your mind. About anything."
"Noted."
Another beat of uncomfortable silence.
"I should..." Robert gestures vaguely down the hallway. "Get back. Lunch is probably almost over."
"Right. Yeah. Of course." Blonde Blazer steps aside, clearing the path. "I'll see you later?"
"Yeah."
He walks past her, movements mechanical. Each step feeling heavier than the last. He can feel her eyes on his back, tracking his retreat. Probably full of concern and confusion and all the things a good boss should feel when their employee is obviously struggling.
But he doesn't turn around. Doesn't acknowledge it. Just keeps walking until he rounds the corner and she's out of sight.
See how easy it is, Robert? How saying it now instead of ignoring it and letting it bulb is far less complicated?
—”Oh.” Blazer turned in the empty hall. “Shoot, I forgot to ask…”
Meanwhile, your breath clouds the air as you look over your shoulder; briefly back at SDN. Skin prickling cold as you're bundled against the chilling weather, layers upon layers trying to keep warm after something caught your eye through the window—a flash of red and blue that seemed too vibrant against the gray afternoon. You had abandoned your place, made sure your pager was tucked safely under, and stepped outside into the biting wind.
You hadn't expected it to be… well. This.
Phenomaman, simply lying in a parking space like some abandoned vehicle, a fruit basket—very much destroyed or at least waterboarded with a droopy big red bow—tucked at his side as he stared at the gloomy sky with an expression that could only be described as profoundly, devastatingly empty. His cape spread beneath him like a crimson blanket against the wet asphalt, darkened by puddles that reflected the slate-gray clouds overhead.
This is the hero you've seen on hundreds of billboards plastered across the city, the very mascot of SDN with his confident smile and thumbs-up pose, the chibi guy dangling from your keychain whose cartoonish face of ‘the lights are on but no one’s home’ aesthetic. Very niche, very cute, from a small business that knew what the people wanted. Beady-eyed trinkets of their favorite heroes to carry around them like mini companions.
The total opposite of the reality before you.
The real Phenomaman looks less like a symbol of hope and more like a sculpture of grief, all six-foot-four-or-so of him sprawled in parking space like he'd simply given up mid-flight and decided the cold, wet ground was as good a place as any to contemplate existence.
You've never met him before so… this felt awkward. Or rather maybe intruding? Maybe this was just… usual and not documented behavior? Perhaps heroes had their own rituals of mourning that civilians weren't privy to, and you were stumbling into something private, something raw that the cameras never captured between the commercial shoots and rescue operations.
"Hey… big guy." Calling him by his hero name felt… impersonal. Weird. Disconnected. Like you'd be addressing a brand rather than a person, and whatever this was—this broken person lying in a parking lot—deserved more than corporate branding. You shuffle closer, your shoes squelching through a puddle you hadn't noticed. "I'm [Name]. Just wanted to see if you were okay? …Aren't you cold out here?"
His eyes—eerily human but also… different, something in the way they caught the light, a subtle iridescence like oil on water—finally shift toward you. A deep mourning echoed through them, their dark depths (grey? grey blue? Darkgreen?) unseeing in a way that reminds you of your own reflection on bad days, those mornings staring in the mirror before faltering under your personal scrutiny, before having to look away because the person staring back knew too much about your failures.
"Cold…" Phenomaman intoned, his voice carrying that slight accent, that almost-but-not-quite inflection that marked him as other even when his words were perfectly articulated English. "Nothing is more 'cold' than this loneliness entrenched within me. The temperature of this planet's atmosphere is irrelevant when one's soul has been frozen by rejection."
Okay, poet. Go off.
You bite back the sarcastic response because clearly this isn't the time, even if part of you wants to point out that hypothermia doesn't care about metaphorical soul-freezing. Instead, you try for gentleness. "I completely understand," you ease closer, even if you don't fully understand. Well, at least not yet. Not the specifics, anyway, though the general shape of heartbreak is universal enough. "Would you like to talk about it a bit more? Maybe off the wet ground and inside somewhere warm? There's a cafe right over there—"
"The Blonde Blazer and I have ended our relationship."
The words cut through your suggestion like he hadn't even heard it, his eyes returning to the sky, to those heavy clouds that threatened more rain. His hands remained folded on his stomach, fingers interlaced with an odd precision, like he'd seen humans do it in movies and was mimicking the gesture without understanding its comfort.
We're talking about it. That's good. Progress, maybe. But I guess ground time is the preferred method for whatever this is.
"It was very abrupt." He continues, his tone flat, clinical almost, like he's describing someone else's tragedy from a great distance. That fruit basket still tucked to his side—you notice now it contains similar fruits, skewered and arranged with perhaps some card that is now ruin. "One moment we were savoring uni straight from the urchin at Matsuhisa, indulging in what she called 'the finer things,' the next moment… I'm contemplating flying into the sun, absorbing all its energy and casting this planet into infinite darkness so that I never have to see her or anyone else ever again…"
Oh!
Your eyebrows shoot up because that escalated quickly, from sea urchin to apocalypse in one breath, and you're suddenly very aware that you're talking to someone who could actually do that, who has the literal power to end the world over a bad breakup, and you're just some random person who noticed him from your office.
"Maybe then I would be free from the torment in my soul. And maybe then, I could quiet my mind from these destructive thoughts that circle endlessly like your Earth vultures." His eyes narrow slightly, focusing on something beyond the clouds, beyond the atmosphere perhaps. "The isolation would be… peaceful. No more billboards. No more teleprompters. No more pretending I understand why humans laugh at things that aren't funny or why they say 'how are you' when they don't want to know the answer."
"Perhaps that's why it hides today." His eyes narrow further, accusatory now, glaring at the cloud cover. "The sun knows of my plans. It fears me."
You stand there, searching for… something. Words, wisdom, anything remotely helpful. Because… okay. How does one respond to that? What's the protocol for talking someone down from potential solar genocide? I mean, you should know, right? You’re playing therapist to a whole branch of heroes… but this is… Different. Not quiet criminals whispering about their hatred for the government—for that's a me too thing—to the hurts that others have caused them and now that's all they know how to do.
"I don't know about that," you finally, hopefully smoothly, speak up, trying to keep your voice calm. "Either way, you should probably not do that… Fly into the sun, I mean." You contemplate your next move before finally, against every screaming instinct of self-preservation and comfort, dropping to join his basking. There's immediate regret. Frigid water immediately soaks into your clothes, seeping through layers and clinging to your skin like ice water, and you can feel it freezing your ass through your clothes, turning your tailbone numb within seconds.
Fuck. Fuck this is cold. This is so cold. Why did I do this? Why am I like this?
But you're committed now, sitting in a puddle next to an alien superhero having an existential crisis, and standing back up would just make this weirder.
"Why?" He turns his head fully now, really looking at you for the first time, cataloguing your face with an intensity that feels almost invasive. His eyes scan your features like he's memorizing them or perhaps trying to understand what would compel a stranger to sit in freezing water just to talk to him. A person he doesn't know, someone without a SDN badge or corporate obligation (at least, as far as he can gather), yet one that is still providing comfort even when those he assumed were friends—teammates, partners, colleagues—hadn't. "Why should I not pursue the only solution that makes sense? I have the capability. I have the motivation. The sun's energy would be… transcendent. I would finally feel something other than this."
You can't help but shrug, your shoulders hunching against the cold wind that's picking up, carrying the scent of rain and car exhaust and that particular urban smell of wet concrete. "Because…" You pause, unsure of how to answer truthfully or perhaps how to word it properly. Because why indeed? What can truly convince someone, a superhuman with godlike abilities, to not exercise that power in his darkest moments? What gives you, some random civilian whose biggest accomplishment today was remembering to water your plant, the right to tell him what to do with his cosmic-level abilities?
Oh god.
Don't do it.
Don't think about it.
Don't quote Spider-Man.
Don't quote Spider-Man.
Don't you dare quote Spider-Man at the actual real-life superhero, that's so fucking cringe—
Fuck it, you're going to quote Spider-Man.
"Because with," you're regretting it even as the words leave your mouth but it's happening, the cringe is real and immediate, "—with great power comes great responsibility." It's unironically a meme move at this point. Obviously you're being serious, your tone is serious, your intentions are genuinely good, but your very serious conversation just happened to also involve directly quoting a massive franchise of fictional heroes while talking to an actual, real, breathing hero lying in a parking lot contemplating solar annihilation.
God, he probably thinks I'm an idiot. He probably hears that all the time. He probably—
But his expression doesn't change to mockery or dismissal. If anything, he looks… considering. Thoughtful, even. Maybe he's never had the chance to watch movies. A win. And a loss. He needs to watch more movies.
You continue before you can lose your nerve. "And wielding that power to hurt others doesn't heal what's already happened to you. Your pain is real, I'm not dismissing that, but… if you act on it that way it means everyone is suffering alongside you, except they didn't choose it. They didn't break your heart. That you—" You struggle for words, gesturing vaguely at the sky. "That sudden darkness, the cold that would come… people who may have been going through the same thing you are, but maybe they finally getting a hold of their lives again after their own heartbreaks and losses, they'd take it—the sudden darkness, the freezing, the end of everything—as… I don't know. A sign…? That none of it is worth it. That all their hard work, all their healing, all their progress amounts to nothing because the universe is cruel and random and even heroes give up."
You stare at your hands, your nails, picking at the dirt under them. "You have the power to do what you want. To… fly into the sun and leave the world in that darkness, sure. Nobody could stop you. But it will only get colder. It'll only get worse. The planet will freeze and when most of us… when most of us die off because of how cold and dark it became, because we can't survive like you can…" You trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence, how to make the abstract horror of billions dying something he can connect to emotionally.
"I forget how fragile humans are." Phenomaman murmurs, his head turning to stare back at the cloud-dense sky, acknowledgment rather than revelation. His lashes flutter briefly as the mist increases, that barely-there sprinkle that's beginning again, tiny droplets catching on his moustache. "That they can't withstand lesser air pressure or greater gravitational forces. Cannot see the stars without their odd suits and ships… They are soft. Delicate. Their bodies meant for softer activities."
"Meant to be cherished." You finish, and you mean it, putting firmness in your voice because this matters, this is the point. Your smile is delicate—you can feel it, tentative and small—perhaps the way he believes humans are. Or perhaps, he truly does just see it as an echo of himself, of someone who understands the emptiness that comes from heartbreak, from being left behind, from not being enough.
"Someone made you cold too." It's not a question. His eyes flicker back to you, studying your face with new interest, and there's something uncomfortably perceptive in that gaze, like he can see through skin and bone to the scars underneath.
You falter, eyes widening because you hadn't expected the conversation to turn, hadn't anticipated that your attempt to comfort him would result in your own wounds being exposed. Then an eventual sigh escapes, heavy and resigned, head tilting as you return your attention to your hands, searching them for answers they've never provided. Again and always. "It's… complicated. As many things are. As most things usually are when people—when feelings are involved."
At some point—you're not sure exactly when because you'd been lost in your own thoughts—Phenomaman had sat up. His fruit basket set carefully aside, his shoulders hunching forward to accommodate the height difference because the guy is large, larger than most humans, broader and taller, and sitting he's still somehow at your eye level. Plus he's not really in the mindset to truly hold himself with that manufactured confidence, that billboard-ready posture humans and SDN handlers have taught him to maintain. Right now he's just… collapsed inward, like a star cooling.
"Does that mean…" He pauses, and you can see him working through the logic, trying to connect concepts that don't quite align in his understanding of the world. "It doesn't matter if someone is not a person? That they can still get hurt like one? That the pain is… equivalent?"
"What… What do you mean by that? 'Not a person'?" Your brow furrows because that's a strange way to phrase it, concerning even, and you're trying to figure out if this is a language thing or something deeper.
"I am not a person." He straightens for a moment, hands waving toward himself in a gesture that encompasses his entire being—the costume, the muscles, the alien physiology beneath human-passing skin. "I just resemble one anatomically. Similar configuration, bilateral symmetry, appropriate number of limbs. But I am not… I am not of Earth. Not of humanity." He slumps again, that brief moment of animation fading. "Blonde Blazer had told me so, many times, that I am not really a person. For I am an alien. From Urgot-52dc. My genetic structure is completely different. My homeworld's atmosphere would kill you in minutes. I am not… I am fundamentally other."
"That's—" You cringe before you can stop yourself, a full-body wince at the sheer awfulness of that, before heavily exhaling and shaking your head to ground yourself, to gather your thoughts. Rain is falling more steadily now, cold drops hitting your face. "I wouldn't live by that… particular brand of thinking. That's actually pretty… harsh." And that’s you being diplomatic.
"Why not? Is it not accurate? Taxonomically speaking, I am Urgotian, not human. This is scientific fact, not opinion."
"It… It is factually true, yes, that you're biologically alien." You squint, trying to find the right words because this feels important, like you're standing at a crossroads of something significant. "It's just… weird, I guess. Or I don't think a lot of people, or at least those I'm around, have really ever thought about it… that way. Like, we know you're from space, obviously, everyone knows that. But…" You gesture helplessly. "Humans' definitions for a lot of things shouldn't be taken as absolute gospel. Especially when not all humans define things the same way… You, by species classification, may be alien, but I can still consider you human. Or person-like. Or… I don't know the right terminology. Deserving of being treated as a person."
The way his eyes squint is… comical, to say the least. His whole face scrunches up in confusion, like you've just told him water is dry. "What does that mean? How can I be human when I am observably not? When my very cells are structured differently?"
"There's species, yes? Biology and taxonomy and all that scientific classification." You're gesturing now, hands moving as you think out loud. "But being a human, being a 'person' is—should—mean something deeper than just DNA. Should be through actions not spawn. Especially when even some humans aren't… considered humans by their peers." You pause, seeing his confusion deepen. "Like, throughout Earth's history, people have used all sorts of bullshit reasons to claim other people aren't really people... And every time, it's been used to justify treating them terribly, to excuse cruelty and violence and denial of rights."
His head tilts, processing. "But those instances involved humans reclassifying other humans. I am genuinely, factually, not human."
"Right, but the principle is the same." You shift in your puddle, your ass now completely numb from the cold. "If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck… You think, you feel, you have relationships and emotions and preferences. You experience pain and joy and apparently devastating heartbreak. Those are person things. Human things, in the sense that they make you part of the community of… of beings that matter morally. You're not a rock or a plant or some mindless drone. You're a person who happens to be from a different planet."
Phenomaman was quiet, but his attention was completely focused on you now. That intensity that had felt uncomfortable earlier now felt more like genuine interest. Like he was really listening, really trying to understand.
“And being different doesn’t mean being less,” you continued. “It definitely doesn’t mean you’re incapable of connection or understanding or growth. It just means you have to work harder sometimes. Have to actively learn things that might be more intuitive for people who grew up here. There’s a lot of humans like that too, so you aren’t alone in this confusion just because you’re different…”
His brows furrow. “There are humans who… struggle with understanding humans too?” He questions.
“Yes!” You chirp, mostly because you're actually really freezing now. Shivering with chattering teeth. “Yes. There are.”
He seemed to finally notice the predicament, brows furrowing as he examined you.
“You are freezing,” he observed with what sounded like surprise.
“Yeah,” you confirmed. “Turns out sitting on wet concrete in November isn’t great for maintaining body temperature. Who knew?”
“You should have said something,” Phenomaman said, and there was concern in his voice now. Genuine worry that made him sound more human than alien. “You did not need to stay. You could have conducted this conversation from a standing position. Or from inside.”
“I could have,” you agreed. “But you were down here. And it seemed important to meet you where you were. Literally, in this case.”
You tried to push yourself up, but your legs had other ideas. They’d gone past numb into that dangerous territory where they just… weren’t responding properly. Your muscles felt weak and uncoordinated, refusing to cooperate with your brain’s commands.
“Oh,” you said, with a calmness that was probably inappropriate for the situation. “I can’t get up. That’s. That’s not ideal.”
Before you could figure out a solution—maybe crawling? Was crawling dignified? Did dignity matter when you were potentially experiencing the early stages of hypothermia?—you felt hands under your arms.
Large hands. Warm, gentle hands. Apparently alien physiology included better thermal regulation than human bodies, because Phenomaman didn’t seem bothered by the cold at all despite wearing what amounted to a thin bodysuit. And he lifted you. Just… lifted you straight up from sitting to standing in one smooth motion that required absolutely no effort on his part. You were suddenly vertical, your legs wobbling beneath you like a newborn deer trying to figure out how joints worked.
“Whoa,” you managed, grabbing onto his arms for stability. His very muscular, very solid arms that felt like they were carved from marble or perhaps from whatever alien equivalent existed. “Okay. Standing. This is good. This is progress.”
Phenomaman kept his hands on your arms, steadying you while your circulation struggled to remember how to function properly. Pins and needles shot through your legs as blood flow returned, that uncomfortable prickling sensation that was somehow both painful and relieving.
“You sacrificed your comfort for my emotional wellbeing,” Phenomaman observed, still holding you stable. “That is a very person thing to do.”
You laughed—actually laughed, the sound surprised out of you, especially as it brought your shiver to a rather violent tremble. “Yeah, well. Persons take care of each other. That’s kind of the point.”
“Even when the other person is not technically a person?”
“Especially then,” you corrected gently. “Because that person—you—needed someone to recognize that the technical classification doesn’t matter. That your pain is real and valid and deserving of care regardless of what planet you’re from.”
His hands were still on your arms, and you realized that he hadn’t let go yet. That he was still touching you, maintaining that contact even though you’d mostly regained your balance. His expression had shifted into something you couldn’t quite read—something complex and vulnerable and maybe grateful?
“I’ve never had a friend pick me up like this,” you murmur, an observation mostly to yourself. “Kinda nice.”
“Friend…” He’s said the word before, thought of it, but it's different on his tongue now. “Yes. We are friends.” Like he was making an official declaration or perhaps proposing a business arrangement. “I have had companions before… but never someone I could… truly call a friend. If this is what friends do, that is. If that is acceptable to you. I believe you would be a good friend to have.”
You huff in amusement, legs slightly kicking. “Yeah buddy, I would like that to,” you said, meaning it. “Though maybe future friendship activities can happen in locations with better temperature control. Just a thought.”
“I will take your human fragility into account for future planning,” he said solemnly, and you were pretty sure he was making a joke. It was hard to tell with the delivery, but there was something in his eyes that suggested humor.
“Appreciated,” you said.
“Thank you, [Name].” Sincere. Sweetly so. “I wish to make love to you now.”
Huh.
"Woah, what?!"
Thankfully, oh so thankfully, ‘love’ meant hugging. His muscular arms encasing you and give you a squeeze. One that is maybe a bit too tight than normal but oddly regulating. Perhaps keeping in mind of the ‘fragile’ conversation shared.
“Oh—“ you laugh, a bit more than necessary due to the slight pressure. “Oh okay. Yeah. This is ok.”
You… can't remember the last time you hugged someone… or were given a hug. It's nice. Really nice. Your hands pressing into his back and shamelessly, for this moment, allowing yourself to let it happen. Your features pinch, a pointed self regulation as you mentally whisper to yourself not to cry. A hug. It's just a hug. No need to cry. At least now right now.
He pulls away after a moment, and perhaps you both are reluctant to do so, holding you out like some stuffed animal.
“I am glad you enjoy us making love. It does bring me happiness.”
You kinda wanna laugh-cry. “Hugging. It’s called hugging not… making love.”
His grip adjusts, eyes searching. “There’s a difference?”
“Yes. Yes… We’ll talk about it—once we’re inside. Or another day. Probably another day.” Or never. “When my rear is dry.”
He visibly looks around you and you do that closed eyed expression, accepting your silent fate because okay. Yeah. That's… okay.
“Yes. Your posterior is quite wet.”
Please kill me.
Finally, he releases your arms. But he stayed close as you both moved toward the exit, ready to catch you if your still-wobbly legs gave out. The fruit basket remained abandoned in its parking space, a bizarre memorial to this conversation.
“Should we…” You gestured toward it.
“I will retrieve it later,” Phenomaman decided. “Temperature regulation takes priority over fruit basket recovery.”
“Words to live by,” you agreed.
As you walked—slowly, carefully, with Phenomaman hovering protectively—you found yourself thinking about personhood. About how arbitrary the lines were between person and not-person. About how easily those classifications could be weaponized, used to hurt people who were already vulnerable.
“Have you ever tried hot coco?”
“I have not. Is it good?”
“Oh, it’ll explode your mind.”
“It is a weapon?”
Your laughter trails into the building, “No! No. Just. It's really good. Trust me. No literal exploding minds. I think you’ll like it.”
author’s note: I was listening to laufey while writing this chapter so I was like *sigh*; this woman is making me suffer. Which, in turn, means I should make Robert suffer. I lowkey just am continuing to put him through the ringer, everything just moved way too fast for me through the game.
Anyway, this is late because I got distracted by Cupid my Cupid (thank y’all for the support on that), some other projects and also… maybe making a sort of Arcane-Adjacent/Earlier timeline of whatever League of Legends excerpt from my friend. Because of Darius from the Noxus trailer and I was like whatever. Then I got fixated on that/League of Legends (LOREWISE, I WILL NOT TOUCH THAT GAME), Warhammer again (used to be in that fandom), One Piece, then again, some other ideas I had for Dispatch fics.
Plus my family celebrated Thanksgiving early so we didn’t have to deal with the day hell that IS Thanksgiving. And then I have uni stuff. Urgggghhh.
Anyway, just explanation of my delay (over a week my bad!). Hopefully y’all enjoyed this waited chapter.
IMPORTANT: I didn’t do the wet dream for this chapter because I felt like it’d sour the moment of the previous chapter, ykwim? Obviously not to say Robert doesn’t possible want a sexual relation with a partner but I did want his emotions at the moment to really build on the starvation of love outside of sexual bounds. (Although I’m def writing him like he’s starving and pathetic in sexual notions). So more yearning and more soft love type deal this time. I WILL be adding the wet dream sometime in the future tho so don’t worry… I just wanted more pathetic wet dog that is Robert.
Tag List (feel free to ask/comment if you want to be in future ones!): @kbd-cryptid @moonlight-sonata99 @milkyshukes @idioticstar @lokigirlszendaya @sxftiebee @send-me-places @noodleryworld @susanhill @sunbl3achedfly @aberix @rileeznuts @encantedoasis @tsukikyo @boundedtodream @steadyzombiehottub @2tty @lizzythalizzard @shin0buk1nn1e @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni @oreeowe @parcetamoldaisy @misdollface @asmaraloca @fayewebluv @dovey-quacks2332 @penabuttahhh @lucycarlisleswife @lizbix @pri00r @isabellaferreiras2-blog @yourbelovedtoaster @jackierose902109 @levisungjingwoo2099 @jellyedkazoo @crackmuffins @mixplara @lillanirobertson @suddenlysquelch @lettucel0ver @no1eyedressfan @bakugouswh0r3 @iammariposa @killerwendigo @bitchysouljellyfish @hibiscus-paradise @superdupersunny420 @rimuuuo @viosilein @frozenballsack69 @iv-vee @umiexe
Your gonna make another like 50 chapters to the water boy fic right???
Honestly it's def gonna be more than a sequel 😭
My oneshots end up with requests for a possible continuation and I’m like…. 🤷 ykw maybe, maybe… especially because I also am so indecisive with options so I end up branching my drafts with ‘I can just add it in a different chapter.’
Then go, ‘Wait, V! It isn’t meant to have another chapter!’ Obviously my drafts dgaf so we shall see.
I doubt double digits but def more than one. Either way, there will be more fluff and… other.
<- Chapter 8. || Chapter 9. [You ARE Here]
tgs: mention of child (no y’all don't got a kid, there's just a glazed over topic; no child in this economy but I don't want to possibly scare people in ‘not tagged’ or something), depression, fading feelings (for now), robert needs to ring doctor monster asap
a/n: I"M ALIVEEEEEEEEEEE! it's joeover // Is this technically me making it into a Bestfriends to Strangers to Bestfriends again (then lovers)?
[wrds: 22, 538 | chrs: 135,381]
[NOT BETA READ]
Read on Ao3
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Robert stood on his balcony; the small concrete rectangle jutting out like a king’s exclusive view. The railing was wrought iron, painted black, with intricate scrollwork that probably cost more than a person’s first guess. Plants hung from hooks screwed into the overhang—real plants, lush and healthy, the kind that required actual care instead of sporadic neglect. Ferns and trailing pothos and something with purple flowers he couldn't name but knew how to water given explicit instructions… something drilled into him after far too many previous killings that promised his skin if he doomed another.
A promise that wasn't empty as he remembers the expression, remembers fleeing around the apartment with a mix of startled laughter as he was chased. Hands reaching for him, threats of violence wrapped in affection, the kind of mock-anger that was really just concern dressed up as indignation. Beef barking in the background, egging on the chaos like the little instigator he was.
The memory brings a smile to his face as he stared out to the city. A real smile, not the hollow ones he'd been manufacturing lately. Not the professional mask or the self-deprecating smirk. Just... genuine warmth at the memory of being ridiculous about plant care. About caring enough about something living to threaten him over its demise.
Los Angeles stretched before him in that particular predawn blue-grey, where streetlights still glow amber against the fading darkness but the sky has already started its slow brightening. The sun still hidden but making its sleepy ascent as its little humans drag themselves out of bed. Or maybe are finally making it to bed after too many long hours of working. The city never really sleeps, not truly. Just shifts. Changes. Moves from one rhythm to another like a massive organism with millions of moving parts.
He waves at a neighbor down below. A nice man. In his residency or something at the hospital. On the perpetual state of sleeping and waking and screaming—the kind of exhaustion that came with saving lives and accumulating student debt in equal measure. There's a simple lift of a hand that's exchanged between them, one that means 'good morning, have a good day, see you around' (and everything else) all at once. While well meaning the action also reminds Robert that he's shirtless—at the very least he's in some good sweatpants rather than those boxers he's been meaning to replace for months now.
The morning air is cool against his bare skin. Not unpleasant. Just present. Real. Grounding in a way he needs right now. The kind of physical sensation that reminds him he's actually here, actually alive, actually experiencing the world instead of just floating through it on autopilot.
As he contemplated finally going inside, a sound behind him draws his attention. The balcony door sliding open with that particular whisper of glass on metal tracks.
Footsteps. Familiar ones. The kind he'd recognize anywhere because he's spent years cataloging every detail of their existence without consciously meaning to. The weight of those steps. The rhythm of that movement. The slight hesitation before crossing thresholds.
A soft sniffle and audible shiver.
Before arms wrap around him from behind.
The touch sent electricity through his entire nervous system. Not unpleasant. The opposite of unpleasant. Warm and solid and right in a way that made his breath catch. Made his heart do that stupid jackrabbit thing it only did around one person. Made everything else—all the noise and chaos and confusion of his life—fade into insignificance.
The hands caress against his exposed skin, warm against the chill that lingered under the flesh. They embrace his scars without disgust, without hesitation, without that particular careful avoidance most people employed when touching damaged things. Fingers even caressing along one particularly nasty mark till the palm settled comfortably against his stomach, the other against his chest. Right over his heart. Like you were checking to make sure it was still beating. Still functioning. Still his.
Holding him. Anchoring him. The kind of embrace that wasn't about passion or possession but simple connection. Simple being together. Simple existing in shared space without needing justification or explanation or anything beyond this.
A cheek pressed to his shoulder. Weight settling against his back in a way that spoke of absolute trust. Of comfort so complete it didn't need justification. Of safety that went both ways—you feeling safe enough to be vulnerable, him feeling safe enough to be held.
"Traumatizing our neighbors again?"
Your voice. Muffled slightly against his shoulder blade. Sleep-rough and warm and so achingly familiar that Robert's chest constricted painfully. That particular timbre that came from just waking. From being pulled from dreams. From comfort and safety and belonging. The slight rasp that meant you'd been sleeping hard, deeply, the kind of rest that only came when you felt secure.
God, he'd missed your voice. Even though it's been less than 24 hours since he'd last heard it. Just a couple before the two of you finally succumbed to the pull of rest. But every moment without it felt like deprivation. Like going without air. Like something essential had been removed from his environment.
He huffs in amusement, shifting. His weight settling more comfortable against you, hands lifting to cup the back of yours. Holding you there. Making sure you know he wants this. Wants you. Wants this moment to last as long as physically possible. "Of course. Unless you've forgotten my favorite pastime." He squeezes your hands gently, thumb tracing the familiar topography of your knuckles. "Half-nude, staring at innocents as they—" a pause. His brain catches up to his mouth, processing how that actually sounds. "I sound like a creep... should probably stop talking.”
He could feel you shake, a tremble of laughter vibrating against his back. That particular silent laugh you do when something catches you off guard. When you're trying not to wake the whole building with your amusement. When joy bubbles up so naturally you can't contain it.
You pull away slightly and he turns in your arms, his hand settling on your side—caressing in a motion he's done dozens of times before. Hundreds, maybe. Thousands. The movement so practiced it's become instinct. Muscle memory that exists independent of conscious thought. You were warmer from deep slumber, sleep mused and looking ready to return to hibernation once given the chance. Your hair is doing that thing where it sticks up in odd angles. Your face still has pillow creases. Your eyes are heavy-lidded and soft.
It was—is—perfect.
"What are you doing up anyway?" You ask before breaking into a big yawn, face scrunching and eyes watering. The yawn is contagious—it always is—but Robert fights it. His eyes still water though.
Robert catches one of the sleepy tears with his thumb, lips twitching. Fighting the urge to smile like an idiot. Failing. "Have to get ready for work." The words came automatically. His tone lighter with you, has been for a while thanks to you. No constant undercurrent of exhaustion and stress that had been his default for the majority of his life. Just... ease. Comfort. The ability to exist without armor.
He tilted his head slightly, examining your face. Cataloging details. The exact shade of your eyes in this light. The way your lashes cast shadows on your cheeks. All these tiny details he'd memorized without meaning to. Without permission. Just absorbed through proximity and attention and the desperate need to know everything about you.
You meet his eyes, mirroring his tilt. A unconscious mimicry that speaks to how in sync you've become. How you've started adopting each other's mannerisms. How the lines between where one of you ends and the other begins have blurred into something beautiful and terrifying.
The warmth that flooded through him at that simple action felt almost painful in its intensity. Paired with that soft eye contact. Like staring directly at the sun. Like something too bright and good to look at directly but impossible to turn away from. Like he was Icarus and you were everything he shouldn't reach for but couldn't help flying toward anyway.
You presenting the comfortable intimacy of someone who belonged here. Who belonged with him. Not as a guest or a visitor or someone temporarily occupying space. But as someone who had a right to be here. Who had earned their place through time and care and all the small moments that accumulate into something bigger than their individual parts.
"At 4 AM?" Your tone carried amusement. That particular affectionate exasperation reserved for when someone you love does something adorably stupid. The kind that says 'I'm judging you but I'm also endeared by your ridiculousness.'
"Yes at 4—" He paused. Brain catching up with reality. Processing the information that didn't quite align with his internal clock. "It's 4 AM?"
Your laughter vibrated against his skin before it filled the air as your head briefly fell back. Draws his eyes to your throat. The laugh is warm and genuine, a kind of sound that made his entire body relax involuntarily. Made tension he hadn't realized he was carrying bleed out of his shoulders. Made everything feel lighter just by existing. "Yes, 4 AM." You confirmed, peering at him with those eyes that always saw too much. That cut through his bullshit with surgical precision. And after a beat, you pointedly add in a teasing whisper: "On a Saturday."
The information filtered through his brain slowly. Too slowly. Like his neurons were trudging through molasses trying to make connections that should be obvious.
Too early.
Way too early.
And he doesn't even work weekends.
What the hell had he been thinking? How had he gotten so turned around that he thought it was a workday? That he needed to be anywhere other than here, in this moment, with you?
"I'm an idiot." He said it out loud. Felt your arms tighten around him in response. Felt your smile against his chest as you nuzzled closer. That particular burrowing motion you do when you're comfortable. When you're content. When everything is exactly as it should be.
"You're my idiot." You corrected. The possessive so casual it felt like breathing. Like stating a fact of the universe. "But yes. An idiot."
The possessive should probably bother him. Should trigger all his usual hang-ups about being a burden, about being too much, about not deserving to be claimed by anyone let alone someone like you. All those deeply ingrained beliefs his father had instilled. All that toxic masculinity about being independent and strong and never needing anyone.
Instead it just made him feel... good. Warm. Safe. Wanted in a way that went beyond physical attraction or temporary affection. Permanent. Solid. Real.
Like coming home.
He hugs you in turn, caressing as he breathes you in. Feels the slight stiffening as his scruff tickled you, followed by the melt as he presses a kiss to your skin.
"Come back to bed?" The question was soft. Hopeful. Your hands had started tracing idle patterns against his skin. Nothing sexual. Just touch for the sake of touching. For the comfort of connection. For the simple pleasure of feeling him beneath your fingertips.
Robert didn't hesitate.
"Okay."
The word came so easily. No internal debate. No weighing of pros and cons. No anxiety about whether this was the right choice or whether he was being weak or whether he should push himself to stay awake now that he was up. No complicated calculations about what staying meant or what it implied or how it would look.
Just: Okay.
Because you asked. Because he wanted to. Because the idea of crawling back into bed with you sounded like the best possible use of his time. Because everything else could wait. The world could spin without him for a few more hours.
You unwrapped yourself from him slowly. Reluctantly. Your hands sliding away in a way that suggested you'd rather not let go at all. But the promise of bed—of warmth and comfort and more contact—made the temporary separation worthwhile. Robert reached almost unconsciously to find your hand. Fingers threading through his without hesitation, without thought. Without second guessing. Because this was natural now. Normal. Expected.
Because why would it be second-guessed? You've been doing this for years.
You both pause when you first step inside, letting him slide the balcony door shut and fix the curtains before resuming the journey to bed. The apartment is dark still. Quiet except for the ambient sounds of life—the hum of the refrigerator, the distant traffic, Roast's soft snoring from wherever the little demon had decided to sleep.
It took some time for him to get used to it. Having a place that was actually a home.
Where Robert's usual dwellings over the years were sparse to the point of depressing—furniture sold off to make rent, walls bare except for water stains, the general aesthetic of "gave up"—this space was lived in. Actually inhabited by people who gave a damn about their environment. Who thought comfort mattered. Who believed that where you lived should reflect who you are rather than just being a place to store your body between shifts.
Cozy in ways Robert hadn't experienced since childhood. Where he does remember having a nice home. But even that felt empty when your father was consistently absent. When "home" was more concept than reality. When the space you occupied felt more like a training facility than a place to actually live.
But this? This was warm.
Art on the walls—actual art, not just whatever came in the cheap frames you could buy at Target. Framed photographs; all consisting the two of you and of course, Beef. The newer additions also include Roast. Concert posters from shows you'd attended together. Some hand painted pieces from your visits to Painted Earth in Temecula. A drive that is over an hour and often only taken during necessary visits but worth it each time. Shelves lined with books and plants and small sculptures. Personal things. Collected things. The kind of objects that accumulate over time when you actually think a place is worth decorating. When you plan to stay. When you believe in permanence.
Thrifted things that seemed horrible together but were actually perfect thanks to you and doing whatever the fuck you wanted. Because your home was never meant to be a touchless place that made people wonder if it was okay to even use a couch. A couch that looked actually comfortable with throw pillows and blankets. A coffee table covered in what appeared to be a half-finished puzzle—something abstract and complicated that you'd been working on for weeks.
The TV was larger than Robert's had been. Mounted properly instead of being balanced on cardboard boxes (and later sold for extra cash). Evidence of actual adult life. Of having priorities beyond immediate survival. Of believing you deserved nice things.
There are signs of life everywhere too. A jacket thrown over the back of the couch—his from a couple days ago that he keeps forgetting to put away and you simply let be. Never nagging. Never making him feel like a slob. Just accepting his mess as part of the ecosystem. Shoes by the door in haphazard arrangement, whether it was because you scolded him to take them off (he forgot) or because Roast decided to play with them. A few dishes in the sink visible through the kitchen doorway, submerged to avoid any ants swarming through the night but still technically dirty. Books stacked on the coffee table next to what looks like unfinished paperwork. A blanket half-draped off a beanbag where someone—if not the both of you—had been using it recently.
All these little things make it perfect. Because it's real. Because it's the kind of space that exists when two people share a life together. When they're comfortable enough to not constantly maintain appearances. When home means safety instead of performance. When you can leave evidence of your existence without fear of judgment or complaint.
The bedroom door was slightly ajar. Warm light spilled through the crack. The kind of amber glow that came from a salt lamp or one of those sunrise alarm clocks people swore by. The kind of lighting that was supposed to help with circadian rhythms or mood or whatever the latest wellness trend claimed.
But it's what is at the door that makes the both of you pause.
Beef, plopped there, waiting. Patient but clearly displeased.
Of course Beef was waiting.
The dog looked deeply offended. Those dark eyes fixed on them with the particular accusation only a dog can achieve when they've been wronged despite the narrowness that spoke of sleep also clinging onto his canine form. His whole posture screamed betrayal. Ears slightly back. Tail tucked. The full performance of a creature who has been abandoned.
You left me, those eyes said. You got out of bed and LEFT ME ALONE and I am VERY UPSET about this.
Robert felt laughter bubble up while you were already giggling. Already dropping yourself to scoop up the offended canine. Beef went willingly despite his obvious displeasure, allowing himself to be cradled like an overgrown baby. Which is what he is. What he's always been. A twenty-pound infant trapped in a dog's body. Your face buried in his fur, pressing exaggerated kisses to his head while making those ridiculous cooing sounds people make at animals. The kind that would be embarrassing if overheard but felt perfectly natural in private.
"I'm sorry, baby boy. I'm so sorry we abandoned you. That was so mean of us. Yes it was. Yes it was." Your voice had gone up an entire octave. That special baby-talk register reserved exclusively for animals. The one that made Robert's chest warm even as he fought the urge to tease you about it. "Did you think we weren't coming back? Did you? Poor sweet potato. Poor little bowling ball."
Robert moved to join you. His hand finding Beef's head as his other settled on your opposing shoulder. Scratching behind those ears in the exact spot that made the dog's eyes half-close in contentment rather than sleepy-fury. The chubby body wiggling with pleasure despite the continued offense. Tail starting to wag despite himself. Forgiveness coming easily because dogs are better than people that way.
"We're terrible parents," Robert said solemnly. Trying to keep his face straight. Failing. "The worst."
"Absolutely awful," you agreed, looking at him with an equally solemn expression that was undermined by the smile tugging at your lips. "Should probably be reported to dog protective services."
"I hear they're very strict about the proper cuddle-to-abandonment ratio."
"Oh definitely. We've probably violated several regulations tonight alone."
Your giggles twine together, a symphony of pure elation that makes him feel so achingly alive. It brings the two of you closer together too, heads dipping like a happy little family that has years of memories ahead of them. Like this is just one moment in an infinite series. Like there will be thousands more mornings just like this. Like the future stretches out warm and welcoming instead of uncertain and terrifying.
"Okay, okay, back to bed," you whisper, smooching Beef as you return to your shuffling. There's but a slight adjustment so you can shift a hand free, finding Robert's once more. He's there, of course. He's always there. His hand settles in yours once more, pressed close and doing a sort of waddle-walk to remain so. He's mimicking the hold you had on him on the balcony, the hug from behind, pressing his face to your shoulder blade then the shoulder. Close enough to breathe you in. To feel your warmth. To exist in your immediate orbit.
The bedroom is just as lovingly put together as the rest of the home. Not just a room with a bed in it, but an actual space designed for rest. For intimacy. For the kind of vulnerability that comes with sleep. For shared existence in its most basic form.
Filled with things that neither of you would've had years ago mixed in to the everyday items. Because being with another also meant loving yourself. As even before being in a relationship, it means you should find love in yourself too. Sometimes it just becomes easier when someone else is there to encourage or simply be the anchor in the tedious ways of life. When someone else believes in you enough that you start believing in yourself. When their faith becomes scaffolding for your own.
There's an actual bed too. A proper one with a frame and a headboard and everything. Not a mattress on the floor or a plastic chair or any of the sorry excuses for sleeping surfaces that Robert's been making do with years ago. This is furniture. Real furniture. The kind that requires assembly and probably cost more than Robert's entire current living situation. The kind that represents investment. Commitment. The belief that you deserve comfort.
The bed itself is... it's almost obscene in its comfort-promising appearance. Made but not military-made. Covers pulled up but rumpled in that way that suggests recent occupation. Pillows arranged in haphazard comfort rather than decorative precision. The kind of bed that looks like it would be a pleasure to sink into. That invites you to stop fighting and just rest. That promises safety and warmth and the kind of deep, dreamless sleep that actually restores instead of just passing time.
But it's also clearly been disturbed. There are two distinct Robert-and-you-shaped indentations in the covers. Two sides that have been occupied. Two spaces marked by body heat and weight. Evidence of shared sleeping. Of bodies arranged around each other through the night. Of unconscious adjustments and instinctive movement toward warmth and comfort.
A nest.
That's what it looks like. The bed has become a nest, not nearly circular like a bird's but still considered nesting. Covers pulled this way and that. Pillows migrated from their original positions. The sheets twisted in ways that suggest movement. Restlessness. Or the opposite—such complete comfort that staying still wasn't necessary. Wasn't required. When you trust someone enough to be completely vulnerable. When you can surrender to unconsciousness knowing you're safe.
This is where you sleep together.
Not sex—though that too, though that's happened, though that's part of this equation, definitely part of the equation—but sleep. The actual act of sleeping. Of being unconscious and vulnerable beside another human being. Of trusting them with those hours of defenselessness. Of believing they'll still be there when you wake. Of knowing that even in sleep, you're not alone.
This is where you rest.
Together.
You set Beef down on the bed with excessive care. The dog immediately begins the complex ritual of circling, pawing, circling again before flopping down dramatically right in the middle. Claiming the prime real estate. Establishing himself as the center of this universe. The axis around which everything revolves. His parents' parents, as it were.
You're already climbing back in. Sliding under covers that accept you like water. Moving to your side and settling in with the ease of habit. Of routine. Of having done this countless times before. Of this being normal. Expected. Right.
Robert hesitates.
Just for a moment. Just long enough to really look at this scene. He's done this before. He always does this actually. Because even after years of it, he can't help but bask. Can't help but stop and appreciate. Can't help but catalogue this moment like he's afraid it might disappear if he doesn't consciously acknowledge its existence.
You. Beef. A real bed. A real home. A real life.
This is what he's always wanted.
Not the hero work or the legacy or any of the things he spent years destroying himself over. Not the approval he never got. Not the impossible standards he could never meet. Not the weight of expectations that crushed him slowly. Just this. This simple domestic scene. This quiet intimacy. This peaceful existence. The mundane magic of waking up next to someone you love. Of shared space and shared life and shared future.
And now he has it.
Actually has it. Not as a dream or fantasy or distant possibility. But as reality. As his life. As something he gets to keep. As something that chose him back.
"You coming?" Your voice is already going drowsy again. Sleep reclaiming you now that the brief adventure of retrieving your human is complete. You're propped on your elbow slightly, looking at him with fond exasperation. Like he's being ridiculous. Like this is silly. Like obviously he should be in bed already. "Or are you gonna stand there all night analyzing the bed?"
"All night?" Robert glances at the windows. The curtains are drawn but he can see the edges of predawn light seeping through. "It's morning."
You roll your eyes, a silent 'ok, smartass'. That particular look that says you're judging him but also endeared by his need to be technically correct. "Fine. All morning then." You pat the space beside you. His space. The right side. Where he belongs. The dip in the mattress that's shaped itself to his body over time. "Come on."
Robert climbs in.
The bed is amazing as always. The mattress supports his weight properly. The pillows are real pillows, not flat sad things that gave up being useful years ago. The blankets are warm without being suffocating. Everything is just... right. Perfect. Exactly as it should be. The kind of comfort he'd convinced himself he didn't deserve. That he didn't need. That was frivolous or weak or unnecessary.
But it isn't unnecessary. It's essential. This comfort. This rest. This safety. All of it matters. All of it contributes to being able to function. To being able to think clearly. To being able to exist as something other than survival mode.
He settles on his back. Head sinking into the pillow that knows the exact contours of his skull. Looking up at a ceiling that isn't water-stained or concerning. Just a ceiling. Plain and boring and perfect. Clean white paint. No cracks. No evidence of structural damage or neglect. Just... a ceiling being a ceiling.
He feels Beef's bulk pressing against his side, creating a buffer between his parents. A warm, furry, gently-snoring buffer that radiates contentment and dog-warmth. The weight of him familiar and grounding. Proof that this is real. That this isn't just another dream he'll wake from in his empty apartment.
You're on your side. Facing him. Having let yourself melt and cushion against arm and pillow. Staring at him with that particular angle you do when you're thinking. When you're processing something. When you're trying to figure out what to say or whether to say it at all. When you usually answer his 'what are you looking at?' (playfully) with your unrepentant, 'you” that leans to laughter and kisses.
It's soft. Open. Vulnerable in ways you usually aren't when you're fully awake and aware. The kind of expression that exists only in safe spaces. Only with safe people. Only when you trust that what you're feeling won't be weaponized against you. When you can be honest without fear of rejection or ridicule or abandonment.
It's love.
That's what Robert is seeing.
Not friendship or obligation or habit or any of the things he usually told himself to explain your presence in his life. Not gratitude or pity or convenience. Just... love. Pure and uncomplicated (at least to the two of you) and utterly terrifying in its simplicity. The kind that doesn't demand. Doesn't keep score. Doesn't require justification. Just exists. Steady and constant and real.
You love him.
The realization should be earth-shattering. Should remake his entire worldview. Should change everything. Should send him into a panic about whether he deserves it, whether he can keep it, whether it's real or just wishful thinking.
But Robert takes it as fact. Has for awhile. As obvious. As something that exists as naturally as breathing or gravity or the sun rising every morning. Not something to question or doubt or agonize over. Just... truth. Simple and absolute.
Of course you love him.
And he loves you.
That's just how it is.
How it's always been.
How it was always going to be.
There's a slight shift between the two of you. Beef sniffing and huffing at the other small dog that jumped onto the bed with that particular graceless thud that suggested he'd misjudged the height. Roast, a fellow small dog that was one of those generic 'crusty white dogs'—Shih Tzu Maltese's mix. So two crusty white dogs mixed… and it was brown instead of white… So not the same but also yes? Genetics were weird. Biology didn't care about human expectations. The guy was still crusty in his own way.
He was found during the initial move here by a curious Beef. A street pup—although he's actually quite an old puppy, maybe eight or nine—that had been digging through trash and chewing on things he shouldn't be. Matted and skinny and mean. Snapping at anyone who got close. Feral in that way street animals become when humans have proven untrustworthy. Now the thing is a mini tank. Not at all like Beef just yet but filled out since being snatched up and domesticated. And despite your scolding, you and Robert often let Roast and Beef play vacuum during meals. Cleaning up whatever dropped or was offered.
A little human food never hurt nobody.
Unless that human food is chocolate or grapes or onions or any of the other surprisingly long list of things that are toxic to dogs. But you're both responsible pet parents. Mostly. When you remember. When it's convenient.
There's that audible huff off and in the peripheral you can catch Roast throwing his head with a dismissive toss. Those bangs bobbing indignantly. The attitude of a creature who believes himself far superior to the plebian Beef despite being roughly the same size and significantly less well-behaved. Roast is a gremlin. A menace. The kind of dog that would absolutely start problems at the dog park against much bigger peers if given the chance.
It makes you smile, it makes him smile, now the two of you are smiling at each other. Again. For the thousandth time. For the millionth time. Never getting tired of it. Never finding it boring or routine or anything less than exactly what it should be.
"Miss Matilda wants us to visit soon." You say eventually, watching as he moves; rolling and adjusting to his side so he can look at you properly. So he can give you his full attention. So he can read every microexpression and know what you're actually saying beneath the words.
"Does she?" He isn't particularly interested in your former landlady. Not as much as he is in staring at you. In memorizing the exact angle of your nose. The way your eyelashes cast shadows. Everywhere he loves to kiss. "What for?"
Your expression reading 'you clearly know what' before you speak. That particular look that says he's being deliberately obtuse. That he knows exactly what Miss Matilda wants and is pretending ignorance to be difficult. "The usual."
Ah, the usual…
"We have children for her to baby though," he argues. His voice taking on that particular stubborn quality he gets when he knows he's fighting a losing battle but refuses to surrender. "Fur babies are still babies." Cue the slight scuffle of said two well-fed old pups playing with each other. Roast trying to assert dominance. Beef completely unbothered.
"She has dozens of fur babies, Rob." You smile, lifting your head to watch Beef roll while pawing at the air toward Roast. The larger dog playing along despite clearly being able to overpower the smaller one. Gentle despite his strength. Patient despite his size. "Now she wants a distinctly non-fur grandbaby."
"Yeah well," he huffs, adjusting again, punching his pillow into a more comfortable position. It pulls him closer by simple coincidence, of course. Totally accidental. Not at all intentional. "That hag can lay off."
"Rob." But there's laughter in your reprimand. That particular tone that says you're scolding him but don't actually mean it. That you're delighted by his irreverence even as you pretend to disapprove.
"You know I mean it affectionately," he murmurs in the pillow, pointedly making a visible show of hiding away from the conversation. Becoming one with the bedding. Refusing to engage. "Usually."
“Usaully.” You echo with a giggle.
The silence stretches between you after that. Comfortable. Full of things that don't need saying. The kind of quiet that exists between people who know each other well enough that not everything requires words. When presence is enough. When just existing in the same space is its own form of communication.
Neither of you really care to have the conversation of children—human children, that is. Whether it be by more physical means or adoptive, it just isn't a topic either of you focus on. The biological clock thing isn't ticking yet. The societal pressure hasn't become unbearable. You have your whole lives to decide if you want to involve a little spawn; especially longer as adoption can be visited. Years to figure out if you want that responsibility. That permanent change. That complete upheaval of everything comfortable and familiar.
And maybe you won't. Maybe it'll just be the two of you and whatever animals you accumulate. Maybe that's enough. Maybe that's perfect. Maybe the nuclear family ideal is overrated anyway.
He manages to open his eyes in time to see your hand reach out. Fingers tracing idle patterns on the sheet between you. Not quite touching him but close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating from your skin. The gesture is unconscious. Soothing. The kind of movement people make when they're thinking. When their mind is working through something and their hands need occupation.
Then—
"I love you."
The words fall into the space between you.
Simple. Clear.
Definitive.
No hesitation. No qualification. No uncertainty. Just statement of fact delivered with the weight of absolute truth. The kind of truth that rewrites reality. That changes everything. That can't be taken back or ignored or dismissed.
Robert can see the way your lips form around the words. Can see the slight purse between the "I" and "love." The way your mouth shapes the "you" with particular care. Deliberate pronunciation. Making sure each syllable lands properly. Can see every micro-expression that accompanies the statement—the slight nervous tension in your jaw, the hope in your eyes, the vulnerability of putting these feelings into words. Of making them real. Of giving them weight and substance instead of leaving them safely implied.
But he can't hear it.
Can't grasp onto the sound.
There's a strange sudden muffling. Like his ears have suddenly filled with cotton. Like he's underwater and the words are reaching him distorted. Like there's interference on a phone line causing the most important part of the conversation to cut out. Like the universe itself is conspiring to prevent him from hearing what he needs most.
He sees your lips move.
Sees you say it.
Sees the truth of it written across your face in expressions he's spent years learning to read. In the soft vulnerability of your eyes. In the slight nervous energy in your shoulders. In the way you're holding your breath waiting for his response.
But the words don't land. Don't register. Don't reach the part of his brain that processes language and meaning and the world-altering significance of what's just been said. Don't sink in deep enough to become real. To become something he can hold onto. To become something he can believe.
"Again."
His voice is urgent. Demanding in a way he rarely is with you. Too raw. Too desperate. Too much need bleeding through the single word. His hand reaches out—moving faster than should be possible, but desperation allows him to close distance without the normal constraints of movement and physics. Without considering whether he has the right to demand anything.
"Say it." He's pushing himself up. Moving closer. His hand finding yours and gripping with intensity that slightly hurts. Fingers wrapping around your wrist with bruising pressure that he doesn't register. That he can't modulate because all his control has evaporated. "Say it again."
Your expression shifts. The openness clouding with confusion. Concern. That particular worry that appears when someone you love is acting strange and you're not sure why. When something has gone wrong but you don't understand what. When the script has suddenly changed and you're scrambling to catch up.
"Rob—?"
"Please." He's definitely moving too fast now. Closing the distance between you with jerky, uncoordinated movements that speak to panic rather than intention. His other hand reaching for you. For your face. For anything he can hold onto. "Say it again. I need—"
He needs to hear it. Needs the words to land properly this time. Needs them to sink into whatever part of him has been starving for them without knowing it. Needs them to be real and solid and something he can carry back to waking with him. Needs proof that this isn't just another fantasy his broken brain has constructed. Another elaborate lie he's telling himself.
"I don't—" You look lost now. Actually lost. The confidence and warmth from moments ago dissolving into uncertainty. That expression dissolving into something that's almost fear. Almost withdrawal. The vulnerability closing up like a flower sensing frost. Petals curling inward protectively. "What's wrong?"
No.
No, that's not right.
This isn't how this is supposed to go.
You're supposed to say it again. Supposed to smile and repeat those three words with patience and understanding. Supposed to cup his face and kiss him and tell him everything is okay. Everything is fine. Everything is exactly as it should be. Supposed to see his desperation and meet it with reassurance instead of confusion. Supposed to understand what he needs even when he can't articulate it properly.
Not this.
Not confusion.
Not fear.
Not you pulling away from him like he's done something wrong. Like he's scared you. Like he's ruined this perfect moment through his own desperate neediness. Like he's revealed something about himself that makes him unlovable. Unworthy. Exactly as damaged as he's always believed himself to be.
"I just—" His grip on your hand is too tight. He can see it now. Can see the way his fingers have gone white-knuckled. Can see the slight wince you're trying to hide. The way you're instinctively trying to pull back even as you're fighting that instinct. Even as you're trying to stay present with him despite his spiral. "I need you to—"
But the words are failing.
Dying in his throat. Choking him. Because what is he even asking for? What does he need? Why can't he just accept this? Why does he have to ruin everything good in his life? Why can't he just be normal for once? Just be okay with happiness when it's offered?
"Robert—"
You're looking at him with something that might be pity. Might be sadness. Might be the horrible realization of what he's really like—desperate and broken and so starved for love that he can't even accept it properly when it's freely given. When it's offered without conditions. Without expectations. Without the demand that he earn it or deserve it or prove himself worthy.
That he's fundamentally unlovable. That something inside him is twisted wrong. That he's exactly the disappointment his father always said he was.
"I'm sorry," he tries to say. The words tumbling out in a rush. Overlapping. Tripping over each other. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
But before he can finish—before he can try to explain or apologize or fix this—
Robert's eyes snap open.
No gradual awakening. No gentle drift from sleep to consciousness. No merciful buffer of grogginess to soften the transition. No slow realization of where he is or what's real. No moment of disorientation.
Just instant, terrible, complete alertness.
Terribly wide awake.
The kind of awake that happens after nightmares (like the one he had of you not so long ago). After dreams so vivid your brain forgets they weren't real until reality comes crashing back with malicious clarity. That spike of adrenaline that floods your system. That horrible moment of disorientation before everything clicks into place.
Where am I?
When is it?
What's real?
His heart is hammering. Actually hammering like he's been running. Like he's in danger. Like his body is preparing for fight-or-flight despite being completely stationary. The rhythm is wrong. Too fast. Too hard. The kind of pulse you can feel in your throat. In your temples. In your fingertips where they're pressed against—
Against the floor.
He's on the floor.
Of course he's on the floor.
That's where he sleeps now. Has been sleeping. Ever since... when? He can't remember when it started. When the plastic chair stopped being enough. When even that minimal comfort felt like too much. Like he didn't deserve it. Like the floor was somehow more appropriate for someone who's fucked up as completely as he has.
The floor is cold. Not just cool or slightly chilly. Cold. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones when you've been lying on it for hours. When your body heat has been slowly leeching away all night into concrete and cheap wood flooring that provides no insulation whatsoever.
His back screams. Aches.
Immediately. Obviously. The dull throb that comes from sleeping on an unsuitable surface spreading across his spine like spilled ink. His shoulder blades feel bruised where they've been pressed against the hard surface all night. His hips hurt. His neck is stiff from whatever angle his head ended up at.
Every old injury makes itself known. Every scar tissue area that doesn't quite bend the way it used to. Every place that took damage during his career as Mecha Man and never properly healed because proper healing requires rest and Robert has never been good at rest.
The cold is worse on his exposed skin. Seeping into the scars particularly. Those areas where flesh isn't quite right anymore. Where nerve endings got damaged and temperature regulation is off. Where the body's natural defenses are compromised in ways that make every sensation feel more acute. More painful.
It's not just uncomfortable.
It's actively hostile.
Like the floor is alive and intent on punishing him.
He pushes himself up.
The movement is automatic. Mechanical. Requiring no thought. Just muscle memory and the grim determination that comes from having done this countless times before. Wake up. Sit up. Begin the process of existing for another day.
His hands press against the cold floor. Taking his weight as he rises. The floor is slightly gritty under his palms. Dust and dirt and whatever else accumulates when you don't clean regularly. When you've given up on maintenance. When existing takes all your energy and things like "sweeping" feel impossible.
He doesn't look around.
Doesn't need to.
Doesn’t want to.
He knows exactly what he'll see because nothing ever changes. Because this is his reality and reality doesn't spontaneously improve just because you want it to. Because dreams lie but waking never does.
The apartment is exactly as he left it last night.
Same empty walls. Same lack of furniture. Same general air of neglect and abandonment. Same evidence of a life not being lived so much as endured.
Everything is just how he left it.
Same old same old.
The phrase cycles through his mind with bitter familiarity. Because yes. Same old. Every day the same. Every morning the same. Every waking the same crushing disappointment of reality.
He hates it.
God, he hates it.
He's always hated it.
But he'd accepted it somewhere along the way. This is what he deserves. This is what his life is. This is the natural consequence of every choice he's made and everything he's failed to do.
Living like this—if you can call it living—is his penance.
Except he mulled over this exact thing just last night. Lying here in the dark. Staring at the ceiling. Cataloging all the ways his life is a disaster and doing nothing about it.
That dream didn't help.
It made it worse.
So much worse.
Because now he knows. Now he's seen it. Now he can visualize exactly what he's missing. What he could have if he wasn't such a fucking coward. If he could just do the bare minimum of basic human communication and emotional honesty.
The dream showed him the life he wants.
The life he can't have.
Not because it's impossible. Not because circumstances prevent it. Not because of bad luck or wrong timing or any of the external factors that people usually blame.
But because of him.
Because he's too broken. Too damaged. Too fucking scared to reach for it.
The apartment feels emptier now. Colder. More hostile. Like the dream's warmth has made the reality's chill more obvious by contrast. Like seeing what home could be has made what home actually is unbearable.
There's a specific quality to this emptiness. This nothingness. It's not just the absence of things—though god knows there's plenty of that. The missing furniture. The blank walls. The lack of any personal touches that would make this place feel lived-in instead of just occupied.
It's deeper than that.
Emptier.
A vacuum.
The kind that can't be described to someone who's never felt it. Who's never experienced that particular brand of hollowness that settles into your bones and makes everything feel pointless. Makes existing feel like too much effort. Makes the gap between how things are and how they could be feel insurmountable.
The dullness.
That's what it is.
That grey flatness that coats everything. That makes colors seem muted. Makes food taste like cardboard. Makes music sound distant. Makes laughter feel impossible. Makes everything that's supposed to bring joy feel like too much work for too little payoff.
Like trying to find warmth in a photograph.
Like trying to taste honey through glass.
Like trying to feel something—anything—when your emotional range has been compressed down to variations of numb.
This is depression.
Depression is its real name.
Not sadness. Sadness would be easier. Sadness has edges. Has specific causes. Has the possibility of resolution. You're sad because something happened. Remove or resolve the something, and the sadness goes away.
Depression isn't like that.
Depression is the absence. The void. The nothing that eats everything. It's not about being sad. It's about being nothing. Feeling nothing. Caring about nothing even when you desperately want to care.
It's the constant exhaustion that sleep doesn't fix. The constant ache that painkillers don't touch. The constant static in your head that makes thinking feel like wading through concrete. The constant weight on your chest that makes breathing feel like a chore.
Most people call it a pain in the ass.
Filled with whys and won'ts—particularly "why won't it go away no matter what I do?"
But Robert hasn't really done anything, has he?
The thought hits him like a punch to the gut. Sharp and accusing in ways his usual mental fog doesn't allow. Maybe because he's still partially in that space between sleeping and full consciousness. Maybe because the dream has left him raw and vulnerable. Maybe because eight days (for yesterday still doesn't seem like it counts) of avoidance have finally accumulated into something that can't be ignored anymore.
He hasn't done anything.
Sure, he's written messages, stared and zoned out in thought and played scenes behind his eyes. But none of it happened.
And nothing is nothing.
Unsent messages resolve little, personal thoughts apologize to no one other than the fantastical mind.
He’s just been sitting in his self-pity. Drowning in his own inadequacy. Feeling sorry for himself while doing absolutely nothing to change the situation. Like somehow if he suffers enough, if he punishes himself thoroughly enough, it'll count as atonement.
And that dream—
God, that dream was his guilt and shame and insecurities painting him as someone deserving of such warmth. Someone worthy of forgiveness he hasn't even tried to earn. Someone who has their shit together enough to have a real home. A real relationship. A real life.
Someone who isn't him.
It was a fantasy.
A fantasy that felt so terribly real.
Robert closes his eyes. Pressing against his eyes again, chest heaving as he feels emotion prick the corners.
Three words.
That's all it takes.
I am sorry.
Or I'm sorry.
Or even just: Sorry.
One word would be better than the nothing he's currently offering. One word at the very least.
A stifled sound vibrates against the back of his throat, making his shoulders hunch and head dip. Forward, curling in on himself like he's trying to make himself smaller. Trying to disappear. Trying to fold himself into nothing because nothing is what he deserves.
He's crying.
Crying like a pathetic loser.
Hot tears sliding down his face unchecked. Dripping off his chin onto his bare chest. His breathing has gone ragged. Uneven. Each inhale catching on something sharp in his chest. Each exhale shuddering out with sounds he can't control. Sounds he doesn't want to make. Sounds that prove just how broken he really is.
His father was right, he was always right.
The thought comes unbidden. Unwanted. But true. Has to be true. Because look at him. Look at what he's become. A grown man crying on his apartment floor at dawn because he's too much of a coward to send a simple text message. Too weak to do the right thing. Too pathetic to deserve the good things in life.
You're soft. Weak. You'll never be half the man I was. You'll never live up to the name.
His father's voice echoes in his memory with perfect clarity. That particular tone of disappointment tinged with disgust. That look that said Robert would never measure up no matter what he did. That certainty that he was fundamentally flawed. Fundamentally insufficient. A disappointment from birth.
And he'd spent his whole life trying to prove that wrong. Trying to be strong enough. Brave enough. Good enough. Worthy of the Mecha Man name. Worthy of the legacy. Worthy of existence.
But here he is. Proof positive that his father was right all along.
Robert shouldn't be here this early. He doesn’t want to be actually. Not today.
But after that dream, the apartment felt more suffocating than usual.
So he'd gotten up after wiping it all away. Showered. Put on his SDN uniform with the kind of mechanical precision that comes from muscle memory rather than conscious thought. Fed Beef. Grabbed the dog and his backpack and left before he could second-guess himself into paralysis.
The drive had been... autopilot. Dangerous, probably. The kind of thing that should worry him more than it does. He has zero recollection of most of the route, his brain both too occupied with things that he can't quite remember now.
What he does know that he’s been shivering since he started moving about this morning. It was cold. A sudden downpour from last night that didn’t make sense to have during this season but couldn’t be a surprise because of the climate. Since his coma, since the struggle to truly return to what he once was, the shift in weight made it easier for him to get cold. Made him shiver like some stick in the wind. But the best thing he had is that hoodie and he was too out of it to put it on before leaving the house. The only reason he had turned on the heater in the first place was because of Beef in the back of his mind. Said dog content in his arm (bundled with said hoodie) to keep him warm and off the damp ground.
"Mornin', Doc!"
Robert freezes, faltering his step toward the building.
That's Punch Up's voice. Unmistakable Dublin accent, that particular cheerful bellow that suggests the man has never encountered a volume he couldn't exceed. Coming from somewhere near the employee entrance.
Your voice answers immediately, filling the morning chill with alert warmth that makes something in Robert's chest constrict painfully. "Morning, Knockout."
Knockout?
The word hits him like a physical blow, especially after the morning he had. Settles in his stomach like lead. Because that's a nickname. Clearly. A personal one. The kind you usually don't give to someone you barely know or only have professional interactions with.
Knockout.
For Punch Up.
What the fuck?
Since when was that a thing?
Robert's frown deepens, carving lines into his face that mirror the permanent furrow between his brows. His fingers tighten on jacket—the dog having lifted his head happily at the sound of your voice, sniffing the rain-scented air to seek yours.
"How are you? Have a good night?" Your voice continues, casual and friendly in a way that makes Robert's throat feel tight.
He should leave. Should just walk inside or get back in the car like he forgot something or literally do anything other than what he's currently doing which is standing there like a creep in the parking lot listening to a conversation that doesn't involve him.
But his feet won't move.
His perfidious eyes lock onto the scene unfolding down the way, to a car parked on the opposite side near the middle. Lock onto you—stepping out of a car that is definitely not yours. Not your grandfather's beloved Toyota-something with its mysterious smell and decades of history. This is a newer model. Nothing fancy, but functional. Well-maintained. The kind of practical vehicle someone who actually has their life together would drive.
You're smiling. It's genuine despite the whisper of sleepiness that kisses the corners of your eyes and the edges of your lips. That soft, natural smile that used to be reserved for him. For lazy mornings when you'd show up at his apartment with coffee and breakfast sandwiches. For late nights when exhaustion made you both punchy and everything was funny. For quiet moments when Beef did something adorable and you'd both just... look at each other and smile because words weren't necessary.
Now you're smiling like that at Punch Up.
"Aye. Had a night of drinkin' and knockin' some fellas down a peg at the bar." Punch Up's voice carries across the parking lot as he makes his way over. There's a pointed flex of those considerable arms—‘Theresa and Susan’ getting their morning stretch—before his fists settle at his hips in that classic strongman pose. "What about you? How did ‘Margarita Thursday’ fare?"
Margarita Thursday.
The words feel like they're in a foreign language. A phrase from a life Robert isn't part of and doesn't understand. Because when did Margarita Thursdays become a thing? When did you start having regular social events with coworkers? When did you build this entire social calendar that exists completely separate from him?
Somewhere in the back of his mind, if he wasn’t so addled with that dream, he would’ve remembered that Galen has definitely texted him about it. That it’s the whole thing and they make their own margaritas and enjoy themselves among coworkers, make cammadrie, become friends. But he’s been so busy with the Z-Team…
"Mm." You make a sound—acknowledgment or just a verbal placeholder as you heave your backpack strap onto your shoulder, adjusting it with a slight bounce. "Fun is one word. Regret is another."
You went out drinking. Had enough to drink that you're experiencing regret. Which means probably too much. Which means you were relaxed enough, comfortable enough, safe enough to let your guard down like that.
With them.
With people who aren't him.
Because when’s the last time the two of you shared a drink? Cracked open a beer just for the fun of it?
Didn’t you hate drinking?
Robert's jaw clenches hard enough that his molars grind together. The sharp pain in his temple intensifies, spreading across his forehead in waves that make his vision blur slightly at the edges.
"Hey!" Another voice. Male. Unfamiliar for a split second before Robert's brain catches up and identifies it as Galen. Speak of the devil.
Galen's head appears above the car roof, popping up from the driver's side with the kind of casual ease that suggests this is easy now. Just like it was easy for you to carpool home with Waterboy yesterday, making sure he got to his place safe then—unknown to Robert, just said fuck it and told Galen you’d attend the event that night. (Partially because you really didn’t want to linger in your apartment or perhaps bother Herman with your personal mess). You don’t regret it though.
So while you drive Waterboy home, where the two of you likely can have dinner or talk or do things friends are expected to do together… Galen drives you to work, the two of you likely doing the same as you do with the janitor but in terms of coffee and breakfast.
And if you drank last night, that could also possibly mean you slept over at his place?
A coworker you've known for less than a week. Getting you to open up in a way Robert wasn’t sure he ever was able to allow you to.
"We had fun!" Galen's grin is visible even from this distance. Genuine. Warm. The kind of expression people wear when they've actually had a good time instead of just going through motions. "You had fun. You said you did.”
"We did, we did." You reassure, fond and exasperated in a way Robert wished that was him on the receiving side. "But I definitely had too much too.”
There's a moment where you're sliding a box from the backseat. Maneuvering it with that particular care that suggests fragile contents or at least things you don't want damaged. Probably more stuff for your office. More personal touches to make that space yours. More evidence that you're settling in, making yourself at home in this new life.
The box looks heavy. Awkward. The kind of thing Robert would normally be helping you with because that's what he does—did. Past tense. That's what he used to do before he fucked everything up so completely that asking him for help probably didn't even cross your mind.
"Allow me."
Punch Up steps forward before Robert's brain can even process the offer. Those hands taking the box from you with the kind of ease that comes from literal superhuman strength. Making it look effortless even though Robert can see from the way you'd been holding it that it wasn't light.
"Oh, why thank you." Your voice is warm. Appreciative. You exchange a look with Galen over the car roof—something knowing and amused that speaks to inside jokes Robert isn't privy to. "What a gentleman."
Gentleman.
The word echoes in Robert's head with uncomfortable intensity.
Because you used to call him that. Used to say it teasingly when he'd hold doors or carry your bags or insist on walking you home even when you said it was unnecessary. "Such a gentleman," you'd say with that particular tone that made it clear you were making fun of old-fashioned chivalry while also appreciating the gesture.
Now you're saying it to Punch Up.
With the same warmth. The same genuine appreciation.
Like it means the same thing.
Robert's fingers have gone white-knuckled on the jacket. The bundled Beef is looking up at him with concerned brown eyes, sensing the tension radiating off his human. That particular anxiety dogs pick up on instinctively, knowing something is wrong even if they can't articulate what.
He should move. Should do something other than stand here like a stalker watching you interact with people who aren't him. This is creepy behavior. Obsessive behavior. The kind of thing that would absolutely justify you being uncomfortable around him. Something that wouldn’t have existed in the first place if he had just said sorry within 24 hours.
Run to your apartment, Beef in arm straight after the shower. Beg for forgiveness outside your door, something that likely both earned and lost your landlady’s approval. He knows you probably beat yourself up over it, that you argue with yourself and anyone else that it wasn’t that big of a deal. But that’s not true. Sure, it wasn’t a fight, it could've been worse and you’d tell yourself that; that you could just forgive him. But he hurt you. It hurt you more than ever, made you uncomfortable, confused you, beat you down in the way that ‘simple’ words do to everyone. Because words aren’t just words and even the most ‘basic’ comment can cling to someone like stepped gum. Gum that never truly goes away.
So he stands there with that echoing once more in his thoughts, unable to look away. He can’t.
Can't stop cataloging every detail of this interaction. The way you laugh at something Galen says. The comfortable way you walk beside Punch Up toward the building. The casual camaraderie suggests you’ve hit it off and time is simply a construct when itcomes to making friends.
While Robert has been arriving deliberately late to avoid exactly this kind of scene.
The small group is heading toward the entrance now. Moving past his position in the parking lot. Close enough that he should say something. Should acknowledge them. Should act like a normal person who just happens to be arriving at the same time as his coworkers.
It’s Punch Up that looks at him in passing. There’s a pointed once-over, something that is both dismissive and knowing. Perhaps even hints of what? Disgust? Pity? Judgement? Followed by a slight shake of his head and… an eye roll?
That was definitely an eyeroll.
Robert's brows furrow. What the hell is his problem? Sure, he knows they're whatever with him but… He doesn't say anything, doesn't make a deal about it yet as the odd party stalk off. You're too busy talking to Galen about something—drinks, the party, another coworker, comedy night—to notice the interaction.
To notice him.
You don't see him standing there. Don't look his way even once. Just continue your conversation like Robert doesn't exist. Like he's invisible. Irrelevant. Part of the background scenery instead of someone who used to be the center of your world.
The realization hits him like something physical, like the air had been knocked from his lungs.
You're moving on.
Not just professionally. Not just building a career and making friends and thriving in this new environment.
You're actually, genuinely moving on from him.
Building a life that doesn't include him. Finding people who make you laugh and drink margaritas with you and drive you to work and call you Doc with casual affection. People who haven't spent years taking and taking and taking until there's nothing left of you but exhaustion and resentment and the kind of deep, bone-tired weariness that comes from caring for someone who can't—won't—take care of themselves.
People who give you the confidence to drive but also don’t mind driving you. People who aren’t him. And in some selfish way, in his own turmoil, he wants that back. The codependency, the slight reliability you had on him for some things. It’s shameful thinking, something he shouldn’t wish upon you now that you're actually settling in.
But again, seems like Robert has been making rash decisions these days that ruins years of relationship.
“I’m just saying, Margarita Thursdays should move to Fridays so I can actually suffer with a hangover without the promise of work the next day.”
“No one wants to deal with each other on Fridays. Aren’t you also technically on call over the weekends too?”
"Y’know,” a pause as you squint at Galen. “I had forgot about that. I don’t appreciate the reminder.”
Galen laughs, pulling the door open to allow Punch Up and you ahead. “It’s not set in stone, dude. I doubt you’ll be called in most days given we’re off on the weekends. Prime time to party.”
“You’re jinxing it.”
“Oh, c’mon. I’m not!”
“You definitely are, right now. You’re dooming me to 7 days a week.”
Robert is envious again. In the way that is more painful than blinding in stupid, undignified irritation and anger. Jealously is normal, he can remember you saying some time ago. He doubts it feels the same, that reassurance, that understanding, especially while on the lashing, confusing receiving end.
"Hey. Blabbering bitch, the fuck are you doing?"
Fuck.
The voice cuts through Robert's spiral with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Flambae. Because of course it's Flambae. Of course the universe would send literally the last person Robert wants to deal with right now to interrupt his pathetic parking lot stalking.
Robert forces his eyes away from where you've disappeared into the building. Forces himself to turn and face the hero approaching from the other side of the parking lot. His signature sunglasses on even without the sun out, keys in hand. He has a car. Guess that makes sense. Can't really fly properly in rain, can he?
"What?" Robert's voice comes out more defensive than he'd intended. Sharper. Like he's been caught doing something wrong and is preemptively arguing against the accusation.
"You're standing there like a creep." Flambae doesn't slow his approach, doesn't modulate his volume, doesn't show any concern that this conversation might be overheard. "You peeping at people?"
"No." The denial is automatic. Too fast. Too forceful. Exactly the kind of response that makes you look guilty even when you're not.
Except Robert is guilty. He was absolutely standing there watching you like some kind of obsessed weirdo. Has been standing here for several minutes just... staring. Processing. Spiraling.
Being pathetic. Again.
"Right." Flambae's tone makes it clear he doesn't believe that for a second. "So you just habitually stand in parking lots staring at people for fun? That's your thing? Your hobby? Like a creep? You a fuckin’ creep or something?”
"I wasn't—" Robert cuts himself off. Because what's the point? He can't explain without sounding worse. Can't articulate that he wasn't being creepy, he was just... what? Gathering intelligence? Confirming suspicions? Watching his best friend interact with people who've clearly become important to them in the span of days?
Yeah. That definitely sounds better.
“Sure. Yeah. You caught me. It’s my favorite hobby.” Robert accepts dryly. “Standing in parking lots. Staring at people for fun… Like a creep.” Seems weirdly like a callback to the dream. At the very least he wasn't shirtless this time.
Flambae’s face scrunched lightly in disgust. "Whatever, man." Flambae waves a dismissive hand, clearly losing interest now that Robert isn't providing entertaining resistance. He starts to turn away, heading toward the building entrance.
Robert should let him go. Should just get inside and start his shift and pretend this didn't happen. Should absolutely not engage further with someone who's clearly looking for reasons to antagonize him.
His mouth opens anyway.
"You know I know, right?"
The words hang in the air between them. Loaded. Significant. Carrying weight that Robert can't quite articulate but feels with absolute certainty.
Flambae pauses. Doesn't turn around. Refuses to, maybe. Prism had commented not long ago—during one of the team's many arguments that Robert pretends not to hear—that Flambae is too expressive sometimes. That his face gives away his lies, his tells, his secrets. That he's terrible at poker for exactly that reason.
Microexpressions. Which Flambae swears is a load of bullshit.
So he simply stands there, frozen mid-stride. Peering into his peripheral to keep Robert in that barely visible view. His shoulders have gone tense. Not fight-ready exactly, but alert. Wary.
"Know what?" Flambae's voice has lost its aggressive edge. Carefully neutral in a way that's somehow more telling than anger would be.
"I know." Robert repeats, letting his own voice go dry. Matter-of-fact. The tone someone uses when they’re absolutely certain of something and wants the other person to know that lying would be pointless. "And because I know, I just wanted you to know that I do."
It's vague enough to be deniable. Specific enough to be threatening. The kind of statement that could mean everything or nothing depending on context and interpretation.
Robert doesn't actually know. Not for certain. Not with the kind of evidence that would hold up if questioned. But he suspects, has been beyond his wallowing. Has enough puzzle pieces to see the shape of the picture even if some details are still missing. The Z-Team's sudden interest in Medical—followed by their actual kindness toward them, toward you. Their coordinated behavior. The mysterious baked goods. Your appearance at SDN days after that disastrous Friday.
Someone—probably multiple someones—had orchestrated your hiring.
Had made sure you got this job. Had created circumstances that led to you working here. Had integrated you into their weird little found family before Robert even knew you were in the building.
And Flambae knows something about it. Robert knows that now at least. Can see it in the tension radiating from the man's shoulders. A vague lick of flames quickly reeled in. In the careful way he's controlling his expression by not showing it at all. In the fact that he's not immediately denying or demanding clarification.
The silence stretches between them. Heavy. Significant. The kind of moment where what isn't said matters more than what is.
Beef whines softly, pulling against the leash. Wanting to move. To go inside where it's warm and there might be treats and certainly there's you because Beef can probably smell you from here. Can sense your presence somewhere in the building calling to him like a beacon.
"You don't know shit," Flambae finally says. But his voice lacks conviction. Sounds more like he's trying to convince himself than Robert.
"Sure." Robert agrees easily. Too easily. "I don't know anything. Just making conversation."
"Conversation." Flambae repeats the word like it's foreign. Like he's testing how it tastes. "Right. Fuckin’ weirdo.”
He starts walking again. Faster than before. Not quite fleeing but definitely retreating. Putting distance between himself and whatever mess this conversation might become if it continues.
Robert watches him go. Watches the way Flambae's shoulders stay tense even as he disappears through the entrance. Watches the door swing shut behind him.
He shouldn't have done that. It was unnecessary. Rash. But he's learning quite quickly when it comes to you, he’ll probably continue making rash decisions till it finally comes to bite him in the butt. More than it already has.
—
Work was mechanical. He fell in the dangerous rhythm of zoning out and reaching for thoughts that slip between his fingers. And while he isn’t restless like yesterday, he isn’t sure this is any better. While yesterday he was forgiving and unable to sit still, today he’s motionless and unfairly sharper with the Z-Team.
Their attitudes grating his nerves, literally. Scar tissue pulsing in irritation because it’s just one of those days—the unexplainable irritation that makes even the most mundane sounds upsetting and overstimulating.
His father, if he were still alive, would've thought he was utterly pitiable. Not just for what happened this morning—not like he would ever tell him about that if he was alive—but for everything else. His father would say things that would irritate him too, call you things that would probably make Robert lash out. Take him down himself before Shroud ever had the chance to.
It’s morbid and horrible. Especially because his heart aches—has ached for years in starvation to prove himself to a man that never seemed satisfied with his existence. A hate-desperately want-love relationship. Daddy issues to the T. Issues that he hated were so complicated and exhausting and when it did get worse, when maybe he came seeking you during his truly vulnerable moments (sometimes after a mission or with liquid courage in his veins, both isn't far fetched either)—your words comforting and so painfully understanding that you swear you could talk anyone away from a path of villainy.
You would argue that may not truly be possible but again, he’s never quite listened to you. In more ways than one.
"The fuck is your problem today?"
Robert's hand freezes on his mouse. Every nearby dispatcher turns slightly, trying to pretend they're not listening while absolutely listening as the voice is clearly heard through the headset. Or reality have also been eavesdropping this entire time because in reality, they caught his harsh tune too.
"You have to be more specific," Robert replies carefully. Professionally. Even though his first instinct is to snap back with something cutting.
"You're on our asses for no reason," Invisigal continues, frustration bleeding through every syllable. "We're doing exactly what you asked. Following protocols. Not causing problems. And you're still being a dick about it."
"Am I?" Robert's voice comes out flat. Detached. "I didn't notice."
The sarcasm is unintentional. Automatic. A defense mechanism that's been honed over years of deflecting actual concern with false levity.
It lands poorly.
"We're doing the shit you're asking us to do," Invisigal's voice rises slightly. "What more do you want?"
Robert stares at his monitor. At the GPS markers representing his team scattered across the city. At the incident reports and status updates and all the documentation of another day of barely-controlled chaos.
What does he want?
For them to stop meddling. Stop interfering. Stop reminding him that they care more about your wellbeing than he apparently did.
"Uh," he looks around his cubicle in mock thought, even though they obviously can't see him. "I don't know what you want me to say to that."
"We're just asking maybe you could be nicer or some shit," Prism's voice joins in. "Your tone is not it."
And there it is.
The thing Robert's been trying to hide. The irritation and hurt and frustration that's been bleeding into every interaction whether he wants it to or not.
Something in him snaps.
Not violently. Not loudly. Just... breaks. Like a frayed rope finally giving way under sustained pressure.
"So what? You want a cookie each time you do your job?" The words come out cold. Cutting. "Or praise for each time you guys do something right like you're in kindergarten? 'Wow, you colored in the lines, good job!' Which would really just be, 'wow, thanks for not killing anyone, you're the best.'"
Robert knows he's being an asshole. Knows he should stop, should back down, should find some way to defuse this before it escalates.
He doesn't stop.
"Hey, man—" Sonar tries to interject but Robert simply cuts him off:
"Flambae probably told you that I know so you guys can drop the innocent act." His tone is sharp but controlled. Making it somehow worse than if you'd been yelling. More deliberately cruel. More calculated in the way it's designed to cut.
The silence that follows is different. Charged.
"And yeah, I know. Took longer than I'd like to admit—probably should've noticed the first day but hey, I figured it out. In what? Three days, if barely, given today just started.”
Robert can picture them. Scattered across the city, frozen in their various assignments, probably exchanging glances or gestures or whatever non-verbal communication they've developed. Realizing their little secret is out.
"I know you guys don't like me or whatever," Robert continues, his voice carrying that particular edge that comes from hurt masquerading as anger. "But I'd prefer you stay out of my personal life."
"Listen, we were just trying to help.” Malevola's voice. Serious with growing irritation.
“By what? Putting doing 'let's do good to get our dispatcher to quit' project? Maybe next time pick something that doesn't involve forging federal documents and stalking someone for days."
He should stop. Should leave it there. Should let them process and regroup and figure out how to respond. He dosen’t.
“Really makes a guy wonder what else you’ve been lying about.” His fingers are drumming on his desk now—rapid, agitated movements that match his racing heartbeat. “What other little operations you’re running behind my back. Whether anything you do is actually about rehabilitation or just…”
He trails off deliberately.
Just criminal behavior with a hero veneer. Just manipulation wearing a different mask. Just the same old shit with better PR.
“That’s not fair.” Coupé’s voice cuts through, and the words are childish—something a kid would say on a playground—but coming from her mouth they carry weight. Accusation. Hurt that she’s probably not equipped to process in healthy ways.
“You don’t know what we saw,” she continues, and there’s something dangerous in her tone now. That assassin edge creeping in. “What we—”
“What you saw?” Robert’s laugh is sharp. Cutting. “Let me guess. You saw one argument. One bad night. One moment of conflict and decided that gave you the right to interfere in someone’s entire life?”
“There’s no way in hell you all stalked me back from home together on Friday,” he continues, his logical mind catching up with his emotional spiral. Working through the logistics even as anger clouds his judgment. “Had to be one of you. And then you twisted what you saw—or thought you saw—into pieces and told the others until everyone was convinced they’d witnessed something that required intervention.”
“Telephone game with someone’s life,” he adds bitterly. “Real heroic.”
“I know what I saw—” Invisigal’s voice returns, defensive and sharp.
“Of course it was you, Invisigal. I’m not even surprised.” Robert’s voice drips with venom he didn’t know he possessed. “I know you have issues but projecting them onto someone else’s life is a whole other level of psycho.”
The words land like a physical blow. He can hear the sharp intake of breath through the comms. Can sense the collective shock from the team.
“Maybe behind bars really is a better place for you,” Robert finishes, and the words are quiet. Deadly. The kind of thing that can’t be unsaid.
The kind of thing that will haunt him later when his anger fades and he’s left with the wreckage of what he’s done.
“Hey, asshole!” Invisigal’s voice is furious now. Properly furious. Beyond hurt into rage.
“Okay you need to chill the fuck out—” Prism’s voice overlaps, her own anger rising to match.
“Obviously we hit a nerve and you wanna be whiny about it—” Flambae adds.
“—but don’t go—” Malevola tries to finish.
The voices overlap and tangle. Multiple people trying to respond at once. The comms channel devolving into chaos as the team collectively loses their shit at their dispatcher’s completely inappropriate behavior.
Robert can't handle it. Can't process the cacophony of angry voices all trying to defend themselves or attack him or both simultaneously.
He removes the headset.
Just pulls it off and lets it drop to the desk with a clatter. The voices cut off abruptly, leaving blessed silence in his ears.
His hands are shaking. Slightly but noticeably. From anger probably. Or adrenaline. Or the crash that comes after an emotional explosion. This has been a build up, sure. Which he hates. Because it feels like just because he finally (yes, maybe he wished long before he had more dreams that involved sweet ole you) had a dream with you that he’s acting out like some… some….
He stares at his hands—at the slight tremor, at the white knuckles, at the physical evidence that he's not as controlled as he pretends to be.
Robert knew, intellectually, that he has better control than this. Usually. Has spent years practicing emotional regulation because his father demanded it. Because weakness couldn't be shown. Because Mecha Man didn't get to fall apart.
Usually he can maintain his composure even when everything inside is screaming.
Usually.
Always the usually. Always the qualifier. Always the asterisk that means except when it really matters.
Always the same shit that's barely any different than before despite his insistence that he's changed, he's better, he's learning.
"You handled that well."
Robert's head snaps up so fast to the left something in his neck cracks. Painful and sharp. Ouch.
Galen is standing there, visible over the cubicle. Coffee mug in hand—one of those oversized ones with some sarcastic saying Robert can't make out from this angle. Robert just knows it reminds him specifically of you. Is that where you got that mug he saw yesterday? His headset for his own team is hooked casually around his neck instead of on his ears.
But his expression remains unreadable behind his glasses. That same neutral look he always wears. The one that makes it impossible to tell if he's being sarcastic or sincere.
"Didn't ask for your opinion," Robert mutters, and the harsh tone is completely unnecessary. Uncalled for. Misdirected anger at someone who's done absolutely nothing to deserve it.
He hasn't had a problem with Galen. Ever. The man's been nothing but professional. Helpful even, in his quiet way. Never intrusive or judgmental or anything that would warrant hostility. The only thing Robert’s mind deems ‘threatening’ is him spending time with you. And just like he has previously with Royd (only once, very briefly during some mutual work on the suit), he lashes out on them.
Because that's what Robert does now, apparently. Because when he’s jealous—or would it be envious? The distinction feels important but Robert's too wrecked to parse it properly—then they become his next punching bag. His next target.
Galen seems surprised at the bitterness. Robert can see it in the slight widening of his eyes, the fractional lean backward. But by grace—or perhaps just years of dealing with difficult people—he remains unoffended.
Not yet, at least.
"Didn't offer one," Galen's tone is dry. The usual dryness that's casual and expected if you don't know him well. Plain without being cruel. "Just made an observation."
Which is somehow worse than if he'd been sarcastic. Because it means Galen genuinely thinks Robert handled that well. Thinks calling out the team was the right move.
Or—more likely—he's being genuinely neutral. Simply stating a fact without judgment attached.
The tone is so different from this morning. From the light and playful spirit Galen had shared with you (and perhaps, by some extension, Punch Up) as you guys headed in for work. The casual warmth Robert had witnessed as he stood there like an idiot; listening, watching you laugh with Galen, watching the easy comfort between you, watching another person slot seamlessly into your life while Robert fumbled and failed.
"They crossed a line," Galen continues, adjusting his mug so he can cradle the warmth of coffee. "You called them on it. That's appropriate."
The validation should feel good. Should provide some relief. Some confirmation that Robert's reaction was justified.
"Then why does it feel like shit?" Robert asks, and his voice comes out smaller than intended.
"Because you're human." Galen shrugs one shoulder, the gesture casual but somehow profound. "And because despite everything, you were starting to care about them. Which makes this harder."
He pauses. Tilts his head side to side in that particular way that means he's considering whether to say more. Whether to push further or leave well enough alone.
Apparently he decides to push.
"And because maybe you were an asshole… Just a little bit."
The words are gentle. Non-judgmental. Stated as simple fact rather than accusation. It still hits Robert hard.
Robert doesn't respond. Can't respond. Because Galen is right and admitting it feels like weakness. Like confirming that he's exactly as pathetic as his father always believed. As incapable of emotional regulation as everyone probably suspects.
"For what it's worth," Galen continues, and his voice has dropped lower. More confidential. The tone of someone sharing something they probably shouldn't. "I think they genuinely thought they were helping. Doesn't make it right, but..." He pauses. "Intent matters sometimes."
"Intent doesn't unfuck the situation," Robert says flatly. His eyes are still on his hands. On the tremor that's starting to fade but hasn't disappeared entirely.
"No," Galen agrees easily. "But it might be worth considering why they thought your friend needed help in the first place."
Robert's jaw clenches. His hands curl into fists on his desk.
"What they saw," Galen continues relentlessly, and his voice is still gentle but there's steel underneath now. Purpose. "That made them decide to risk their rehabilitation—their freedom—to get them out of what they perceived as a bad situation."
The words land and they land hard.
Hit right in the center of Robert's chest where all his guilt and shame and self-loathing live. Where he keeps all the truths he doesn't want to examine.
Because that's the real question, isn't it?
Not what gave them the right but what did they see that made them think intervention was necessary.
What was so bad—so obviously wrong—that criminals decided helping you was worth risking everything they'd worked toward?
"You saying this is my fault?" Robert's voice is dangerous now. Low and sharp. The tone that precedes either violence or complete shutdown.
Hold your horses. Because no one said that… eh. yet. well...
"I'm saying maybe everyone fucked up here." Galen's expression doesn't change. Doesn't soften or harden. Remains perfectly, maddeningly neutral behind his glasses. "Them for how they handled it," he elaborates, ticking off points like he's presenting a case study. "You for whatever you did that made them think it was necessary."
He pauses. And Robert can see the moment Galen makes another decision. Can see the slight shift in his expression that means he's about to say something he knows wil now, likely cause problems.
"Your friend for..." Another pause. Longer this time. Like he's weighing his words carefully. "Actually, your friend seems like the only innocent party in this whole mess."
The statement is delivered with finality. No room for argument. Just fact as Galen sees it.
And Robert—
Robert wants to argue. Wants to defend himself. Wants to point out all the ways this isn't his fault, how he's been trying, how he's doing his best with limited emotional tools, that he will. (Lies, lies, lies.)
Instead what comes out is:
"You barely know them to be talking like that. You guys met a day ago."
Defensive. Territorial. Exactly the kind of response that proves he's not handling this well. The same kind of response he had yesterday when Waterboy came stumbling into your office. Where he reared and just had to make a point to mention somehow ‘I’ve known them longer than you’ like he’s some child declaring his greater friendship with some kid at the playground.
Galen arches a brow. Expression shifting into something that might be amusement if Galen did amusement. "Three days ago, actually."
The correction is mild. Factual. Devastating in its implications.
"Met on their first day," Galen continues, and now there's definitely something in his voice. Not quite smugness but close. Satisfaction maybe. Pride. Or maybe, again, Rob is reading too much into it. "Became real good friends since then."
And—
Okay.
Maybe Galen said that with intent to provoke.
Maybe he recognized Robert's jealousy—because apparently everyone can see it except Robert himself—and decided to poke at it. See what happens when you press on a wound that's already infected.
It works.
Robert shoots to his feet. Chair rolling backward with enough force to hit the cubicle wall behind him. Several staff and dispatchers look over with varying expressions, some of which remain unseen. Chase’s head turns sharply from his neighboring space, Beef—in the bed at Chase’s space—even lifts his head from where he’s been dozing, ears perking at the commotion.
"Listen," Robert's voice is low. Dangerous. Every word precisely enunciated through clenched teeth. "You may have had a little fun time making your little margaritas with them last night," The jealousy that floods through Robert is immediate and irrational and so intense it's almost nauseating.
"But you still don't—" Robert starts, voice rising.
An alarm emits from his headset.
Loud. Insistent. The distinctive pattern that means emergency. A disturbance, something that the team or someone needs guidance one. Given the just-seconds-ago confrontation with the Z-Team, it had to be either an intentional thing—someone acting out, causing a scene to annoy him or prove a point—or an actual emergency.
Robert's eyes strain, an instinct driving him to look to the monitor but that male posturing bullshit making him feel lesser if you chooses to back down from Galen.
His jaw clenches.
And Galen—
Galen, being Galen, with his perfect timing and his dry delivery and his ability to read situations with uncomfortable accuracy:
"You should probably deal with that."
Robert wants to scream. Wants to throw something. Wants to continue this confrontation until someone bleeds—emotionally if not physically.
He doesn't.
With visible reluctance. With a glare at Galen that promises this conversation isn't over. With hands that shake slightly as he reaches for his headset.
He pulls the headset back on. The voices flood back in—chaotic, overlapping.
Robert is aware of Galen still standing there. Watching. Evaluating.
Then, with a slight shake of his head that could mean anything or nothing, Galen takes his leave.
Walks away like he hasn't just dropped multiple emotional bombs. Like he hasn't just highlighted every one of Robert's insecurities and jealousies. Like this is just another day at the office instead of a complete disaster in progress.
This dude has issueeessss… Galen can’t help but thing has he does leave.
And yes.
Yes, he sure as hell does, Galen.
Issues upon issues upon issues. Layers of dysfunction and trauma and emotional constipation that would take years of therapy to even begin unpacking. Speaking of, he should really make an appointment with Doctor Monster. Or preferably, apologize to you THEN make an appointment with Doctor Monster.
Robert found Chase about an hour later.
Or rather, Chase found Robert.
The moment lunch was called, Robert fled. Fled being the most accurate term because simply "went on break" was inadequate and yet another lie to add to the growing collection he'd been accumulating. One more brick in the wall of self-deception that was slowly burying him alive.
The hallways of SDN had blurred together. Robert isn't paying attention to where he's going, just moving on autopilot. Taking turns based on muscle memory rather than conscious decision. His mind is too full—too loud, too much, too everything. A cacophony of thoughts that won't shut up, won't give him peace, won't let him breathe.
He's spiraling. Again. Each thought dragging him further and further into the depths, each one worse than the last. Each one picking at wounds that haven't healed—perhaps never actually healed in the first place, just scabbed over with denial and avoidance. Exposing truths he doesn't want to examine. Revealing the ugly reality he's been running from.
That he's the problem.
Not Shroud. Not his father's legacy. Not the accident or the coma or the loss of the suit.
Him.
Just him.
Robert Robertson III, professional fuck-up. Expert in destroying the good things in his life. Master of pushing away the people who care about him until they have no choice but to leave.
Inevitably, he finds himself in one of the more isolated hallways. The kind that connects different wings of the building but rarely sees foot traffic because there are more direct routes. The fluorescent lights here flicker occasionally, adding to the general atmosphere of neglect. The walls are a dingy beige that might have once been white, decorated with the occasional water stain that speaks to plumbing issues no one bothered to fix properly.
Plus, it's also the farthest place from you that he can be on the second floor.
Why not go to the first floor? Take the stairs if not the elevator? Because some part of him doesn't want to. Can't stand being completely apart—at least not anymore—even when he finds himself breaking apart and knows you were always the one to gather the pieces and put him back together every time.
Even now, even after everything he's done, some pathetic part of him still gravitates toward you. Still seeks your proximity like a plant turning toward the sun. Still can't quite let go even though letting go would be the kindest thing he could do.
He leans against the wall, slides down until he's sitting on the rough carpet that Torrance SDN likely doesn't have the budget to clean properly. The industrial fibers scratch against his slacks, catch on the fabric of his uniform shirt. His head hits the wall with an audible thud. It hurts but it's barely anything compared to the tolerance he's grown over the years. Barely registers against the constant background noise of chronic pain that's become his new normal since the accident.
Fuck.
The word echoes in his mind like a mantra. Like a prayer to a god that stopped listening years ago.
Fuck fuck fuck.
He should have apologized. Should have done it that night. Should have knocked on your door—on Miss Matilda's door when you inevitably fled there—and said the words that needed saying.
I'm sorry.
I was an asshole.
Please don't leave me.
Three sentences. That's all it would have taken. But Robert's never been good with words when they matter. Can banter and joke and deflect with the best of them, but actual vulnerability? Actual emotional honesty?
Might as well ask him to fly without the suit.
"You going to keep running away?”
The voice makes Robert's head snap up. Pain lances through his neck—he'd been holding tension there without realizing, muscles locked tight enough to strain. Chase is standing at the end of the hallway, hands shoved in his pockets, expression unreadable under that distinctive office lighting that makes everyone look slightly corpse-like.
"Jesus Christ," Robert breathes out, heart still hammering from the surprise. "How do you keep doing that? Are you actually teleporting now? Is that a new power?"
"I'm old, not magic." Chase approaches slowly, deliberately. Like he's approaching something volatile that might explode if startled. Which, given Robert's current mental state, isn't far from the truth. "And you're not as subtle as you think. Half the building heard you lose your shit."
"Great," Robert mutters, dropping his head back against the wall with another thud. "Professional."
"Professional went out the window when you started giving shit to your team then got snappy with Galen of all people." Chase stops a few feet away. Doesn't sit—his joints probably can't handle floor-sitting anymore, the price of aging fifty times faster than he should have—but leans against the opposite wall. Creating space while still being present. "You don't get snappy with Galen. That's like... the last person you get snappy with."
"Yeah, well." Robert's voice is hollow. "Apparently I'm full of bad decisions lately."
"Lately?" Chase's eyebrow arches. "Kid, you've been making bad decisions since you were old enough to walk. The only difference is now they're affecting someone other than yourself."
The words hit harder than they should. Robert flinches, actually flinches, and Chase's expression softens marginally.
"You wanna talk about it?" Chase asks, and the gentleness in his voice is almost worse than if he'd been harsh. Worse because it suggests he actually cares. Worse because Robert doesn't deserve that care.
"Not particularly."
"Tough shit. We're talking anyway." Chase settles more firmly against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. The posture is deceptively casual—Robert knows from experience that Chase can move fast despite his age when he wants to. "Because whatever's eating at you is affecting your work. Affecting your team. And it's clearly tearing you apart."
Robert laughs. The sound is bitter, scraping out of his throat like broken glass. "My team. Right. The team that went behind my back to meddle in my personal life. The team that stalked my best friend and forged federal documents to get them hired. That team?"
"Yeah, that team." Chase doesn't blink. Doesn't flinch away from the anger in Robert's voice. "The team of reformed criminals who looked at a situation and decided intervention was necessary. Who risked their freedom—their second chance—because they thought someone needed help. They had no right—"
"They had every right to be concerned about what they saw." Chase cuts him off, voice going hard. Sharp in a way that makes Robert's mouth snap shut. "You know what it takes for criminals to give a shit about someone they barely know? What kind of situation has to exist for them to risk everything they've worked toward? Listen, I hate those fuckers just as much as the other guy but I’m not an idiot to ignore that they clearly are taking this seriously.”
Robert doesn't answer. Can't answer. Because he knows. Deep down, he knows exactly what Chase is getting at.
"I won't say they aren't fucking idiots for how they handled it," Chase concedes, and there's a weariness in his voice that makes him sound every one of his chronologically-mismatched years. "But I also won't say you aren't a fucking idiot either."
"They forged documents, Chase." Robert's voice rises slightly, frustration bleeding through as he rises. "Did everything illegal to get my best friend hired. Which also means they stalked us—or at least them—since Friday."
"Where they saw something." Chase's response is immediate. Pointed. "Something that made them believe that your friend, your alleged best friend, needed saving."
The emphasis on "alleged" cuts deep.
Chase pushes off the wall slightly, taking a step closer. His dark eyes are sharp behind those reading glasses, seeing too much. Always seeing too much.
"Saving from you."
The words hang in the air between them. Heavy. Undeniable.
Robert’s eyes turn sharply toward Chase. "Who's side are you on?"
"I'm on my own fucking side." Chase counters. "I'm just saying—they're criminals and assholes and whatever else you want to call them. But obviously they give a shit about your friend. More than you seem to, apparently. Because those idiots know what it's like to be hurt. And if they saw you hurting—"
"I would never put my hands on them!" Robert explodes the words erupting before he can stop them. Defensive. Immediate. Automatic.
"Hurting someone doesn't just mean physically, you dumbass!" Chase cuts him off, voice rising to match Robert's volume. "Last I remember, feelings aren't physical and words sure hurt like hell."
Robert's mouth opens, closes, opens again. No sound comes out.
Because Chase is right. Chase is always fucking right.
Robert did hurt you. Maybe not with his fists—he'd never, could never—but with his words. With his coldness. With his deliberate cruelty wrapped in the guise of having a bad day. With every moment of that Friday evening where he chose to push you away instead of letting you in.
The silence stretches. Robert can hear his own heartbeat in his ears. Can feel the familiar tightness in his chest that precedes either a breakdown or a blowup.
"So what?" Chase looks him over. "You saw them yesterday, didn’t you? Then what? Your balls shriveled up and disappeared just because you didn’t what to say sorry? That what this is about?"
"It wasn't the time!" Robert argues. "I couldn't just—it wasn't—"
"When will it be the time then?" Chase's voice cuts through Robert's stammering. Quiet but devastating in its simplicity. "You just keep jumping around the fucking pool and that shit ain't drying up anytime soon."
"I don't—" Robert's hands come up, gesturing helplessly. "I don't know what to say to them."
"How about 'I'm sorry'? Like I fucking told you to do.” Chase suggests, and the sarcasm is thick enough to choke on. "I. Am. Sorry. Or hell, even just 'sorry' if you're really struggling with syllables."
"It's not that simple.”
"It's exactly that simple." Chase takes another step forward. He's in Robert's space now, close enough that Robert has to adjust to meet the fiery gaze. "You fucked up. You apologize. You do better. That's how it works. That's how it's always worked. The only thing making it complicated is your pride and your fear. And whatever fucking twisted ass masculinity shit you’re dragging with you.”
"I'm not—"
"You're scared." Chase's voice has gone gentle again. Soft in a way that makes Robert's throat tight. "You're scared that an apology won't be enough. That you've broken something that can't be fixed. That they'll tell you to fuck off and you'll have to accept that you destroyed the best thing in your life."
Each word is a direct hit. Chase isn't even trying to be subtle about it anymore, just laying out Robert's deepest fears in plain language.
"So you do nothing," Chase continues. "You avoid and deflect and make excuses. Because doing nothing means you never have to face rejection. Never have to hear that you're not forgiven. Never have to confront the possibility that you've finally pushed them too far."
Robert's vision is blurring. He blinks hard, refusing to let tears fall. Not here. Not now. Not in a goddamn SDN hallway where anyone could walk by.
"But you know what doing nothing gets you?" Chase asks, silver brows tense. Perhaps because in a way, he had his own once upon a time. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No closure. No resolution. No chance at fixing it. Just you, sitting in your shitty apartment, drowning in your own misery while they build a life without you. While everyone enjoys their lives and you fester like some stubborn mold.”
The description is too accurate. Too close to the reality Robert's been living for the past week. It makes something crack in his chest, splinter apart like ice under pressure.
“I didn’t raise you to be like this.”
The words are quiet. Disappointed in a way that cuts deeper than anger ever could.
"You didn't—" Robert starts, the automatic protest forming before he can stop it.
"You say I didn't raise you and I'll do more than slap you silly." Chase's finger jabs into Robert's chest. Hard, precise, an additional four times with his pointed (literally) comments. “You know I did. We both know I did. That's why you have such a bad mouth on you. I did that."
Despite everything, Robert feels a ghost of a smile tug at his lips. Because it's true. Chase had been more of a father figure than his actual father ever was. Present in ways that mattered. Teaching him things—good and bad—that shaped who he became. And yeah, he got his potty mouth from Chase. That’s what happens when you have an teen take care of some kid.
"I wasn't around for as long as I wanted," Chase continues, and there's genuine regret in his voice now. Old pain that he's carried for decades. "But at least I was around. And I sure as hell didn't teach you to be a coward."
Coward.
Is that what he is? Is that what he's become?
"You man up and apologize, Robert." Chase's voice goes firm again. Final. "Or so help me—"
"Woah."
The new voice makes both of them freeze. Turn toward the source.
Blonde Blazer stands at the entrance to the hallway, hands raised placatingly to her sides. Her blue eyes are wide behind her mask, darting between Chase's aggressive posture and Robert's defensive one. She looks uncertain in a way that's isn’t uncommon for her. But clearly uncomfortable with having walked into what is clearly a private moment.
"Am I interrupting something?" she asks carefully, like she's defusing a bomb. "Because I can come back later. Or never. Never works too."
Chase straightens, immediately shifting back into professional mode. The transformation is seamless—from aggressive mentor to casual coworker in the span of a heartbeat. "Nah, we're done here. Just having a conversation. Isn't that right, Robert?"
It's not a question. It's a statement with the weight of expectation behind it.
"Yeah," Robert manages, his voice rough. He clears his throat, tries again. "Yeah. Just... a conversation."
Chase gives him one final look—meaningful and pointed and full of everything they just discussed—before turning and heading past Blonde Blazer. He pauses briefly as he passes her, says something too quiet for Robert to hear. Whatever it is makes her nod slowly, expression shifting into something that might be understanding.
Then he's gone, leaving Robert alone with his boss in an isolated hallway that suddenly feels far too intimate for a professional conversation.
Blonde Blazer approaches slowly. Cautiously. Like Robert might bolt if she moves too fast. Which, given his current mental state, isn't an unfair assessment.
"Is—are..." She looks after Chase's retreating form, then back to Robert. "Is everything alright?"
"Yeah." Robert brushes it off automatically, the deflection as natural as breathing. "Yeah. Just, a conversation."
"Looked like a really serious conversation." Her voice is gentle. Concerned in a way that makes Robert's defenses rise. "Almost had to go hero and step in.”
It's meant to be a joke. Light-hearted with a small laugh that's meant to ease tension. But Robert's face must show his discomfort because she immediately stops. The laughter dies. The smile fades.
"Sorry. This isn't the time, clearly." The awkwardness is palpable. Although that seems like Blazer's perpetual state sometimes—trying so hard to be approachable and relatable that it sometimes has the opposite effect.
"Right, anyway." She gently claps her hands together, the sound sharp in the quiet hallway. "You wanted to talk to me about something?"
Robert blinks. Had he wanted to talk to her? His brain feels like static, struggling to remember what he'd been planning before everything went to shit today. He texted her at one point. ‘Need to talk’—he wanted to talk about the Phoneix Program.
But all of that feels distant now. Irrelevant compared to the mess of his personal life.
"I forgot," he says finally.
Blonde Blazer's brows furrow. "You forgot?"
"Yep. I forgot. My bad." He shrugs, hands sliding into his pockets. "Brain fog. Whatever I was going to tell you slipped my mind."
It's obviously a lie. A transparent one. But Blonde Blazer seems torn between pressing the issue and letting it go. Her hand half-lifts, like she's considering reaching out to him, then drops back to her side.
"Robert," she starts, and her voice has gone softer. More personal. "I know we haven't known each other very long, but if you need to talk about anything—work-related or otherwise—my door is always open. Literally and metaphorically. You can knock anytime. Or text. Or email. I check my email obsessively, it's probably not healthy. But we’re friends—”
She's rambling now. That nervous thing she does when she's trying to be supportive but isn't quite sure how. It would be endearing if Robert had any emotional bandwidth left to appreciate it.
"Thanks," he interrupts gently, cutting off what was about to become a dissertation on her email habits. He nods, trying to inject some sincerity into the gesture even though he feels hollow inside. "But I got a..." He waves his hand vaguely. "Therapist. Wouldn't really be, y'know, appropriate to talk to my boss about personal issues."
He steps backward as he says it, creating physical distance. Letting Blonde Blazer's hand—which had started moving toward his shoulder in a gesture of comfort—fall away naturally. Not quite avoiding her touch, but not accepting it either.
"Professionalism and all that," he adds, and the words taste like ash in his mouth.
Because it's another lie. He doesn't have a therapist. Has Doctor Monster's business card sitting on his kitchen counter, untouched and likely to remain that way. Because therapy requires vulnerability and honesty and all the things Robert is spectacularly bad at.
"Oh, right. Yeah. Of course." Blonde Blazer pulls back immediately, respecting the boundary he's established. "Gotta be 'profesh.'"
The word is a callback to his first day—the whole conference room stripping incident. It should be funny. Should lighten the mood.
It doesn't.
"Don't want any issues and having to talk to HR," she continues, trying to maintain the lighter tone even though her eyes show concern.
At this point does SDN—or at least the Torrance branch—even have an HR department? Robert's brain latches onto the irrelevant question, grateful for the distraction from more painful thoughts. I mean, surely if you're getting paid they must. But if gossip is true and he's connected the dots, it's probably a different branch giving funding specifically for your position. For your skill set that they likely want to snatch once they deem the time is right.
Or he's just got the short end of the stick.
Again.
"Right." He flashes a closed-lipped smile. The expression feels wrong on his face, like wearing someone else's skin. "Sorry, again."
For what, he's not entirely sure. For lying? For wasting her time? For being a disaster of a human being who can't seem to get his shit together long enough to do his job properly?
All of the above, probably.
Blonde Blazer watches him for another moment, clearly wanting to say more. Wanting to push past his deflections and get to the actual problem. But she's also professional enough—or perhaps uncertain enough in their relationship—to respect his boundaries.
"Alright," she says finally. "But the offer stands. If you change your mind. About anything."
"Noted."
Another beat of uncomfortable silence.
"I should..." Robert gestures vaguely down the hallway. "Get back. Lunch is probably almost over."
"Right. Yeah. Of course." Blonde Blazer steps aside, clearing the path. "I'll see you later?"
"Yeah."
He walks past her, movements mechanical. Each step feeling heavier than the last. He can feel her eyes on his back, tracking his retreat. Probably full of concern and confusion and all the things a good boss should feel when their employee is obviously struggling.
But he doesn't turn around. Doesn't acknowledge it. Just keeps walking until he rounds the corner and she's out of sight.
See how easy it is, Robert? How saying it now instead of ignoring it and letting it bulb is far less complicated?
—”Oh.” Blazer turned in the empty hall. “Shoot, I forgot to ask…”
Meanwhile, your breath clouds the air as you look over your shoulder; briefly back at SDN. Skin prickling cold as you're bundled against the chilling weather, layers upon layers trying to keep warm after something caught your eye through the window—a flash of red and blue that seemed too vibrant against the gray afternoon. You had abandoned your place, made sure your pager was tucked safely under, and stepped outside into the biting wind.
You hadn't expected it to be… well. This.
Phenomaman, simply lying in a parking space like some abandoned vehicle, a fruit basket—very much destroyed or at least waterboarded with a droopy big red bow—tucked at his side as he stared at the gloomy sky with an expression that could only be described as profoundly, devastatingly empty. His cape spread beneath him like a crimson blanket against the wet asphalt, darkened by puddles that reflected the slate-gray clouds overhead.
This is the hero you've seen on hundreds of billboards plastered across the city, the very mascot of SDN with his confident smile and thumbs-up pose, the chibi guy dangling from your keychain whose cartoonish face of ‘the lights are on but no one’s home’ aesthetic. Very niche, very cute, from a small business that knew what the people wanted. Beady-eyed trinkets of their favorite heroes to carry around them like mini companions.
The total opposite of the reality before you.
The real Phenomaman looks less like a symbol of hope and more like a sculpture of grief, all six-foot-four-or-so of him sprawled in parking space like he'd simply given up mid-flight and decided the cold, wet ground was as good a place as any to contemplate existence.
You've never met him before so… this felt awkward. Or rather maybe intruding? Maybe this was just… usual and not documented behavior? Perhaps heroes had their own rituals of mourning that civilians weren't privy to, and you were stumbling into something private, something raw that the cameras never captured between the commercial shoots and rescue operations.
"Hey… big guy." Calling him by his hero name felt… impersonal. Weird. Disconnected. Like you'd be addressing a brand rather than a person, and whatever this was—this broken person lying in a parking lot—deserved more than corporate branding. You shuffle closer, your shoes squelching through a puddle you hadn't noticed. "I'm [Name]. Just wanted to see if you were okay? …Aren't you cold out here?"
His eyes—eerily human but also… different, something in the way they caught the light, a subtle iridescence like oil on water—finally shift toward you. A deep mourning echoed through them, their dark depths (grey? grey blue? Darkgreen?) unseeing in a way that reminds you of your own reflection on bad days, those mornings staring in the mirror before faltering under your personal scrutiny, before having to look away because the person staring back knew too much about your failures.
"Cold…" Phenomaman intoned, his voice carrying that slight accent, that almost-but-not-quite inflection that marked him as other even when his words were perfectly articulated English. "Nothing is more 'cold' than this loneliness entrenched within me. The temperature of this planet's atmosphere is irrelevant when one's soul has been frozen by rejection."
Okay, poet. Go off.
You bite back the sarcastic response because clearly this isn't the time, even if part of you wants to point out that hypothermia doesn't care about metaphorical soul-freezing. Instead, you try for gentleness. "I completely understand," you ease closer, even if you don't fully understand. Well, at least not yet. Not the specifics, anyway, though the general shape of heartbreak is universal enough. "Would you like to talk about it a bit more? Maybe off the wet ground and inside somewhere warm? There's a cafe right over there—"
"The Blonde Blazer and I have ended our relationship."
The words cut through your suggestion like he hadn't even heard it, his eyes returning to the sky, to those heavy clouds that threatened more rain. His hands remained folded on his stomach, fingers interlaced with an odd precision, like he'd seen humans do it in movies and was mimicking the gesture without understanding its comfort.
We're talking about it. That's good. Progress, maybe. But I guess ground time is the preferred method for whatever this is.
"It was very abrupt." He continues, his tone flat, clinical almost, like he's describing someone else's tragedy from a great distance. That fruit basket still tucked to his side—you notice now it contains similar fruits, skewered and arranged with perhaps some card that is now ruin. "One moment we were savoring uni straight from the urchin at Matsuhisa, indulging in what she called 'the finer things,' the next moment… I'm contemplating flying into the sun, absorbing all its energy and casting this planet into infinite darkness so that I never have to see her or anyone else ever again…"
Oh!
Your eyebrows shoot up because that escalated quickly, from sea urchin to apocalypse in one breath, and you're suddenly very aware that you're talking to someone who could actually do that, who has the literal power to end the world over a bad breakup, and you're just some random person who noticed him from your office.
"Maybe then I would be free from the torment in my soul. And maybe then, I could quiet my mind from these destructive thoughts that circle endlessly like your Earth vultures." His eyes narrow slightly, focusing on something beyond the clouds, beyond the atmosphere perhaps. "The isolation would be… peaceful. No more billboards. No more teleprompters. No more pretending I understand why humans laugh at things that aren't funny or why they say 'how are you' when they don't want to know the answer."
"Perhaps that's why it hides today." His eyes narrow further, accusatory now, glaring at the cloud cover. "The sun knows of my plans. It fears me."
You stand there, searching for… something. Words, wisdom, anything remotely helpful. Because… okay. How does one respond to that? What's the protocol for talking someone down from potential solar genocide? I mean, you should know, right? You’re playing therapist to a whole branch of heroes… but this is… Different. Not quiet criminals whispering about their hatred for the government—for that's a me too thing—to the hurts that others have caused them and now that's all they know how to do.
"I don't know about that," you finally, hopefully smoothly, speak up, trying to keep your voice calm. "Either way, you should probably not do that… Fly into the sun, I mean." You contemplate your next move before finally, against every screaming instinct of self-preservation and comfort, dropping to join his basking. There's immediate regret. Frigid water immediately soaks into your clothes, seeping through layers and clinging to your skin like ice water, and you can feel it freezing your ass through your clothes, turning your tailbone numb within seconds.
Fuck. Fuck this is cold. This is so cold. Why did I do this? Why am I like this?
But you're committed now, sitting in a puddle next to an alien superhero having an existential crisis, and standing back up would just make this weirder.
"Why?" He turns his head fully now, really looking at you for the first time, cataloguing your face with an intensity that feels almost invasive. His eyes scan your features like he's memorizing them or perhaps trying to understand what would compel a stranger to sit in freezing water just to talk to him. A person he doesn't know, someone without a SDN badge or corporate obligation (at least, as far as he can gather), yet one that is still providing comfort even when those he assumed were friends—teammates, partners, colleagues—hadn't. "Why should I not pursue the only solution that makes sense? I have the capability. I have the motivation. The sun's energy would be… transcendent. I would finally feel something other than this."
You can't help but shrug, your shoulders hunching against the cold wind that's picking up, carrying the scent of rain and car exhaust and that particular urban smell of wet concrete. "Because…" You pause, unsure of how to answer truthfully or perhaps how to word it properly. Because why indeed? What can truly convince someone, a superhuman with godlike abilities, to not exercise that power in his darkest moments? What gives you, some random civilian whose biggest accomplishment today was remembering to water your plant, the right to tell him what to do with his cosmic-level abilities?
Oh god.
Don't do it.
Don't think about it.
Don't quote Spider-Man.
Don't quote Spider-Man.
Don't you dare quote Spider-Man at the actual real-life superhero, that's so fucking cringe—
Fuck it, you're going to quote Spider-Man.
"Because with," you're regretting it even as the words leave your mouth but it's happening, the cringe is real and immediate, "—with great power comes great responsibility." It's unironically a meme move at this point. Obviously you're being serious, your tone is serious, your intentions are genuinely good, but your very serious conversation just happened to also involve directly quoting a massive franchise of fictional heroes while talking to an actual, real, breathing hero lying in a parking lot contemplating solar annihilation.
God, he probably thinks I'm an idiot. He probably hears that all the time. He probably—
But his expression doesn't change to mockery or dismissal. If anything, he looks… considering. Thoughtful, even. Maybe he's never had the chance to watch movies. A win. And a loss. He needs to watch more movies.
You continue before you can lose your nerve. "And wielding that power to hurt others doesn't heal what's already happened to you. Your pain is real, I'm not dismissing that, but… if you act on it that way it means everyone is suffering alongside you, except they didn't choose it. They didn't break your heart. That you—" You struggle for words, gesturing vaguely at the sky. "That sudden darkness, the cold that would come… people who may have been going through the same thing you are, but maybe they finally getting a hold of their lives again after their own heartbreaks and losses, they'd take it—the sudden darkness, the freezing, the end of everything—as… I don't know. A sign…? That none of it is worth it. That all their hard work, all their healing, all their progress amounts to nothing because the universe is cruel and random and even heroes give up."
You stare at your hands, your nails, picking at the dirt under them. "You have the power to do what you want. To… fly into the sun and leave the world in that darkness, sure. Nobody could stop you. But it will only get colder. It'll only get worse. The planet will freeze and when most of us… when most of us die off because of how cold and dark it became, because we can't survive like you can…" You trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence, how to make the abstract horror of billions dying something he can connect to emotionally.
"I forget how fragile humans are." Phenomaman murmurs, his head turning to stare back at the cloud-dense sky, acknowledgment rather than revelation. His lashes flutter briefly as the mist increases, that barely-there sprinkle that's beginning again, tiny droplets catching on his moustache. "That they can't withstand lesser air pressure or greater gravitational forces. Cannot see the stars without their odd suits and ships… They are soft. Delicate. Their bodies meant for softer activities."
"Meant to be cherished." You finish, and you mean it, putting firmness in your voice because this matters, this is the point. Your smile is delicate—you can feel it, tentative and small—perhaps the way he believes humans are. Or perhaps, he truly does just see it as an echo of himself, of someone who understands the emptiness that comes from heartbreak, from being left behind, from not being enough.
"Someone made you cold too." It's not a question. His eyes flicker back to you, studying your face with new interest, and there's something uncomfortably perceptive in that gaze, like he can see through skin and bone to the scars underneath.
You falter, eyes widening because you hadn't expected the conversation to turn, hadn't anticipated that your attempt to comfort him would result in your own wounds being exposed. Then an eventual sigh escapes, heavy and resigned, head tilting as you return your attention to your hands, searching them for answers they've never provided. Again and always. "It's… complicated. As many things are. As most things usually are when people—when feelings are involved."
At some point—you're not sure exactly when because you'd been lost in your own thoughts—Phenomaman had sat up. His fruit basket set carefully aside, his shoulders hunching forward to accommodate the height difference because the guy is large, larger than most humans, broader and taller, and sitting he's still somehow at your eye level. Plus he's not really in the mindset to truly hold himself with that manufactured confidence, that billboard-ready posture humans and SDN handlers have taught him to maintain. Right now he's just… collapsed inward, like a star cooling.
"Does that mean…" He pauses, and you can see him working through the logic, trying to connect concepts that don't quite align in his understanding of the world. "It doesn't matter if someone is not a person? That they can still get hurt like one? That the pain is… equivalent?"
"What… What do you mean by that? 'Not a person'?" Your brow furrows because that's a strange way to phrase it, concerning even, and you're trying to figure out if this is a language thing or something deeper.
"I am not a person." He straightens for a moment, hands waving toward himself in a gesture that encompasses his entire being—the costume, the muscles, the alien physiology beneath human-passing skin. "I just resemble one anatomically. Similar configuration, bilateral symmetry, appropriate number of limbs. But I am not… I am not of Earth. Not of humanity." He slumps again, that brief moment of animation fading. "Blonde Blazer had told me so, many times, that I am not really a person. For I am an alien. From Urgot-52dc. My genetic structure is completely different. My homeworld's atmosphere would kill you in minutes. I am not… I am fundamentally other."
"That's—" You cringe before you can stop yourself, a full-body wince at the sheer awfulness of that, before heavily exhaling and shaking your head to ground yourself, to gather your thoughts. Rain is falling more steadily now, cold drops hitting your face. "I wouldn't live by that… particular brand of thinking. That's actually pretty… harsh." And that’s you being diplomatic.
"Why not? Is it not accurate? Taxonomically speaking, I am Urgotian, not human. This is scientific fact, not opinion."
"It… It is factually true, yes, that you're biologically alien." You squint, trying to find the right words because this feels important, like you're standing at a crossroads of something significant. "It's just… weird, I guess. Or I don't think a lot of people, or at least those I'm around, have really ever thought about it… that way. Like, we know you're from space, obviously, everyone knows that. But…" You gesture helplessly. "Humans' definitions for a lot of things shouldn't be taken as absolute gospel. Especially when not all humans define things the same way… You, by species classification, may be alien, but I can still consider you human. Or person-like. Or… I don't know the right terminology. Deserving of being treated as a person."
The way his eyes squint is… comical, to say the least. His whole face scrunches up in confusion, like you've just told him water is dry. "What does that mean? How can I be human when I am observably not? When my very cells are structured differently?"
"There's species, yes? Biology and taxonomy and all that scientific classification." You're gesturing now, hands moving as you think out loud. "But being a human, being a 'person' is—should—mean something deeper than just DNA. Should be through actions not spawn. Especially when even some humans aren't… considered humans by their peers." You pause, seeing his confusion deepen. "Like, throughout Earth's history, people have used all sorts of bullshit reasons to claim other people aren't really people... And every time, it's been used to justify treating them terribly, to excuse cruelty and violence and denial of rights."
His head tilts, processing. "But those instances involved humans reclassifying other humans. I am genuinely, factually, not human."
"Right, but the principle is the same." You shift in your puddle, your ass now completely numb from the cold. "If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck… You think, you feel, you have relationships and emotions and preferences. You experience pain and joy and apparently devastating heartbreak. Those are person things. Human things, in the sense that they make you part of the community of… of beings that matter morally. You're not a rock or a plant or some mindless drone. You're a person who happens to be from a different planet."
Phenomaman was quiet, but his attention was completely focused on you now. That intensity that had felt uncomfortable earlier now felt more like genuine interest. Like he was really listening, really trying to understand.
“And being different doesn’t mean being less,” you continued. “It definitely doesn’t mean you’re incapable of connection or understanding or growth. It just means you have to work harder sometimes. Have to actively learn things that might be more intuitive for people who grew up here. There’s a lot of humans like that too, so you aren’t alone in this confusion just because you’re different…”
His brows furrow. “There are humans who… struggle with understanding humans too?” He questions.
“Yes!” You chirp, mostly because you're actually really freezing now. Shivering with chattering teeth. “Yes. There are.”
He seemed to finally notice the predicament, brows furrowing as he examined you.
“You are freezing,” he observed with what sounded like surprise.
“Yeah,” you confirmed. “Turns out sitting on wet concrete in November isn’t great for maintaining body temperature. Who knew?”
“You should have said something,” Phenomaman said, and there was concern in his voice now. Genuine worry that made him sound more human than alien. “You did not need to stay. You could have conducted this conversation from a standing position. Or from inside.”
“I could have,” you agreed. “But you were down here. And it seemed important to meet you where you were. Literally, in this case.”
You tried to push yourself up, but your legs had other ideas. They’d gone past numb into that dangerous territory where they just… weren’t responding properly. Your muscles felt weak and uncoordinated, refusing to cooperate with your brain’s commands.
“Oh,” you said, with a calmness that was probably inappropriate for the situation. “I can’t get up. That’s. That’s not ideal.”
Before you could figure out a solution—maybe crawling? Was crawling dignified? Did dignity matter when you were potentially experiencing the early stages of hypothermia?—you felt hands under your arms.
Large hands. Warm, gentle hands. Apparently alien physiology included better thermal regulation than human bodies, because Phenomaman didn’t seem bothered by the cold at all despite wearing what amounted to a thin bodysuit. And he lifted you. Just… lifted you straight up from sitting to standing in one smooth motion that required absolutely no effort on his part. You were suddenly vertical, your legs wobbling beneath you like a newborn deer trying to figure out how joints worked.
“Whoa,” you managed, grabbing onto his arms for stability. His very muscular, very solid arms that felt like they were carved from marble or perhaps from whatever alien equivalent existed. “Okay. Standing. This is good. This is progress.”
Phenomaman kept his hands on your arms, steadying you while your circulation struggled to remember how to function properly. Pins and needles shot through your legs as blood flow returned, that uncomfortable prickling sensation that was somehow both painful and relieving.
“You sacrificed your comfort for my emotional wellbeing,” Phenomaman observed, still holding you stable. “That is a very person thing to do.”
You laughed—actually laughed, the sound surprised out of you, especially as it brought your shiver to a rather violent tremble. “Yeah, well. Persons take care of each other. That’s kind of the point.”
“Even when the other person is not technically a person?”
“Especially then,” you corrected gently. “Because that person—you—needed someone to recognize that the technical classification doesn’t matter. That your pain is real and valid and deserving of care regardless of what planet you’re from.”
His hands were still on your arms, and you realized that he hadn’t let go yet. That he was still touching you, maintaining that contact even though you’d mostly regained your balance. His expression had shifted into something you couldn’t quite read—something complex and vulnerable and maybe grateful?
“I’ve never had a friend pick me up like this,” you murmur, an observation mostly to yourself. “Kinda nice.”
“Friend…” He’s said the word before, thought of it, but it's different on his tongue now. “Yes. We are friends.” Like he was making an official declaration or perhaps proposing a business arrangement. “I have had companions before… but never someone I could… truly call a friend. If this is what friends do, that is. If that is acceptable to you. I believe you would be a good friend to have.”
You huff in amusement, legs slightly kicking. “Yeah buddy, I would like that to,” you said, meaning it. “Though maybe future friendship activities can happen in locations with better temperature control. Just a thought.”
“I will take your human fragility into account for future planning,” he said solemnly, and you were pretty sure he was making a joke. It was hard to tell with the delivery, but there was something in his eyes that suggested humor.
“Appreciated,” you said.
“Thank you, [Name].” Sincere. Sweetly so. “I wish to make love to you now.”
Huh.
"Woah, what?!"
Thankfully, oh so thankfully, ‘love’ meant hugging. His muscular arms encasing you and give you a squeeze. One that is maybe a bit too tight than normal but oddly regulating. Perhaps keeping in mind of the ‘fragile’ conversation shared.
“Oh—“ you laugh, a bit more than necessary due to the slight pressure. “Oh okay. Yeah. This is ok.”
You… can't remember the last time you hugged someone… or were given a hug. It's nice. Really nice. Your hands pressing into his back and shamelessly, for this moment, allowing yourself to let it happen. Your features pinch, a pointed self regulation as you mentally whisper to yourself not to cry. A hug. It's just a hug. No need to cry. At least now right now.
He pulls away after a moment, and perhaps you both are reluctant to do so, holding you out like some stuffed animal.
“I am glad you enjoy us making love. It does bring me happiness.”
You kinda wanna laugh-cry. “Hugging. It’s called hugging not… making love.”
His grip adjusts, eyes searching. “There’s a difference?”
“Yes. Yes… We’ll talk about it—once we’re inside. Or another day. Probably another day.” Or never. “When my rear is dry.”
He visibly looks around you and you do that closed eyed expression, accepting your silent fate because okay. Yeah. That's… okay.
“Yes. Your posterior is quite wet.”
Please kill me.
Finally, he releases your arms. But he stayed close as you both moved toward the exit, ready to catch you if your still-wobbly legs gave out. The fruit basket remained abandoned in its parking space, a bizarre memorial to this conversation.
“Should we…” You gestured toward it.
“I will retrieve it later,” Phenomaman decided. “Temperature regulation takes priority over fruit basket recovery.”
“Words to live by,” you agreed.
As you walked—slowly, carefully, with Phenomaman hovering protectively—you found yourself thinking about personhood. About how arbitrary the lines were between person and not-person. About how easily those classifications could be weaponized, used to hurt people who were already vulnerable.
“Have you ever tried hot coco?”
“I have not. Is it good?”
“Oh, it’ll explode your mind.”
“It is a weapon?”
Your laughter trails into the building, “No! No. Just. It's really good. Trust me. No literal exploding minds. I think you’ll like it.”
author’s note: I was listening to laufey while writing this chapter so I was like *sigh*; this woman is making me suffer. Which, in turn, means I should make Robert suffer. I lowkey just am continuing to put him through the ringer, everything just moved way too fast for me through the game.
Anyway, this is late because I got distracted by Cupid my Cupid (thank y’all for the support on that), some other projects and also… maybe making a sort of Arcane-Adjacent/Earlier timeline of whatever League of Legends excerpt from my friend. Because of Darius from the Noxus trailer and I was like whatever. Then I got fixated on that/League of Legends (LOREWISE, I WILL NOT TOUCH THAT GAME), Warhammer again (used to be in that fandom), One Piece, then again, some other ideas I had for Dispatch fics.
Plus my family celebrated Thanksgiving early so we didn’t have to deal with the day hell that IS Thanksgiving. And then I have uni stuff. Urgggghhh.
Anyway, just explanation of my delay (over a week my bad!). Hopefully y’all enjoyed this waited chapter.
IMPORTANT: I didn’t do the wet dream for this chapter because I felt like it’d sour the moment of the previous chapter, ykwim? Obviously not to say Robert doesn’t possible want a sexual relation with a partner but I did want his emotions at the moment to really build on the starvation of love outside of sexual bounds. (Although I’m def writing him like he’s starving and pathetic in sexual notions). So more yearning and more soft love type deal this time. I WILL be adding the wet dream sometime in the future tho so don’t worry… I just wanted more pathetic wet dog that is Robert.
Tag List (feel free to ask/comment if you want to be in future ones!): @kbd-cryptid @moonlight-sonata99 @milkyshukes @idioticstar @lokigirlszendaya @sxftiebee @send-me-places @noodleryworld @susanhill @sunbl3achedfly @aberix @rileeznuts @encantedoasis @tsukikyo @boundedtodream @steadyzombiehottub @2tty @lizzythalizzard @shin0buk1nn1e @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni @oreeowe @parcetamoldaisy @misdollface @asmaraloca @fayewebluv @dovey-quacks2332 @penabuttahhh @lucycarlisleswife @lizbix @pri00r @isabellaferreiras2-blog @yourbelovedtoaster @jackierose902109 @levisungjingwoo2099 @jellyedkazoo @crackmuffins @mixplara @lillanirobertson @suddenlysquelch @lettucel0ver @no1eyedressfan @bakugouswh0r3 @iammariposa @killerwendigo @bitchysouljellyfish @hibiscus-paradise @superdupersunny420 @rimuuuo @viosilein @frozenballsack69 @iv-vee @umiexe
summary: It's Sonar's birthday and what does he love more than anything in the world? Boobs. Needless to say, you make sure he has the best birthday possible till midnight.
pairing: Sonar x Cupid!Reader | NSFW
[Reader is Fem-Bodied and goes by She/Her a lot in this fic, however the others also change from that to they/he as you're generally genderfluid as a Cupid. There IS a scene as masc with a cawk at some points in the story. Anyway, I've always described Cupids as entities that just don't gaf about gender or sexuality; or at least in a way that humans have. I mean, why would they? they're cupids, they're contradictions, they're beautiful. Maybe we're all just cupids]
tags: Coworkers/Friends to Lovers (you and Sonar), reader is a literal cupid, Smut, Birthday Sex, Whiny Sonar, Nudes, Multiple Orgasms, Tit Fuck, Semi-Public Sex, Oral Sex, Penetrative Sex, Anal/First Time Bottoming(Sonar), Shapeshifting, Bloodplay (or is it Vamprisim? just a little bit though), biting, marking, Substance Use Reference, Blood High, Is that a thing? idk, Hurt/Comfort, Caught Feelings, Power Dynamics, Size Difference (but not focused), Wing Kink, Ear Kink (like stimulation not… the other one), Overstimulation, Marathon Sex, Dirty Talk, But not as much bc I honestly held back lol--I was going to be more lewd but I got shy... I didn't get to write the masc!reader x Sonar scenes as much as I wanted because of how shitty I set that up so I am sad about that...
author's note: I have this HC that is used in this fic of Sonar having sharp nails even as a humanoid (like he's still somewhat struggling to contain his true self)… also there's a bit more fur, not anything crazy just def a happy trail (or would it be a happy road?) I honestly dk how to feel about this fic. But I couldn't just leave it in the dust. I usually flesh out intimate scenes more but because this was lowkey just back to back sex scenes I had struggled. Might delete later. Who knows.
rq open // want to be on tg for specific character content? feel free to ask! (I.e. tagged for every sonar fic I release in the future.) Also dw I see y'alls requests I just take a moment to write stuff up!
[wrds: 18,188 | chrs: 107,855]
[NOT BETA READ] (burn me at the stake)
Read on Ao3
Today was rather mundane. Other than it being Sonar’s birthday—which he had pointedly told everyone about at least several times (even though they already knew and even gave him well wishes + promises to celebrate) all while he wore his birthday hat…
But again, everything was generally… normal. But, oh, of course that isn’t allowed to stay that way because this is SDN and this team in particular are anything but normal.
The SCREECH was sudden, inhuman, pitched, something that made your teeth ache and ears scream in agony. Especially as the audio emits a sort of pitched feedback thanks to the frequency echoing through all their ears. Several voices overlapped through it, pained yelps, creative combinations of curses, or just their own screams of agony at the torturous sound being forcefully bestowed on their persons.
"JESUS FUCKING—"
"MY EARS—"
“WHAT THE FUCKKKK!”
Then Sonar’s voice cuts through—properly, not via screeching—strained and reverent in a way that made Robert’s eye twitch.
“LETS GOOOOOOOOOOO, BOOBS!”
The words come out strangled, reverent, followed by more incomprehensible sounds that might have once been words but have devolved into pure noise. It was like a man—or rather a bat—was having a religious experience in real-time. Squeaking. Chittering. The distinct underlying sound of something—no, someone—hyperventilating.
“BOOBS! It’s BOOBS!”
“PERFECT BOOBS!” Sonar’s voice emits across the comms, each word dripping with an almost religious fervor that made Robert's professional composure crack just slightly.
“and-and the-the—boooooooooooooooooooooooobbbbbbbbbsssssssss!” Sonar’s voice emits across the comms, his voice cracking on the last word. Ascending into registers that shouldn’t be possible for anything with a larynx. Followed by gasps and… sobs? It’s getting really difficult to understand what’s going on.
Robert winched, pressing his headset tighter to his skull in hope no one was able to hear the obscene sounds happening thanks to the volume Sonar is emitting. “Sonar—Sonar!” He hissed, shoulders hunching as he kept close to his monitor. As if to shield it from view… not like there is anything to shield from view but you get the point. “Please don’t tell me you’re watching porn on the job—” his voice carrying that particular blend of exhaustion and annoyance-resignation that came from managing a team of reformed criminals with supernatural abilities and absolutely zero sense of workplace professionalism.
"What?! No. What am I? A gooner?" Sonar's indignation came through crystal clear, though the slight defensive pitch suggested he'd been called worse.
"Uh, yes?" That was Golem, wondering if it was a trick question.
"Absolutely yes," Invisigal confirmed.
"Without question," Coupé added, her tone dry.
"I—" Sonar sputtered. "That's—I'm a HARVARD GRADUATE—"
"Who goons," Malevola finished cheerfully.
"Fuck you, guys. I have class—" Sonar's rebuttal cut off abruptly. "Oh my god. Oh my god. Another one—dude-dude. Dude-” followed by another sound. Something that starts low and builds, something that sounds obscenely like a moan, breathy and broken and altogether far too intimate to be broadcast over a team-wide comm channel. Robert’s eye twitches more visibly now, his jaw clenching as he stares at the screen like it’s personally offended him. Or like he could just pull Sonar out and shut him up himself.
More than one Z-Team member grimaces with confused noises.
“Would you shut up! What the fuck is happening right now??” Flambae demands.
“Cupid…. Cupid’s perfect boobies… pictures of Cupid’s perfect boobies…” Sonar whispers, feeling far too close in everyone's ears right now.
Now the pause is directed toward you…
“I… may have… sent him photos as his birthday gift…?” Your voice piped up, almost questioning yourself, tinged with that particular innocent uncertainty that Robert was rapidly learning was absolutely, definitively a front. “He didn’t put anything else when he gave me his wishlist.”
Of-fucking-course it’s a front Robert. Cupid is still a criminal, albeit more with misdemeanors than felony shit—it doesn't matter, still a criminal!
"And it's PERFECT! Thank you! Thank you thank you!" Sonar's voice pitched higher, and he sounds close to tears. Happy tears. Grateful tears. The kind of tears that make everyone else on the line deeply uncomfortable. “This is the best gift anyone's ever given me. Ever. In my entire life. Better than my Harvard degree. Better than—”
“She sent you a nude? Let me see-” Invisigal pipped up, followed by a squeak—Sonar startled at her sudden appearance.
"No! no! Mine! Mine!!!" Sonar hissed, the sound distinctly animalistic, possessive in a way that sent his bat-like nature into sharp relief. "This is MINE." And he distinctively looks like Gollum and the One Ring to those witnessing his current state in person. The words dripped with a territorial aggression that would've been threatening if it wasn't about a goddamn nude photo.
"Dude. C'mon—" Invisigal argued, and Robert could hear the grin in her voice, enjoying this entirely too much.
"Absolutely fucking not. This is a gift. A personal, intimate, perfect gift and you can get your own damn nudes from your own Cupid! A different Cupid preferably—"
Some more scuffling, a squeak-screech.
Those two going at it. Invisigal mostly doing it just to harass Sonar.
“What kind of picture causes the bat-man to make such—odd noises?” Phenomaman’s voice questions, having remained quiet while he was dealing with thugs. Who were currently looking at him as they dangle by their shirts with confusion. There is no judgment in his tone, as usual—just curiosity. “Is he in distress? Does he require medical assistance?”
“Oh, he requires some assistance, alright.” Malevola murmurs, resulting into some chuckles from the others and Robert banging his head on his desk.
“Have you not been listening?” Punch Up questions Phenomaman. “Cupid sent Sonar a nude. Specifically of her, y’know—” most wouldn’t see it but you could just tell he was gesturing toward his chest in emphasis, “breasts. Respectfully.”
“Tits,” someone corrects helpfully and Robert is too deep in wanting to die to process who that was.
“Ah. Do you mean their mammary glands?” Phenomaman asks, earning startled looks from the helpless criminals. Slightly terrified. Why is this dude talking about boobs while handling them like this?!
“‘Boobs, tits, knockers, best things in the world.’ Not mammary glands, don’t call no lady’s girls that. That’s weird, P.” Prism’s voice is warm with amusement but firm in her correction. "It’s offense to the ladies… Anyway, can we see your nudes too, Cupid-Baby? I wanna see what’s got batboy squealing like that.”
You took a moment to reply but when you did, “Huh? Oh. Yeah! Okay!” Your acceptance layers over the comms, not hesitant so much as distracted, your attention clearly split.
“You heard the lady, show me those titties!”
Followed by more sounds of roughhousing—hands scrambling for a phone, Sonar’s distressed bat noises rising in pitch and frequency as he’s jumped by women.
"Batboy, I swear to fuck, if you don't—" Invisigal's threat cut off with an 'oof' of impact.
"Mine! These perfect, gorgeous, heart-nippled tits are MINE!" Another screech. "I will bite! I have rabies!"
"You don't have rabies," Malevola's voice cut through, dry as bone. "We literally just got your shots updated last week."
"I'll GET rabies! Specifically for this!"
“That’s not how that—” Robert begins, only to groan in his hands as he’s drowned out.
-
Twenty minutes later, the chaos has mostly died down. Most of the team is back actually working and answering calls they were dispatched to, the comms settling into something resembling professional as everyone returns to their respective duties. Robert's fingers fly across his keyboard, pulling up dispatch logs and monitoring active calls with practiced efficiency.
Then Sonar's voice cuts through again.
"Robby. Robertson… Bobby McSon. The man, my man, the myth, the legend—RobBobSon, my favorite dispatcher—”
Robert’s eye was going to get stuck in that twitch. “I’m your only dispatcher.”
“—I need like a 10 minute break, Boss." Sonar's voice had dropped an octave, rough and strained in a way that made Robert's fingers freeze over his keyboard.
"Sonar—" Robert started, already knowing where this was going and desperately wanting to head it off.
"Please, dude." There's something almost desperate in the bat-man's voice now. "Or else I'm going to end up busting in my pants—"
"TMI."
"—and that would be really embarrassing for everyone involved."
Robert pinches the bridge of his nose. "Why are you like this?"
"It's not my fault!" Sonar protests. "Blame Cupid for being perfect!"
Invisigal’s voice pipes up, “Cupid totally promised to give him a handy, y’know that, right?” Her voice carried that knowing, teasing lilt that made Robert want to throw his headset across the room.
"Please focus on work..." Robert managed, running a hand down his face, feeling the stubble that had accumulated over the shift.
Yet—and he'd examine why later, probably never—he didn't send you or Sonar out for a call.
The mission board blinked with three low-priority incidents. A noise complaint in the warehouse district. Possible vandalism near the old theater. Suspicious activity at a convenience store—probably just teenagers.
Any of them would've been perfect for Sonar's current position. Get him moving, burn off that energy, distract him from whatever was happening in his pants.
Robert's mouse hovered over the assignment button.
Didn't press it.
He told himself it was because the incidents were too minor. Because splitting the team's attention wasn't tactically sound. Because Sonar's abilities weren't needed for such basic calls.
Not because some part of him—the part that hadn't gotten laid in fucking years, the part that was apparently capable of being curious despite his better judgment—wanted to see what would happen.
Definitely not that.
"Bobby, you still there?" Sonar's voice crackled through, slightly breathless.
"Unfortunately," Robert muttered, then cleared his throat, shifting back to his professional dispatcher tone. "Yes. What do you need, Sonar?"
"Just... confirming that break? Please? I'm begging you, man. As a birthday gift?"
"…You have fifteen minutes," Robert heard himself say, voice clipped. "After that, I'm assigning you to the warehouse district call whether you're... composed... or not."
"You're the best, Bobby! The fucking best! Harvard's got nothing on your management skills—"
"Fourteen minutes now," Robert interrupted, cutting off what was clearly going to become an embarrassing ramble.
"Right! Yes! Going dark!" The comm clicked off, Sonar's channel going silent.
Robert sat there in the relative quiet of the dispatch center. The other channels still carried ambient noise—Malevola's dark chuckle, Prism commenting on something, the crackle of Flambae's flames in the background.
He should've been reviewing the mission parameters. Checking in with the other team members. Coordinating with the main SDN office on the ongoing Phoenix Program evaluations.
Instead, he found himself staring at, wondering—
No.
Nope.
Not going there.
He forced his attention to the monitor, pulling up security camera feeds from around the city, determinedly not thinking about what was happening in whatever secluded corner Sonar had found. Or who might be joining him there.
The cameras flickered between views. Street corners, building entrances, the designated patrol zones.
Definitely not thinking about you.
About Cupid.
About the alleged "sweetest and most innocent" member of the Z-Team who apparently sent nude photos as birthday gifts and—according to Invisigal's absolutely unnecessary commentary—was currently providing hands-on celebration.
Robert's fingers drummed against his desk, a restless rhythm that betrayed his carefully maintained composure.
Twelve minutes left on Sonar's break.
"What is a ‘handy?’ Is that a type of fruit basket?" Phenomaman asks, because of course he does.
"It's when—" Punch Up starts, clearly ready to launch into an explanation.
"Don't explain to him what that is, please." Robert's groan is audible even through the static of the comms. "I'm begging you."
"The guy is curious," Invisigal argues. "We’re doing a favor educating him, aren't we? Cultural exchange.”
"You're really not."
"A 'handy' is short for 'hand job,'" Malevola explains, ignoring Robert entirely. "It's when someone manually stimulates another person's genitals to orgasm."
"Oh." Phenomaman sounds genuinely interested. "Is this a common human mating ritual?"
"It's not a mating ritual, it's just—" Robert starts.
"Can we please stop having this conversation?" Robert's voice has taken on a slightly hysterical edge.
"Why? Is talk of sexual acts uncomfortable for you?" Phenomaman asks with that earnest, completely guileless tone that makes it impossible to tell if he's being genuine or subtly fucking with everyone.
"Yes! Very!"
"Fascinating. On my planet, we discuss such matters openly. There is no shame in—"
The supply closet on the second floor, near the entrance Sonar utilized as Mega Bat of the SDN building was, objectively, not designed for what it is currently being used for. Cleaning supplies lined metal shelving units. Boxes of printer paper stacked in corners. The faint chemical smell of industrial cleaner mixing with dust. All while the single bare bulb lays off from above… after all, why shower this perfect moment in unflattering light if he has great vision in the dark? You easily accommodate to the shadows too.
You knew better than to just take Sonar in that little nook he uses when returning to work via Mega Bat. He’s just too vocal for that. (Or at least you presumed he was and hell, good on you for that.) For It’d be way too obvious and you truly didn’t want anyone bothering you in the middle of the birthday gift. Plus, despite what others may think, you do have decorum.
In the end, none of it mattered to Sonar; his back pressed to the wall, white eyes wide as he stared down at you. His fur bristling just so as his hands hover, fingers twitching. His nails have grown out, more claw-like (or perhaps talon) as his excitement made it harder to control his other. Something that would def not fit in this cramped space.
"Oh, fuck. Oh fuck—This is actually perfect—" Sonar whispered, his voice carrying that particular reverence usually reserved for religious experiences or successful stock market manipulations. You stood there, top and bra pushed up to rest against your collarbone; exposing yourself to the startling clear vision of Sonar’s eyes. Your wings — soft, downy things in the shades of white and palest pink located at your lower back — were half-folded behind you, rustling with each of your own excited breaths.
“Oh my god.” His palms press against the swells with gentleness that contrasts sharply with the desperation in his voice. He whimpers, fanged jaw agape as he stares at his hands—HIS hands—touching such warm, soft perfection. It's so unfair! People just get to have these things for free? 24/7? You have these 24/7? Oh, it’s so unfair. So selfish to keep these away for so long.
"You really like boobs that much, huh?" You question despite already knowing the answer, smiling as you let him continue his exploration. Your fangs—small, delicate things so different from his sharp bat's teeth—peeked out as you grinned before catching your bottom lip. The expression was fond, indulgent even.
"Yes.” He replies without pause. “But these—these are fucking masterpieces." Sonar's bat-nose twitched, he was leaning in now. Breathing you in.
Or rather, very intently sniffing as he fondled. Each inhale was deliberate, his entire face practically buried between your breasts as he committed your scent to memory.
The sensation felt… interesting, to say the least.
The warm breath brushing-blowing against your skin. The slight tickle of fur from his face. The tickle of his snout. Paired with the careful, almost reverent way his clawed fingers kneaded and explored, tracing the curves, testing the weight, thumbs brushing over your nipples. You weren’t sure if it was thanks to your Cupid biology that had him practically intoxicated on your scent—for yes, there’s some specific expelling you do naturally—or it was just him being half-bat…
Actually, it likely both given his amplified senses. Some people just get hit harder being with you, enhanced especially.
"The hearts—" Sonar's voice cracked slightly. "Your areolas are actually shaped like hearts. That's not—that wasn't a trick of the photo lighting—"
"Cupid anatomy," you confirmed, still smiling. "Cute, aren’t they?”
"It's perfect. You're perfect. This is—" Sonar cut himself off, white eyes flicking up to meet yours. Wider. Almost vibrant even in the darkness. "Please tell me I can put these perfect things in my mouth.” He’ll likely wail and drop and roll in agony if you say no. Begging and clinging to your legs like a mournful soaking bat till you give him sympathy.
You laughed then, head falling back, the sound bright and clear in the small space. He definitely did not, not want to bite that perfect throat. Your wings fluttered, feathers rustling as you look forward. Already nodding before the word forms on your lips, "Yes—"
Sonar audibly groaned like a man dying of thirst finally finding water, then he was diving in.
Hot. Wet. Desperate.
Your back arched lightly at first contact, followed by further—pressing firmly into his mouth as he sealed his mouth around your nipple, tongue—god, that tongue—working against the peak while his other hand continued kneading your other breast. The wet heat of his mouth contrasted with the cool air of the closet on your exposed skin.
Soft gasps escaped you, audible exhales punctuated by the flutter of your wings responding to the stimulation. Your hands slide up, scratching gently then gripping the fur at the back of his neck. Finding purchase in the surprisingly soft coat, careful to avoid those ears.
He groans at the sensation, pressing against you in turn. His hands stablize you even as he pushes you forward—or rather back—so he can pin you instead. Rather mindful of your wings even in his consumed state.
Oh, fuck.
Your head falls to the side, leg shifting to hook at his waist. He moves even closer, invading that newly open space.
"Fuck, you're into this," he mumbled against your skin. "Can smell how wet you are."
“I can't help it.” You reply breathlessly, eyes falling shut briefly. “You feel so good.” And that’s encouragement enough.
It takes a moment for him to finally unlatch himself from your tit, having been on a mission to practically give the whole thing a hickey. A string of saliva stretches as he does—connecting from your nipple to his mouth. It breaks, leaving a faint trail in his fur and on that pink muzzle. But he didn't mind. Of course he doesn’t.
His tongue laps, swiping, savoring. It resembled a dog drowning in the delight of peanut butter; but rather it's a bat-man and he's being coated with the sappiness delight of Cupid’s flesh.
“Fuck, you taste—" His voice rough, vaguely slurred. Very recked. "Sweet. Literally sweet. Is that—?"
"Cupid thing," you managed, the chill hitting your saliva-slick breasts. "We taste like... honey? Nectar? Depends on the person."
“Taste’s fucking delicious,” he concluded simply, diving in to give the same undivided attention as its companion.
His enthusiasm evident in every lick, suck, gentle bite—
Your breath hitched as his fangs grazed your skin, not quite breaking through but leaving faint indentations. Marking in its own way. As well as leaving the hint of danger, of his predatory nature barely restrained—being tested by your very existence, sent heat pooling low in your belly.
His fangs press slightly harder then—
You moan, a sudden sound that filled the small space. He'd definitely left marks this time. Small idents from his fangs decorating your breasts, around the heart-shaped areolas, across the swells of flesh.
"Mine," Sonar muttered against your skin, voice possessive and rough. "Mine, mine, mine—"
His hands squeezed, mapping every inch while his mouth worked, alternating between gentle worship and sharp claiming bites. Within minutes, you were overheated, marked, slick with his saliva as he drowned in your breasts.
“Sonar—”You whimpered at one point, and his name on your lips made him whimper.
“Mm-” he hums around your nipple. “Yeah? Yeah?” His words muffled against your skin, reluctant to pull away.
“Can I touch you?”
He nearly came there.
His hips doing an abortive thrust as his fingers press into your sides.
"Fuck. Yes. Please," he breathed, the word somewhere between prayer and demand. "Please, please. Please touch me—I need—you're so perfect, I'm so hard, please—"
He stumbles as you push him back, his body hitting a shelf as he submits under the switch. The bulge in his pants is obscene, delightfully obscene in a way that makes your walls squeeze around nothing. The way he's desperately trying to get his belt undone only makes it better.
You eventually manage to get the light on, wanting to see it proper. The sudden flash causes you both to wince but the task at hand is too much of importance to care about temporary blindness.
Your hands join his then, helping work his belt that—it singing as the metal hits together. “Oh fuck—” Sonar whispers breathlessly as you’re lowering yourself. Settling on your knees. You’re surprised at the fur you find initially when undoing the button and unzip. But it leads to a happy meal so—
His cock is freed, springing out hard as a rock. Flushed, leaking, practically pulsing with desperate need that makes you salivate.
"What do you want?" you asked, wrapping one hand around his shaft, giving an experimental stroke that made him whimper.
"Your tits," Sonar gasped out. "Please, fuck, your perfect tits. Want to—want to fuck them, please—"
You smiled, that same indulgent expression.
Leaning forward and pressing your breasts together around his cock.
Sonar's resulting moan was obscene.
His head fell back, hands curling at the metal shelving ledge behind him for support. The shelf creaked ominously but held. Before he looked down, nearly busting at the sight of you.
The alleged sweetest and most innocent member of the team, kneeling in a supply closet, getting him off with those perfect—now shining with his saliva and marked with his fangs—tits out.
Your breasts create a soft, warm channel for his cock. The heart-shaped areolas framed the view obscenely, his shaft hugged between the valley of flesh with each small thrust of his hips.
"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh—" Sonar's vocabulary had apparently reduced to two words and desperate whimpers.
You squeezed them together firmer for him, providing more pressure, and his hips jerked involuntarily, fucking into the soft heat.
"That's it," you encouraged, voice low and sweet. "Take what you need. It's your birthday."
My birthday.
Yes.
It’s my birthday.
Sonar's hands released the shelf, moving to cover yours, pressing against your hands and supporting them as he began to properly fuck your breasts. His clawed fingers overlapped yours, careful not to scratch, as he set a rhythm. Fighting between hunching over for a better mount to being pulled back enough so he can watch the beautiful sight.
Thrust.
Retreat.
Thrust.
The head of his cock emerging from between your breasts, flushed and dripping, before disappearing again.
You tilted your head down, tongue hitting the tip each time he thrusts forward.
But you did it again. And again. Each thrust punctuated by your tongue catching the head of his cock, tasting the precum that leaked steadily, creating a lewd mixture with your saliva.
Saliva stretched between your tongue and his cock, breaking, then forming again with the next thrust. A mirror of how he was with your tits. The wet sounds filled the small closet, slick, slick, slcik, mixing with Sonar's ragged breathing and muttered curses.
"So good," Sonar babbled, losing coherence. "Perfect tits, perfect mouth, perfect Cupid, so fucking sweet, gonna—fuck—Harvard never taught me—oh god—"
His thrusts become erratic, losing rhythm as he chases his release. The head of his cock bumps more insistently against your mouth now, and you open up just slightly, letting him feel the heat of your breath, the wet promise of your tongue.
You kept your tongue out, kept that sweet expression even as saliva dripped down your chin, even as his precum mixed with the wetness. Your wings rustled with each impact, feathers trembling at being used. The way he was losing himself, how he started to unravel and that meant harder. Faster. More. More, more…
"Close, ngh-" Sonar gasped, balls drawing tight. "Fuck, I'm close, so close, so fuckin’ close, gonna cum.”
You whimper at that, lashes fluttering. “Fuck—Victor,” Oh fuck. His perked ears swivel toward you. Oh you used his name. Oh my god you’re just so perfect. So fucking perfect when you say that. You’re soaked all from him. No one else. He's going insane. Going completely insane.
"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh—" His voice breaks on a high keen as he comes, his cock jerking between your breasts as the first rope of cum shoots across your collarbones.
He hears your gasp of surprise as he suddenly pulls away. He’s fumbling, stance adjusting, one hand bracing on the wall behind you while the other fisted his cock frantically. Painting you with thick streaks of white.
It splatters across your breasts, drips down the curve of them, pools in the valley between, between those gentle fingers. He's trembling, shaking as he has the best orgasm of his life.
"Ah—ah—ah—" Each sound is punched out of him, raw and overwhelmed. He’s had crazy orgasms before, but never one that has him so eagerly milking himself just so he can cover you in cum.
Finally, finally, he couldn’t take it anymore.
He slumps back against the wall, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. His eyes are glazed, unfocused, and when he looks down at you—kneeling there, covered in his cum, your tits marked and claimed—the sound he makes is almost pained.
You're a mess.
Cum drips down your chest, cooling on your skin, streaking across your breasts in thick, creamy lines. There's some on your chin, your neck, even a bit that somehow made it to your shoulder. You look absolutely debauched, and from the way Sonar's looking at you, that's exactly how he wants you.
Carefully, curiously, you swipe a finger through one of the streaks and bring it to your mouth. The taste is salty-bitter-musk, distinctly him, and you hum contentedly as your wings flutter just so, feathers rustling with satisfaction.
"Holy shit," Sonar breathes, watching you with heavy eyes.
It’s almost audible—or is visible?—when he has a lightbulb moment.
"Wait—wait, don't move—"
He's fumbling for his phone, his hands still shaking slightly as he pulls it from his pocket. The screen illuminates his face.
"Can I—" He swallows hard. "Can I take a picture? Please?"
You laugh, shifting slightly to give him a better angle. "Of course."
The camera clicks once. Twice. Three times. Four. He's taking photos from different angles, capturing the way the dim light catches on the mess he's made, the way your skin glistens, the way you're smiling up at him like you're perfectly content to be covered in his cum. There’s even some he takes with the light off, doing flash photography.
"Perfect," he whispers, more to himself than to you. "Fucking perfect. These are going to be my most prized possessions."
"Just those?" You tease. "Not the original picture?"
"These are better." He's still taking photos, seemingly unable to stop. "You're here. You're mine. You're—" His voice cracks slightly. "You're covered in me and you look so fucking happy about it."
You stand finally, stretching slightly in the confined space.
“Here let me-”
“I can help-”
The two of you pause in reaching to help each other. Followed by gentle laughter. Laughter that brings the two of you closer as it ebbs. You helping with his boxers and pants as he’s more than content to lap up the cum from your skin. Enjoying your soft hums and sighs with his occasional nibble to suck. It was both erotic and comforting.
“You’re so perfect,” he whispers, pressing himself to your shoulder, just where it meets your neck, deeply inhaling. “Really. You're amazing, [Name].”
Your smile warms, the want from earlier turning gentle as you loop his belt into the hoops. “Flattery will get you everywhere, pretty.” Pretty. Not handsome—which he is, but pretty. And pretty makes him feel even more than handsome ever has. Whether it be because it’s coming from you or because that’s the first time he’s ever been complimented so sincerely, so warmly, especially regarding his appearance… He couldn’t care. He’s just happy.
He leans into your touch as you scratch his chin, his ears drooping just so. Such a cute thing.
"Good birthday gift?" You ask, brushing at some of his fur.
"The greatest..." he whispers, watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. He hesitates, then, fingers twitching against your sides.
Eventually, he softly asks, almost afraid of the answer: "...again, maybe? later?"
"Of course," you say without pause, and the sound he makes is somewhere between a whimper and a moan. "It's your birthday till midnight, after all."
For a moment, he just stares at you, those white eyes wide and disbelieving. Then he's moving, pulling you into a kiss that tastes like desperation and gratitude and something else you can't quite name. When he pulls back, he's grinning—actually grinning, fangs on full display.
"Best birthday ever," he declares. "Officially. Nothing will ever top this."
You laugh, finishing your cleanup and pulling your top back on. "You say that now, but wait till you see what else I have planned."
The noise he makes is inhuman.
The rest of the afternoon passed in relative calm. It wasn't until lunch actually that something… also happened. Robert was focused down in the workshop with Royd so…
Prism was holding court at a table in the breakroom, regaling Punch Up with some story about her latest Instagram drama while he was doing something that might have been eating but looked more like inhaling an entire pizza in three bites. Malevola was leaning against the counter, coffee in hand, watching the room with those unsettling yellow eyes.
And Sonar? Sonar couldn't stop staring at you.
He sat at the same table, but chose to sit across from you rather than by you (because he wouldn't be able to get his hands off you), close enough to be in your orbit but not so close as to be obvious. Or so he believes. His own lunch sat mostly untouched as his white eyes tracked your every movement.
The way you brought the fork to your lips. The delicate way you chewed. The slight flutter of your wings when you shifted position.
Every movement was torture. Because now he knew.
Knew how your skin tasted. How your breasts felt in his hands, in his mouth. How you looked covered in his cum, smiling up at him like you'd given him the world instead of just the best orgasm of his life. How amazing you felt in his arms. How you welcomed him and his oddities without freaking out or making a big deal about it.
Yes, you’re different yourself but—I don’t know. He doesn’t know. He does know his dress pants were already getting tight again just from the memories.
"You're staring," Invisigal's voice appeared next to his ear, making him jump.
She dropped in the chair beside him, grinning like the cat that caught the canary. Or in this case, the invisible woman who caught the bat-man being a disaster.
"Fuck off, Visi," Sonar muttered, finally tearing his eyes away from you to glare at his teammate.
"Ooh, touchy. Still worked up?" She leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Was the supply closet not enough? Need round two?"
"I will literally throw you out a window."
"You'd have to catch me first," Invisigal countered, but she leaned back, giving him space. Her grin didn't fade. "Seriously though, you've got it bad."
"It's my birthday," Sonar defended, knowing it was weak but unable to come up with anything better.
"Uh huh. And tomorrow? Next week?"
Sonar didn't have an answer for that.
Across the room, Flambae entered, and immediately the temperature rose several degrees. His flames flickered along his shoulders, dancing in patterns that suggested irritation. He’s honestly been in a mood, started randomly earlier today. No one really knew why and Prism didn’t push it.
"Great, grumpy's here," Invisigal muttered, crossing her arms.
Flambae grabbed something from the fridge—didn't even look at what it was—and slammed the door with more force than necessary. The whole room paused, attention shifting to him.
"Problem?" Malevola asked casually, yet her tone carried an edge.
"No," Flambae bit out, his accent thickening with annoyance. He stalked to an empty table, dropping into a chair hard enough to make it screech against the floor.
The room returned to its previous activities, but the tension lingered. Flambae radiated irritation like heat waves, his flames crackling audibly in the relative quiet.
You glanced over at him, expression shifting from serene to concerned. "Are you okay?" you asked, voice gentle.
"Fine," Flambae snapped, not looking at you.
"You seem upset—"
"I said I'm fine."
You frowned, setting down your fruit cup. Your wings rustled, a sign of agitation that Sonar had learned to recognize. "If something's wrong—"
"Not everything needs your fucking sunshine and rainbows approach, Cupid." Flambae's voice dripped with sarcasm on your designation. "Some of us are trying to actually be heroes instead of playing office bitch for birthday boy over there."
The room went dead silent.
Sonar's chair screeched as he stood. "What the fuck did you just say?"
"You heard me," Flambae shot back, flames intensifying. "It's pathetic. We're supposed to be reforming, becoming better, and meanwhile batboy is getting his dick sucked in supply closets like this is some kind of porn set instead of actual hero work—"
"That's enough," Malevola cut in, her voice dropping to that dangerous register that made smart people back off.
Flambae wasn't being smart.
"Is it? Because I'm pretty sure I'm the only one here taking this seriously. The rest of you are treating this like summer camp with benefits—"
"Flambae." Your voice cut across his rant, and there was something different in it now. An edge that hadn't been there before. "That's enough."
"Or what? You gonna blow me too if I apologize? That how you keep team morale up?"
You stood.
The change was immediate and dramatic.
Your form shifted, the soft feminine curves melting into harder, more masculine lines. Height increased, shoulders broadening. Your chest flattened while your hips narrowed. This wasn’t the form you usually took when presenting masculine, but it was the one that felt right in the moment.
Larger, bigger, stronger.
And no one could question why you wore what you did now because, hell, any other clothes and Little Cupid (but they sure as hell could see that is not ‘little’) would’ve been out. Not the first time they’ve seen a dick out on the job but it probably would’ve been startling nevertheless.
Your wings spread wide, each one easily double the size theh were before, filling the space behind you. Accommodating your larger size for possible flight. The soft downy feathers from before had been replaced by something more aggressive—longer flight feathers with dark tips rather than soft pink, reminiscent of a bird of prey. They ruffled, bristling with clear agitation.
Your eyes—usually soft and inviting—had gone hard. The pink pupils that Sonar had seen flash earlier now glowed steadily, a warning light in the irises.
When you spoke, your voice had dropped an octave.
"I am many things," you said, each word precisely enunciated. "Sweet, yes. Accommodating, absolutely. But I am not—and have never been—a pushover."
You took a step toward Flambae, and despite his flames, despite his confidence, he leaned back in his chair.
"So let me be clear, Flambae,” Another step. Your wings spread wider, casting shadows across the room. “Don’t ever talk to me like that again. And don’t ever—call me a bitch again. Do you understand me?”
Flambae's flames flickered, uncertain now. "I—"
You loomed over him now, and Flambae—who stood at a respectable 6'2"—had to crane his neck back to maintain eye contact.
"Because the next time you do—I’ll make sure everyone knows who’s the real bitch is around here.”
There was a choke of surprise from behind—paired with rough pats on the back of someone attempting another from choking in shock.
Flambae swallowed hard. The flames along his shoulders nonexistent as he stared up at you wide eyed.
"Now," you said, voice dropping even lower. “Apologize.”
"I—" Flambae started, stopped, tried again. "I'm sorry. That was—I was out of line. I'm sorry."
You held his gaze for another long moment, wings still spread, presence filling the room with barely contained power.
Then you stepped back.
The tension broke like a snapped wire.
Your form shifted again, flowing back to the feminine presentation from before. Wings folded neatly, shrinking back to their softer, smaller size. Your expression returned to its usual gentle serenity.
"Apology accepted," you said, voice back to its normal sweet register. You returned to your seat, picking up your fruit cup like nothing had happened. "I hope the rest of your lunch is better, Flambae."
The room remained silent for a beat longer.
Then, quietly, from Invisigal: "That was hot."
Flambae chose to largely remain silent.
But even he—like Sonar—couldnt disagree.
Sonar thought you were attractive before—gorgeous, even, with those perfect tits and sweet smile. (And obviously, you were just really sweet on him)
But seeing you like that? Powerful and commanding, wings spread and voice resonating with divine authority, cock on full display (mostly because he was staring at it) as you towered over Flambae?
Sonar was pretty sure he'd just discovered several new kinks.
He shifted in his seat, adjusting himself as subtly as possible. His pants were definitely tighter now.
Across the room, Malevola caught his eye and smirked, clearly aware of his predicament.
Sonar flipped her off.
You continued eating your fruit cup, peaceful and serene, like you hadn't just dominated their teammate and awakened something in at least half the room.
Yeah.
Sonar was absolutely getting another round before the day was over.
And maybe—if he was very lucky and played his cards right—he'd get to experience that version of you too.
The masculine form. The commanding presence. That cock that had been clearly visible even through your pants.
His own cock twitched at the thought and Invisigal couldn't help but snort. “Hornbat,” she coughed into her fist.
The sun had long settled, Torrance coming to life with street lights and the night sky.
Sonar had been particularly anxious—or excited? He wasn't sure anymore. He just knows he was all over the place than feeling all—bleh. Or ehh. Then, yay! But... Now, he felt like he couldn't keep still as he stood in his apartment. His hands getting uncharacteristically clammy as he stuck himself in front of the mirror again, grooming his fur. Brushing it back, only to grumble, doing it another way, then another—followed by returning to his pacing.
The Harvard graduate—man who'd orchestrated some of Silicon Valley's most effective investment frauds—was reduced to checking his reflection every thirty seconds like some nervous teenager. His white eyes caught his own gaze in the mirror. The bat-like features that usually gave him an air of menace now just looked... anxious. The fur was immaculate, then ruffled, then smoothed again.
Sonar adjusted his tie for the fifth time. Navy blue against the crisp white shirt. Then he yanked it off entirely. Too formal. This wasn't a business meeting.
This was... what was this exactly?
His phone sat on the coffee table, screen dark. You'd texted twenty minutes ago that you were on your way. Twenty minutes. Traffic in Torrance on a Friday night, that could mean another ten minutes, could mean you were already downstairs. Maybe you flew here instead—no. You mentioned how when it’s too cold it can be difficult on your wings. That's the last thing he wants, you flying here even when the chill would make you ache.
He moved to the window, peering through the blinds at the street below.
A few cars passed.
None stopped.
He pulled away, resumed pacing. His apartment was clean—cleaner than it had been in months. He'd actually tidied up, which said something about his mental state. The business textbooks were stacked neatly on the shelf instead of scattered across every surface. While his… drugs, well he had practically begged Malevola to take them. Keep them away from him and make sure no one gives him anything. And under no circumstances, even let him near them again tonight.
Even the couch cushions were arranged properly. He'd even lit a candle, then immediately blown it out because it felt too presumptuous. What was he, setting a mood? This was just... a follow-up to earlier. To those photos he'd received that had derailed his entire afternoon. To the supply closet. To the confrontation with Flambae that had you using your passive in such a way.
His cock twitched at the memory.
Those heart-shaped areolas.
The soft curve of breasts he'd gotten to touch, to taste, to fuck in that cramped closet with his cum painting that perfect skin.
The flare of power when you looked over Flambae.
knock knock
Sonar jumped, actually jumped, like some kind of prey animal instead of the predator his species suggested. He smoothed down his shirt—he'd kept the shirt, just the shirt and slacks—and moved to the door. His hand hesitated on the handle.
Get it together. You've negotiated with venture capitalists. You've talked your way out of federal charges. You can open a door for someone you already half-fucked today.
He pulled it open.
You stood there in the hallway, changed from your work clothes into something simpler—mostly bundled in a coat that made you so edible. The peak of your wings at the hem. Your smile was knowing, like you could read every thought that had been cycling through his head for the past hour.
"Hey," you said.
Sonar's mouth went dry. "Hey. I—come in. Obviously. That's why you're here. To come in. Not that—I mean—" He stepped back, gesturing.
You walked past him, and the scent of you hit him immediately. That sweet but not cloying, mixed with the underlying warmth of your skin. You'd showered since work. He could smell it from the faint cling of water on you and the muted whisper of his saliva and cum.
The thought of water running over your body—of your body washing clean of his claim—made his fangs ache.
"Nice place," you said, glancing around. Your tone was casual, but your eyes tracked back to him with clear intent. "Very... clean."
"I tidied up." The admission came out before he could stop it.
"For me?"
"I..." Sonar closed the door, locked it. The click seemed loud. "Yes."
You turned to face him fully, and the look in your eyes made his breath catch. "That's sweet."
"I'm not typically... sweet."
"No?" You took a step closer. "What are you typically?"
His brain, his clever Harvard-educated brain, chose that moment to provide absolutely nothing useful. "I'm... I'm a high-ranking Vanderstenker."
You laughed, and the sound wrapped around him like silk. "Are you networking with me right now, Victor?"
His real name in your mouth. You were one of the few people who knew it, who used it. Something about that felt intimate in a way that was separate from the physical.
"Maybe," he managed. "I can never have too many soft skills."
"No, you can’t." You were close enough now that he could feel the warmth radiating from you. Warmth that enticed your scent to simply rush as he takes an unconscious deep sniff—which brings back the taste of you on his tongue at an alarming level of clarity.
Oh god, he's so fucked.
"Now, what do you want?" you ask, inching closer. "You've got me until midnight. After that, I go back to being your teammate instead of your birthday gift. So tell me—what do you want?"
Time is ticking, Victor.
Sonar swallowed hard, his throat working visibly. "Everything," he whispered. "I want everything."
Your smile warms, hands undoing the ties of the coat. Till you revealed that you didn’t quite wear anything ‘normal’ underneath. An ensemble of colors that favored your completion decorated your skin in a pretty present of unravel.
“Visi’s idea.” You shrug off the coat properly, letting it fall to the ground and your wings to flare then resettle. Slightly around you, slightly shy even. “I thought it was a bit much–”
“It’s perfect.”
Sonar’s hands were on you then, pulling you close. His mouth finds yours in a kiss that was more enthusiasm than technique but no less effective for it. His fangs clicked against yours, tongues meeting, and yes—you did taste sweet. Like honey and nectar and something divine that made Sonar moan into your mouth. Without being cramped in that room, without the underlying smell of dust and whatever the fuck was on the shelves, everything was amplified. Or perhaps that’s just how Sonar felt. No restriction, no worries, no simple rush of excitement that means a quickie and done.
You made a sound against his lips—surprise morphing into enthusiasm—and your arms came up around his neck. Your fingers found the sensitive spot at the base of his skull, threading through the fur there, and he groaned into your mouth.
He leaned closer, deepening the kiss, and your wings instinctively responded. They spread wider, then began to curl forward, half-cocooning around the two of you. The feathers brushed against his arms, his back, creating an intimate space that shut out the rest of the world.
It was intimate. Far too intimate to be something just for one night.
The thought pierced through the haze of arousal like a shard of ice. This felt like more than casual. More than just scratching an itch. The way you held him, the way your wings wrapped around him protectively, the way you kissed him like you were trying to memorize the taste of him—it all spoke of something deeper.
But he chose to ignore that thought.
To simply drown and worry about oxygen later.
Your bodies stumbled through the apartment, you following his blind lead toward the bedroom. He walked backwards, pulling you with him, his hands roaming over your body—your waist, your hips, sliding up your back to feel where your wings connected to lower back.
"Can't believe—" he gasped between kisses, breaking away only to immediately seek your mouth again, "—can't believe you're real—can't believe this is happening—"
The walls of his apartment blurred past. He knocked into the edge of his coffee table, nearly sent the stack of business journals tumbling, but he didn't care. His hands were on you, your hands were on him, and nothing else mattered.
"Very real," you assured him, your voice breathless but amused. Your fingers began to work on the buttons of his shirt, deft and purposeful. Feathers teasingly brushed against his arms as you moved. Light touches that felt overwhelming and simply not enough at the same time.
He could feel your warmth even through the layers of clothing. Your palms, soft despite the whispers of callouses that spoke of labor. Of what? He wasn't sure. Field work? Training? Something that built strength without destroying the softness underneath?
He just hoped it was kind work. That whatever had put those slight roughness there hadn't hurt you. He wasn't sure why he thought of that exactly—just—it mattered. You mattered.
"Beautiful," you whispered, hands sliding down his chest once you'd gotten his shirt unbuttoned. Your fingers splayed over the fur there, feeling the soft texture give way to skin underneath. The fur was thicker over his collar and arms, sparser over his abdomen and other parts of his torso. It was so interesting, seeing how man met bat.
"I know, right?" He preened, his natural arrogance surfacing even in the midst of desire. He was a Harvard graduate. He'd built empires. Of course he was beautiful.
Then, he faltered, second-guessing. The confidence cracked slightly, showing the vulnerability underneath. "Do you—" he cleared his throat, his white eyes flickering away briefly before forcing themselves back to meet your gaze. "Do you mean that? Or—is it just..."
He didn't finish the sentence. Didn't want to voice the fear that you were just saying what you thought he wanted to hear. That this was just about his species, the novelty of fucking a bat-hybrid. That tomorrow you'd realize you'd made a mistake. Even cupids—or especially Cupids—should have standards, right?
You stopped your exploration of his body, your hands stilling on his chest. Your expression softened, something tender crossing your features.
"I mean it, Victor."
He trembled.
"You're beautiful."
The words were simple, but the sincerity in them hit him harder than any elaborate compliment could have. You meant it. You actually meant it.
He leaned in as you reached up, your hand cupping the side of his face. Your touch was gentle, almost reverent, as you began caressing—or perhaps petting was more appropriate. Your fingers traced the line of his jaw where fur met skin, then moved higher.
His chin did a slight lift as you stroked over one of his large ears, an instinctive response. The ear flattened under your palm, the sensation sending pleasure rippling through him, before shooting back up to its alert position as your hand moved away.
"Sensitive," you observed, your lips quirking into a smile.
"Very," he managed, his voice rough.
"Good to know." Your smile turned wicked. "Now, what does Batsy want first?"
His eyes followed as your hand trailed down from his face, ghosting over his neck, his chest, his abdomen. You lifted your hand slightly, switching from palm to fingertips, then letting your nails drag lightly as the fur returned under his belly button. That fluffy happy trail that led down to where his cock was still restricted by his slacks, hard and straining against the fabric.
"You—" His voice came out strangled. Then he was stepping closer again, crowding into your space, his hands on your hips guiding you backward. "Want to taste you. All of you. Been thinking about eating you out all day. Please—"
The desperation in that last word—the please—made it clear this wasn't just dirty talk. He genuinely needed this. Needed to taste you, to have his mouth on you, to make you fall apart on his tongue.
Your wings fluttered at his words, the feathers rustling in response to your arousal. For just a moment, your pupils changed—the hearts that marked you as a Cupid flashing briefly before returning to normal. Your breath hitched.
"Get to eating then."
His mouth was on yours again immediately, the kiss bruising in its intensity. You let yourself be guided backward, trusting him to lead you even as your eyes fell shut. Your hands fisted in his shirt, then slid up to his shoulders, pulling him closer.
The back of your legs hit the bed—silky and soft, expensive sheets that were surprising for someone in the Phoenix Program. But it made sense, really. Sonar had money, or at least he had when he'd been running his investment frauds. And he had to take care of his fur, after all. Cheap, scratchy sheets wouldn't do.
You fell back onto the mattress, and he followed you down. His body covered yours, one hand braced by your head while the other roamed. His mouth never left yours, kissing you like he was trying to consume you. And maybe he was.
Finally, he pulled back, both of you breathing hard. He looked down at you—hair mussed, lips swollen from kissing, eyes dark with want—and something in his chest tightened.
"Too many clothes," he growled, his hands already working your latex—or something akin to such—top. You sat up enough to help him pull it over your head, his strength helping with the stupid thing being tossed aside.
The sight of your bare breasts made his mouth water. Those distinctive heart-shaped areolas returned to his vision, already peaked with arousal and still delightfully marked from his excitement in the supply closet.
His mouth descended on them immediately, unable to resist. He'd gotten to taste them earlier but it hadn't been enough. Would never be enough.
His tongue circled one nipple before taking it into his mouth, sucking hard. You gasped, your back arching off the bed, pressing more firmly into his mouth. Your hands threaded into the fur on his head, not pulling but holding him in place.
He lavished attention on your breasts, moving between them, his hands kneading what his mouth wasn't currently worshiping. His fangs grazed the sensitive skin carefully, never hard enough to break but enough to send shivers through you.
"Victor," you gasped, and the sound of his name in that breathy, desperate tone made his cock throb.
He worked his way down your body, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your sternum, your ribs, your stomach. His hands explored as he went, squeezing your flesh, mapping every curve and plane. He pressed closer, inhaling deeply between lapping licks and gentle nips.
Your scent was stronger now, arousal mixing with the underlying sweetness that seemed inherent to Cupids. It made something primal in him roar to life, that predator instinct that his hybrid nature gave him.
His own blood roared through his ears, pounding with want and need. There was an itch under his skin, urging him to let go, to lose more control than was safe. To transform fully, to take you with the strength and power of his monster form.
But he held that down. Kept the transformation at bay through sheer will.
This isn't going anywhere... at least, not until midnight, he reminded himself. Then his birthday would be over and this would just be... what? A memory? A one-time thing?
He shoved those thoughts away. Focused instead on the soft sounds you were making—more panting and gasps rather than performative pitches that sometimes could hurt his sensitive ears. These sounds were real, honest reactions to his touch, and they had him harder than he'd ever been.
His claws—talons now really, sharper and curved—made quick work of your bottoms. He tugged the fabric down your legs and you lifted your hips to help. He swiftly pulled them off completely, tossing them aside.
You had opted to wear panties under the strangling fabric, it honestly was uncomfortable and weird otherwise. Especially given how it took you a moment to get here. Not like Sonar’d complaining, not when his eyes locked on the damp spot that had formed there. He could smell your arousal even more strongly now, and his mouth watered.
Those panties would definitely be pocketed later. He was already cataloguing where he set them so he could treasure them for the nights he expected to spend alone, missing this, missing you.
His fingers hooked in the waistband, and he looked up at you. Your pupils were blown wide, your chest heaving with each breath. You nodded—permission and encouragement all at once.
He pulled them down slowly, revealing you to him inch by inch. The fabric clung to your wet folds briefly before releasing, and then you were bare before him.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, you're perfect."
He spread your legs wider, settling between them, his eyes fixed on your pussy. You were glistening with arousal, slick and swollen and so fucking inviting.
"You smell—" He leaned closer, inhaling deeply, and the scent was even more intense this close. Rich and musky and uniquely you. "—you smell so good—"
Not some Cupid magic or pheromone bullshit either. This was just... fuck, it was amazing. It was you, your natural scent (something that's often made him dizzy during work hours) mixed with arousal, and it was driving him insane.
His hands gripped your thighs, and he felt his talons extending slightly with his excitement. Sharp points pressed against your skin, and he immediately forced them to retract. He couldn't risk hurting you, couldn't let his control slip that much. The talons slid back, leaving only the pads of his fingers against your flesh.
He glanced up at you, checking that you were okay, and found you watching him with heavy-lidded eyes. Your wings were spread across his bed, feathers rustling with each breath you took.
Then he lowered his head and tasted you for the first time.
Your hips gave a slight tilt at that first contact, a small arch that pressed your pussy more firmly against his mouth. His thumbs spread your lips, opening you to him, and a sound rolled in the back of his throat—something between a groan and a growl.
Before he could second-guess himself, he dove into his meal.
Hot warmth pressed against your cunt, his tongue flat and broad, lapping upward from your entrance to your clit. He was familiarizing himself with this new terrain, mapping every fold and ridge, and his taste buds were melting in delight.
You tasted incredible. Better than he'd imagined, and he'd imagined this a lot over the past few weeks. Sweet and tangy and slightly salty, with an underlying complexity that he couldn't quite describe. Like your blood would probably taste if he bit you—though that was a fantasy for later, if there was a later.
He groaned against your pussy, the vibration making you gasp. You moaned at the sensation, your thighs trembling around his head.
His tongue worked through your folds, gathering your wetness, exploring every part of you. He found your entrance and pushed inside, fucking you with shallow thrusts of his tongue before dragging back up to circle your clit.
Your clit was swollen and sensitive, and when he focused his attention there—flicking his tongue against it rapidly—your whole body jerked.
"Oh fuck," you gasped, your hands flying to his head. Your fingers tangled in the fur there, gripping but not pulling. "Victor, that's—don't stop—"
He had no intention of stopping. He sealed his mouth around your clit and sucked, his tongue continuing to work against the bundle of nerves, and your hips bucked up against his face.
It wasn't long until he found the rhythm that had you rocking against him. Moving your hips in time with his tongue, essentially riding his face, using him for your pleasure. And fuck, he loved it. He was buzzing with excitement, his cock so hard it was almost painful where it pressed against his slacks. Began grinding against the bed as he got off at your pleasure, at being between your legs.
Yes, yes, grind on his face, use him for your pleasure, keep making those noises for him, keep feeding him with your juices.
His hands gripped your thighs harder, holding you open and in place. His talons wanted to extend again with his mounting arousal, but he kept them retracted through sheer force of will. He focused that energy into his mouth instead, eating you out like a man possessed.
One of his hands released your thigh, sliding up your body to find your breast. He squeezed it, thumb brushing over that heart-shaped areola, adding another layer of stimulation.
Your responses were everything. The way your thighs trembled, the way your breath came in short gasps, the way you kept saying his name like a prayer—"Victor, Victor, fuck Victor"—it all drove him higher.
A punched out groan from him as your fingers tangle in his crown, the other pressed against his hand at your breast. This was amazing. This was fucking perfect. A thought that cycled in his brain as he worked a finger in your pussy, giving it something to clench around. Your wings flapped slightly at the intrusion, surprise then pleasure as it got used to him.
One becoming two.
Steadily fucking you on his fingers.
Until he could feel you getting close. Your pussy was clenching around him, more wetness flooding his fingers and tongue, your movements becoming more erratic. Those wings fully flapping against the bed, feathers rustling and spreading.
"I'm—fuck—I'm gonna—" You couldn't finish the sentence, too overwhelmed.
He doubled his efforts, sucking hard on your clit while his tongue flicked rapidly against it.
The combination of his mouth on your clit and his fingers curling inside you, finding that spot that made you see stars—it was too much.
You breathing sped up, hitching with every gasp.
Then, your head tossed back with a silent cry as you came, your whole body going taut. Your pussy clamped down on his fingers like a vice, pulsing rhythmically with your orgasm. Your thighs tried to close around his head, but he kept them open, kept working you through it.
More wetness flooded his mouth, and he lapped it up greedily, not wanting to miss a single drop. You tasted even better like this, and the fact that he'd made you come—that he'd made you lose control—sent a surge of pride and possessiveness through him.
The audible moans as you found oxygen utterly wrecked.
He only pulled back when you started to squirm from oversensitivity, your hands pushing weakly at his head. His face was wet with you, and he didn't bother wiping it away. Instead, he looked up the length of your body, meeting your glazed eyes.
"Fuck," you panted, your chest heaving. "That was—fuck—"
"Good?" he asked, though the smug satisfaction in his voice made it clear he already knew the answer.
"Understatement," you managed.
Needless to say, he did it again. Having moved up the length of your body, making out to sucking and kicking your neck to your tits as he fingered you again. Wanting to milk at least another orgasm out of you—prep you properly, more like—and also just hear more of your sounds. Just close up this time.
It wasn't until you were a real mess that he settled his weight over you.
His still clothed erection pressed against your bare pussy, and you both groaned at the contact.
Your hands went to his slacks, fumbling with the belt. "Fuck—These need to come off already."
He didn't argue. He pulled back just enough to help, both of you working together to get his belt undone, the button and zipper open. He shoved his slacks and underwear down his hips, kicking them off awkwardly, and then he was finally naked.
His cock sprang free, hard and leaking. The head was flushed dark, precum beading at the tip, and you reached down to wrap your hand around him.
"Fuck," he hissed at the contact. Your grip was firm and confident, stroking him from base to tip, your thumb swiping over the head to spread the precum.
"You're so hard," you murmured, your eyes dark with renewed arousal as you watched your hand work his cock. "Have you been like this all night?"
"Since you walked in," he admitted, his hips jerking involuntarily, fucking into your fist. "Since before that. Since you sent those fucking pictures."
You smiled, something wicked and pleased. "Good."
You guided him to your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your pussy. You were so wet, so ready, and the heat of you was incredible even with just that small contact.
"Please," you breathed. "Victor, please—"
He didn't make you wait. He pushed forward slowly, watching as his cock disappeared inside you inch by inch. The sensation was overwhelming—tight and hot and wet and perfect. Your inner walls gripped him, fluttering slightly as they adjusted to the intrusion.
"Oh fuck," he groaned, his head dropping to your shoulder. "Oh fuck, you feel—"
He couldn't finish the sentence. There were no words adequate to describe how good you felt wrapped around his cock. Despite your welcoming heat, he still took it steady. Sinking in ever so slowly that has you both panting.
Then, he bottomed out, his hips flush against yours, fully seated inside you.
You made a sound—pleasure mixed with the slight edge of being filled so completely. Your legs came up to wrap around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, keeping him close.
"Move," you demand after a moment. "Victor, please move—"
He started to thrust, pulling out slowly before pushing back in. The drag of his cock against your walls sent sparks of pleasure up his spine. He built up a steady rhythm, not too fast yet, letting you both adjust and savor the sensation.
Your hands roamed over his body—his back, his shoulders, threading into his fur, careful around his sensitive ears. Your wings had wrapped around both of you again, creating that intimate cocoon that shut out the world. The feathers rustled with each thrust, creating a sound like whispered secrets.
"You feel so good," you panted, your voice breaking on the last word as he hit a particularly deep angle. "So fucking good inside me—"
The praise sent a thrill through him, lighting up every nerve ending. His ego—always so carefully constructed—craved your words like a drug. He picked up the pace, thrusting harder, faster, determined to earn more of those breathy compliments.
The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mixing with your combined moans and gasps. The bed creaked rhythmically beneath you, the headboard starting to tap against the wall. His expensive sheets were definitely going to need washing, already damp with sweat and the evidence of your earlier activities.
He was practically drooling against your shoulder now, his mouth hanging open as he panted. Hot breath fanned across your already overheated skin, making you shiver despite the warmth. His fangs—long and sharp, a constant presence in his mouth—grazed your skin with each breath. The occasional jab of the points drew your pleasured attention there, making you gasp and clench around him.
Your nails dragged up his back, not quite breaking skin but close. The sensation was perfect—that edge of pain that heightened everything else. Your hands found his skull, gripping the fur there, then pressing firmly against the bone underneath.
"You can bite me, baby," you breathlessly whispered directly into his ear. The endearment made something in his chest clench. "Take a little drink."
He pulled back abruptly, his rhythm faltering. His hips did a particularly hard thrust almost involuntarily—his body continuing the motion even as his mind tried to process your words. The deep penetration squeezed a sound from your throat, something between a moan and a whimper.
"What—wh—" Sonar panted, his white eyes wide as he stared down at you. His cock was still buried inside you, twitching with need, but confusion warred with arousal on his bat-like features. "You want me to—"
"Bite," you confirmed, already pulling him back down, guiding his face to the junction of your neck and shoulder. Your hands were firm, confident, no hesitation in the gesture. "Just a little. To soothe the ache." Your fingers curled into his fur, grounding and encouraging at once. "Go ahead. I don't mind."
You punctuated your words by grinding up into him, rolling your hips to take him even deeper. The movement reminded both of you of your very eager predicament—his cock hard and leaking inside you, your pussy clenching rhythmically around him, both of you so close to the edge it was almost painful.
"Are you sure?" His voice was strained, the words barely intelligible. His fangs were—have been—aching, the urge to bite nearly overwhelming. "I don't want to hurt—"
"You won't," you assured him, your voice dropping into that lower register that made his cock throb. "I'm offering. I want you to."
That was all the permission he needed.
Sonar resumed his thrusting, finding that hard, fast rhythm again. His mouth found your neck, lips and tongue exploring the skin there first. He could feel your pulse under his tongue, rapid and strong, your blood pumping just beneath the surface.
He licked over the spot he'd chosen—where your neck met your shoulder, a place that would be easily hidden by clothing but was sensitive enough to make you gasp. His saliva would help numb it slightly.
Then his fangs sank in.
The resistance of your skin gave way, and the rich, sweet taste of your blood flooded his mouth immediately. It was nothing like the small taste he'd gotten from biting his own lip earlier, nothing like anything he'd experienced before.
Your blood was extraordinary.
Sweet like honey but with an underlying complexity—notes of something floral, something bright and effervescent, something that tasted like pure concentrated emotion. It sparkled on his tongue, almost fizzy, and warmth began to spread through his body from the point of contact.
"Fuck," you moaned, your back arching off the bed. Your pussy clenched around him hard, and he realized the bite had sent pleasure shooting through you. "Yes, Victor, yes—"
He groaned against your neck, the vibration traveling through where his mouth sealed against your skin. He began to drink, taking small pulls of your blood, each swallow sending that incredible taste cascading down his throat.
His hips never stopped moving, fucking into you with renewed vigor. The combination of sensations—your tight heat around his cock, your blood in his mouth, your nails digging into his back—was overwhelming.
The Cupid blood began to affect him almost immediately.
It started as warmth in his chest, then spread outward like liquid fire through his veins. But it wasn't painful—it was euphoric. Every nerve ending came alive, hypersensitive. The feeling of your pussy around him intensified until he could feel every ridge, every flutter, every clench with crystal clarity.
Colors seemed brighter behind his closed eyelids. Sounds became richer—he could hear the individual rustles of your feathers, the specific pitch of your moans, the wet sounds of his cock driving into you. Even the scent of sex in the room became more complex, layered.
It was like the best high he'd ever experienced, but cleaner. Brighter. There was no fog, no dulling of his senses—just pure amplification of everything.
"Oh fuck," he gasped, pulling back from your neck. Blood stained his fangs, his lips, and he licked them automatically, chasing every drop of that incredible taste. "Oh fuck, that's—what is that—"
"Cupid blood," you panted, your pupils blown so wide your eyes looked black. The hearts were visible now, pulsing with each rapid beat of your heart. "Hits different, doesn't it?"
"Different" was an understatement. He felt invincible, powerful, alive in a way he'd never experienced. Every thrust into you felt like the first time and the thousandth time all at once. He could feel your pleasure mixing with his own, some kind of feedback loop created by the blood connection.
He could almost taste your emotions—desire, affection, something deeper that neither of you had named yet.
His rhythm became almost frantic, chasing the building pleasure. The high from your blood amplified everything, made his approaching orgasm feel like it might actually destroy him in the best possible way.
"Not gonna last," he warned, his voice wrecked. "Fuck, I'm—"
"Me too," you gasped. Your legs tightened around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, forcing him deeper. "Come with me, Victor. Want to feel you—" your hand found your clit, rubbing frantically, and that was all it took. You came with an immediate moan this time, your whole body seizing, your pussy clamping down on him like it was trying to pull him deeper, to keep him inside forever.
The sensation of you coming—intensified by the blood high—shattered his control completely. He buried himself as deep as possible (even though he probably should've pulled out) and let go, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself inside you. The sensation making him press deep. Inside, fuck yes, inside.
But this orgasm was different than the one he achieved at work. Enhanced by your blood, it felt like it went on forever, wave after wave of pleasure that bordered on painful in its intensity. He could feel it in every cell of his body, could feel you everywhere, could feel the connection between you like a physical thing.
He roared against your neck, the sound inhuman, his body trembling with the force of his release.
When it finally subsided, he collapsed onto you, unable to hold himself up anymore. His cock was still inside you, both of you too sensitive and too exhausted to move. Your blood hummed through his system, that warm, bright high settling into a pleasant buzz.
"Holy shit," he mumbled against your neck, where the bite marks were already starting to close. Cupid healing, probably. "That was—I've never—"
"I know," you said softly, your hand stroking through his fur gently. Your other wing had come around to cover both of you more fully, a protective gesture that made his chest tight. "Cupid blood is... intense."
"That's putting it mildly." He managed to lift his head, looking down at you. Your face was flushed, hair plastered to your forehead with sweat, lips swollen from kissing. You looked thoroughly debauched and absolutely beautiful. "Are you okay? Did I take too much?"
"I'm fine," you assured him, one hand coming up to cup his face. Your thumb stroked over his snout gently. "You were careful. Just enough to feel good for both of us."
He turned his head, pressing a kiss to your palm. The gesture felt intimate in a way that went beyond the physical intimacy you'd just shared. "Thank you," he said quietly. "For trusting me with that."
"Of course." Your expression was soft, open in a way that made his heart stutter. "I trust you, Victor."
The words settled over him like a blanket. Trust. Such a simple word, but it meant everything. You trusted him—Victor, the con man, the addict, the man who'd built empires on lies. You saw all of that and still chose to trust him.
He kissed you then, slow and deep, tasting himself and you and the lingering sweetness of your blood. Your arms came around him, holding him close, and neither of you seemed in a hurry to break apart.
Finally, he had to pull out, both of you wincing at the sensitivity. He rolled to the side, taking you with him so you were pressed against his chest. Your wings adjusted, one tucking against your back while the other draped over both of you.
"I can still feel it," he murmured, his hand stroking absently along your spine. "Your blood. It's like... everything is brighter."
"It'll fade in an hour or two," you told him, your voice already drowsy. "Enjoy it while it lasts."
He planned to. The high was already starting to mellow into something more sustainable—still heightened senses and that pleasant warmth, but less overwhelming. It felt good. Really good.
So after a breather and cuddle, along with refresher of some water. Sex happened again.
A blur of positions and pleasure through the night. Sucking his cock while he ate you out, he cumming down your throat as you gushed against his snout; you bent over the bed or better yet, angled proper so the two of you could watch your reflections as you fucked. More biting, of course. Not too much blood taking, maybe just licking what did happen but no actual sips.
At some point, his hands found your wings, and when he gripped them—
—your entire body arched like you'd been struck by lightning, a sharp gasp ripping from your throat that might have been his name or might have been a prayer.
"Fuck—" Sonar's grip on your wings tightened instinctively, and the sensation shot straight down your spine to your core, making you clench around nothing. "Did you just—did I hurt you—"
"No—" You were panting, trembling, your wings fluttering spastically in his grip. "No, that's—that's really good, actually. Fuck.” A whimper. “Wings— sensitive. Really sensitive."
His white eyes seemed to go dark with understanding, with renewed hunger. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," you breathed, and when he gave an experimental tug—gentle but firm—you moaned outright, head falling back.
"Oh, this is dangerous," he murmured, fascinated, using your wings as leverage to pull you closer, to adjust the angle as you rode him. "This is—fuck, you feel so good, clenching like that—"
Each touch to your wings sent sparks of pleasure through your nervous system, made you tighten around his cock buried deep inside you. The combination was intoxicating—the stretch and fullness of him inside you, the electric sensation of his hands on your wings, the way he was looking at you like you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"Vic—" His name was a plea, a warning, and he understood immediately.
"Yeah, me too—come on, angel, cum for me—want to feel you—"
His thumb found where your wing met your back, pressing down on a cluster of nerves there, and that was it. You came with a cry-almost-sob, wings spreading wide involuntarily, feathers catching the lamplight as your body seized with pleasure. The sight of you—wings spread, head thrown back, body trembling—sent Sonar over the edge right after, his hips stuttering as he buried himself deep and filled you.
You collapsed against his chest afterward, both of you sweaty and panting and utterly spent. His arms came around you—careful of your wings now that he knew how sensitive they were—and for a long moment you just breathed together.
“That was… so hot.”
You giggled against his chest. “Yeah. It was.”
You weren’t sure what time it was or how many rounds you've went by the time you pulled yourself up. Hand caressing Sonar who still looked like he was riding some high, whether it be from the sex or the lingering effect of your blood you were sure.
“Wanna try something else?” You tilt your head toward your shoulder while looking down at him.
“Is that a trick question?”
You couldn’t help but chuckle at that.
The air around you shimmered, and your form began to change. Your breasts flattened, chest broadening. Your hips narrowed, shoulders widening. Your features sharpened, becoming more angular, more masculine. And between your legs, a cock emerged, growing until it stood proud and hard against your abdomen.
"Oh fuck yes," Sonar breathed, staring at your erection like it was the second coming. Despite the exhaustion of the entire night, he definitely could find the energy for more. “I've been thinking about this since lunch. Since you got all commanding and powerful with Flambae. This cock, these wings, you being all dominant and—"
"Sonar," you interrupted, amused. "You're rambling." But hey, now you know he was actually interested in it before this specific moment. It made some anxiety ease in your gut. It’s rare that you get to embrace this side of yourself. It’s nice. Especially when it’s Sonar you’re doing it with.
"Sorry, I just—" He looked up at you, white eyes wide and honest. "Can I suck it? Please? I've never—I mean, I've thought about it, but never actually—"
Sonar descended on your cock with the same enthusiasm he'd shown your breasts and pussy earlier. He started with his hand, wrapping his fingers around the shaft and stroking experimentally. Your cock was thick, warm, the skin velvety soft over the hardness beneath. Precum beaded at the tip, and he leaned down to lick it off.
The taste was different from your slick—more neutral, slightly salty—but still undeniably you. Always you. He swirled his tongue around the head, mapping the shape of it, before taking you into his mouth.
His technique was unpracticed, but what he lacked in experience he made up for in sheer eagerness. He took you deeper, tongue working against the underside, fangs carefully avoiding contact as he bobbed his head. The stretch of his jaw was unfamiliar but not unpleasant, and the weight of you on his tongue was grounding.
You gasped above him, wings spreading wider across his bed, feathers rustling. Your hand found his head, fingers tangling in his fur, not directing but encouraging
"That's it," you murmured. "Just like that. You're doing so good."
The praise made Sonar moan around your cock, the vibration sending a visible shudder through your body. He took you deeper, testing his limits, gagging slightly before adjusting and trying again. He wanted to take all of you, wanted to prove he could.
Your hips rocked in small movements, fucking his mouth gently, letting him set the pace. His hands gripped your thighs, claws pricking skin and neither of you minded him breaking skin, holding you in place as he worked. Drool began to leak from the corners of his mouth, making everything sloppier, wetter.
"Fuck, your mouth," you groaned. "So eager, such a good slut.”
That had Sonar nearly cumming. Yep, he's a slut and he sure as hell likes being called one.
He let out a whine when you pulled him off minutes later, “None of that.” You laugh as you easily began to pull him. “Don’t want to cum down your throat. Not yet.”
And he whimpered at that thought.
"Tonight is about you," you murmured. "What do you want?” Echoing the same question that began this night.
Sonar's mind was hazy as his chest heaved. "I want—" He swallowed hard, the mixture of saliva and precum working down his throat. “I want you to fuck me. Please."
You pulled back to meet his eyes, searching. "You've done this before?"
"No." The admission felt vulnerable. "But I want to. With you. Tonight."
You cupped his face gently, thumb brushing over his cheek. "We'll take it slow."
You flipped your positions in one smooth movement, pressing Sonar into the mattress. Your wings spread wide, creating a canopy over both of you, blocking out the rest of the world. It felt intimate, protected, like nothing existed beyond this bed.
"Easy, pet," you cooed, kissing his snout. "I have to make sure you're prepared."
“Do you though?” He grumbled and you simply chuckled, working a pillow under his hips.
“Yes. Now behave or get nothing.”
He was smart to listen this time.
Sonar heard the snap of a bottle cap— had you gotten the lube from his nightstand? Or did you bring it yourself—and then slick fingers were trailing down his spine, over the curve of his ass. You took your time, massaging the muscle there, helping him relax.
When your finger first circled his hole, he tensed instinctively. You paused, your other hand stroking soothing patterns on his lower back. "Relax," you instructed softly. "I've got you."
He forced himself to relax, focusing on his breathing. Your finger pressed in slowly, just the tip at first, and the sensation was strange—not quite uncomfortable but definitely foreign. You worked it gradually, letting him adjust to each new increment.
"Ngh—ugh—" His abdomen tensed as he curled before his head fell back, hand gripping at your shoulder.
"There you go," your voice lathered his ears, a frequency he found himself zeroing in on. "Just breathe."
He clenched briefly around your finger as your other hand reached for his cock. Fingers wrapping around the length and steadily stroking him. The dual sensation—the intrusion and the pleasure—helped distract his focus from the new experience.
You worked him open with patient precision, adding more lube when needed, not rushing. One finger became two, stretching him wider, finding angles that made him gasp. You crooked your fingers, searching, and when you found his prostate he nearly came off the bed.
"Fuck!" The pleasure was intense, radiating from that spot throughout his entire body. "What—"
"That's your prostate," you explained, stroking over it again and making him moan. "Feels good?"
"Yes—fuck yes—don't stop—"
But you did slow down when you added a third finger, giving him time to adjust to the increased stretch. It burned slightly, but you were generous with the lube and your other hand never stopped stroking his cock, keeping him aroused and distracted.
Time became fluid. You worked him open thoroughly, refusing to rush despite his increasing desperation. Your fingers thrust into him steadily, spreading occasionally, making sure he was truly ready. The sight of him, folded open and drunk on a new level of pleasure made your cock practically ooze with precum.
"'Stop—stop! Stop—" he finally gasped.
You immediately froze, your fingers going still. Concern colored your voice as you asked, "What's wrong? Are you hurt—?"
"No, no." He shook his head, chest heaving. "I was about to cum." He turned his head to look back at you, white eyes meeting yours with raw honesty.
“I want to cum on your cock, not your fingers. That's why I told you to stop."
Your expression shifted from concern to dark hunger. You withdrew your fingers fully now, carefully, and he felt the immediate emptiness. He heard you slicking up your cock and then the blunt head was pressing against his entrance.
"Ready?" you asked, one hand steady on his hip.
"Yes," Sonar breathed. "Please—"
You pushed in slowly, and even with all the preparation, the stretch was intense. Your cock was thicker than your fingers, and the burn made him gasp. You paused when just the head was inside, giving him time to adjust.
"Breathe," you reminded him, your hand stroking his flank. "You’re doing amazing. Taking me so perfectly.”
Sonar forced himself to relax, to breathe through it. The burn gradually faded into something else—fullness, pressure, the overwhelming awareness of being penetrated.
"More," he managed. "I can take more."
You obliged, pushing deeper with careful control. Inch by inch, you filled him, pausing whenever he tensed, not moving forward until he'd relaxed again. It felt like it took forever, but finally your hips were flush against his ass, your cock fully seated inside him.
"Ohhh, fuck!" Sonar gasped. He felt impossibly full, stretched around you, and when you shifted slightly it sent sparks up his spine. "Oh fuck, oh fuck— fuck.”
"I'm gonna move now," you warned.
You pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, before pushing back in. The drag of your cock against his inner walls was overwhelming. You knew it would be so you set a gentle rhythm, letting him get used to the sensation.
But Sonar didn't want gentle.
He'd never wanted gentle. Not right now, at least.
He pushed against you, trying to get you deeper, harder. "More," he demanded. "Fuck me properly. I can take it."
You didn't need to be told twice. Your knees adjusted, hands gripped his hips as you picked up the pace, thrusting harder. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, mixing with his increasingly desperate moans.
"Yes—yes—fuck—" He couldn't form coherent sentences anymore. Every thrust hit that spot inside him that made his vision white out. His cock was leaking steadily onto his stomach, bouncing untouched, and he'd never been this turned on in his life.
Your wings mantled over both of you, feathers brushing his skin with each thrust.
"Your ass was made for my cock. So tight, so perfect. Taking it like a good cocksleeve,” you growled, your voice rough with exertion and pleasure.
Sonar could only moan in response, completely lost in sensation. Every nerve ending felt electrified. Your cock stretched him so perfectly, filled him so completely. He'd never felt anything like this—never felt so utterly claimed, so thoroughly used.
You leaned forward, adjusting his legs—mindful of how flexible he is and isn’t, but enough is enough and you manage to press deeper. Enticing a moan from his unique chords.
You release one of his legs, letting it rest against your chest as you reached, finally wrapping around his aching cock. The moment you touched him, he was gone.
His orgasm hit like a freight train, his whole body convulsing as he came harder than he ever had in his life. His ass clenched rhythmically around your cock, his own cock pulsing in your hand as he painted the sheets beneath him. The pleasure was so intense it bordered on painful, wringing him out completely.
You fucked him through it, your thrusts becoming erratic as his tightening walls pushed you over the edge. You buried yourself deep, your cock throbbing as you filled him with your cum. The feeling of being filled in both ways—your cock and your cum inside him—made him whimper with oversensitivity.
You collapsed forward, careful to catch yourself on your hands so you didn't crush him. Both of you were panting, covered in sweat, thoroughly spent. Slowly, carefully, you pulled out, and he winced at the drag. He could feel your cum starting to leak out of him, and the filthiness of it made his spent cock give a weak twitch.
"One more—" Sonar murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, body aching in ways that should probably concern him but don't. Every muscle feels used, stretched, pleasantly destroyed. His ass is sore, his jaw aches from earlier, and there are bite marks scattered across his body that sting when he moves. He doesn't want it to end. Even after hours and hours of this, especially after your shift. He doesn't want this birthday to end. Not if it means the gift stops.
"Victor—" you softly start, fond yet concerned. You can feel his exhaustion through the connection your wings create, wrapped as they are around both of you. "We've been at it for hours. You—"
"I can handle it." He argues, but he doesn't even have the strength to look over his shoulder. His white eyes are half-lidded, his breathing still uneven from the last round. "I can." Softer, he adds—or perhaps pleads, like it truly is that meaningful—"One more."
You lay there, staring at his back. The fur is matted with sweat in places, and you can see the marks you've left on him. Scratches from your claws when you'd lost control. Bite marks on his shoulders. Bruises on his hips from gripping him too hard. Your feathers bristle as you pick up on the emotions, the turmoil, things overlaying each other that make you confused as you process them.
In a way, you had assumed he would take it casually. Take this, casually.
Not like you minded it being something else but... it’s confusing, I guess. You don't know.
Cupids do a lot of things, but you can't say that you are as sexually active as others. Or at least your relationships are more emotional and complicated than most Cupids you've encountered. It was difficult for you to be as open as they were. Sex was easy for most of your kind—a tool, a pleasure, something freely given and taken without attachment. Because love can be like that, love can be many things and when you’re kin that is both love and war—contradictions are expected. Even if it sometimes you’re confused even with your own nature.
But just like any individual that is distinctively not human, partners who focused on what you are and only engaged with you because of it is just tiring. The fetishization gets old fast. People want to fuck a Cupid, want to experience the mythological being, but they don't want you. They don't see past the wings and the transformations and the supernatural allure.
Maybe that's sort of how it started with the two of you today—or rather yesterday, you realize, noting the early morning light starting to creep through his blinds. Casual. Friends doing it because fuck it, who cares. The Z-Team dosen’t. Neither of you expecting it to change until it did.
Maybe it was in the closet, when the two of you had engaged in helping each other rather than doing your individual cleanups. He'd groomed you—a gesture far more intimate than you initially thought it to be, his tongue lapping up his mess and simply soothing your skin with a reverence that made your chest tight in memory of it now. While you had carefully got him redressed, did his pants, his belt, fixed his tie, smoothing down his fur and clothes alike; both of you moving in synchronicity like you'd done this a hundred times before.
Or maybe it started forming long before that and you jumping the ship and actually sending him pics of your tits was just the thing that finally kicked it in motion. The culmination of weeks of tension, of lingering looks during dispatch calls, of inside jokes that only the two of you understood.
Or... that's all just projection on your part. Wishful thinking.
You aren't as keen as you thought you were on matters of love. Reading others' emotions, facilitating their connections—that's easy. Your own? A fucking mess.
Sonar snaps you out of your thoughts, his name on his lips, questioning and oh so vulnerable.
"Okay," you whisper.
You see and feel him relax. Feel the way his body eases, melts even, as you settle closer. The relief that radiates from him is palpable, and it does something to your heart that you're not sure how to approach.
This time you simply keep to the spooning position instead of doing something grand. Your masculine form is still active, your cock already hardening again despite the marathon you've both been through. You're running on supernatural stamina at this point, but even that has its limits.
Your hand is gentle as you adjust him and he lets you. Trusting and pliant in your control as you hook his leg forward slightly, opening him up. Your right arm tucks under his neck, adjusting a bit to find a comfortable position before relaxing. His own arm bends, his hand managing to find your fingers. It's a hold first, his claws grasping at your digits in a clasp.
"You sure?" you ask, seeking confirmation one more time. Because consent matters, even in the haze of exhaustion and desperate need.
"...If it's okay."
And you softly exhale.
"Of course it's okay."
Your other hand carefully guided yourself back in, treating it like the first time despite the multiple rounds declaring otherwise. He's looser now, as expected. His body having adjusted, but you're still careful. Slow. Your cock slides in easier this time, his hole still slick with lube and cum from before.
Sonar makes a small sound—not quite pain, not quite pleasure, something in between. His hand tightens around yours as you bottom out, your hips flush against his ass.
This time, it's slower. Your hips rolling to work in and out, a gentle rhythm that's more about connection than pleasure. Fingers interlacing with his as your other hand settles on his thigh, feeling the muscle there trembling with fatigue.
Your lips press to his shoulder, eyes shut as you focus on the moment rather than the rush of adrenaline or eagerness to please. This is probably the quietest the both of you have been since starting. Not to say neither of you were enjoying it. Just the focus was different. That's all.
The room is filled with soft sounds—the rustle of feathers, the quiet gasps and sighs, the gentle slap of skin on skin. Your cock drags against his inner walls with each slow thrust, and you can feel him clenching around you occasionally, like his body doesn't want to let you go.
"Feel good?" you murmur against his shoulder, against fur and flesh.
"Mm-hmm." He can't seem to form words anymore, reduced to small sounds of contentment. His eyes are closed, long ears relaxed rather than alert.
You fuck him like this for a long time, slow and steady and intimate. There's no urgency now, no desperate race to orgasm. Just the two of you, connected in the most primal way, your wings creating a cocoon that shuts out the rest of the world.
When you finally cum, it's gentle. A slow build rather than an explosive finish. Your cock pulses inside him, adding to the mess already there, and he makes a satisfied sound.
"Together," he mumbles, and you realize he's coming too, his cock untouched but leaking onto the sheets beneath him. His ass tightens rhythmically around you, milking the last of your release.
You stay like that for a while, still buried inside him, both of you catching your breath. Your supernatural form is starting to flicker at the edges—a sign that even your stamina has limits.
“Best… birthday… ever.”
“So you’ve told me.” But amusement is laced on your tongue.
His white eyes are glazed with exhaustion and satisfaction, a dopey smile on his bat-like face. "Love you," he mumbles, then immediately seems to realize what he said.
His eyes widen slightly. "I —"
"Shh." You give his hand a gentle squeeze, readjusting so the arms could rest in a comfortable position. Your other hand tucking across his chest. "Sleep first. Talk later."
He nods, relief evident, and his eyes start to drift closed.
But even in his exhausted state, his hand finds yours, fingers interlacing. And that simple gesture feels more intimate than everything that came before it.
You watch him fall asleep, his breathing evening out, his body finally relaxing completely. The marks on his body are extensive—you've really marked him up. Bite marks on his shoulders and neck, scratches down his back, bruises on his hips and thighs. He's going to be sore for days.
But he looks happy. Content in a way you've never seen him during work hours, when he's all sharp intelligence and business acumen and barely controlled addiction issues.
You should sleep too. You're exhausted, your body aching in unfamiliar ways. But you stay awake a while longer, watching him, your wings tucked close to conserve warmth.
Eventually, sleep claims you too.
Of course, later, you’d force yourself to stir. Making every moment and step a second of taxing existence, as the additional exertion of simply being awake (even worse, moving) after finally being lulled to rest is its own kind of torture.
It took a minute to find the necessary items, sliding the sheet inward. There you had filled Sonar ever gently to his side, cleaned him gently with a soaked towel, removed the other half of the sheet then did the reverse movement with the new one. He listened so well, even in his exhausted state. Let you give him some water and carefully help him in boxers at the very least. By then, you truly were faltering. But hey, despite the very deep exhaustion you couldn't be mad. That's as good as you’re getting right now…
Hours pass, as they do. The sun has rose fully, bright morning light eventually giving way to afternoon. Neither of you stir, too deeply exhausted to notice the passage of time.
The door to the apartment clicks open sometime around 2:45 PM. Footsteps, quiet but deliberate, move through the living room. A tall figure appears in the doorway to Sonar's bedroom, surveying the scene with amusement.
Malevola leans against the doorframe. Her yellow pupilless eyes take in the chaos: clothes scattered everywhere, the smell of sex heavy in the air, the two thoroughly debauched figures passed out in bed.
She moves closer, noting with professional concern the extent of the marks on both of you. Nothing that looks dangerous, but definitely thorough. Her prehensile tail swishes behind her as she approaches Sonar's side of the bed.
The cup of ice water in her hand hovers over his face. Till she lovers it, pressing it directly against that sensitive pink snout.
A groan fell from his lips, nose twitching as the chill pressed against the sensitive flesh. The cold makes his face scrunch up, snout twitching in dismay as he turns away, protecting himself from the attack.
"Morning you wild animal. Or afternoon, I guess," Malevola says cheerfully. Her tail comes up, delivering a gentle but firm smack to his groin.
Sonar squeaks—actually squeaks—and shoots upright. The motion brings him forward then back down in his collapse, hands protective over his crotch. "Ow! What the—"
"Mav?" He blearily frog blinks, processing the familiar figure looming over his bedside. "What... what are you doing here?"
"Making sure you aren't dead." Malevola smiles, hand resting on her hip. The cup of ice water settles on the bedside table, courtesy of her prehensile tail. "Seems like the two of you went all out. Don't think those are going to disappear anytime soon."
She nods toward the bed, drawing his eyes over.
You.
You're here.
You're still here.
The anxiety he woke up with—something unexplainable, that cold dread that you'd have left, that it was just casual, that he'd read everything wrong—immediately disappears.
You're lying on your stomach, one wing tucked against you for extra warmth as the other is askew across his legs. Still nude, and now the marks from last night—his bites, his fangs, his hickies, the occasional clawing—are artfully displayed under the teasing afternoon sun streaming through the partially open blinds.
Your a mess even after the bath he vaguely remembers sharing with you, there's a particularly prominent bite mark on your shoulder that's going to bruise spectacularly, and there are scratches down your back where his claws had dug in during one particularly intense round.
His own body bears similar marks, badges of honor that buzz ever so delightfully under his skin. He can feel every one of them, the pleasant ache that speaks of a night well spent.
"Uuugh," Sonar turns his head away from the sight of you—because looking at you is making his body respond in ways it absolutely cannot handle right now—staring at the ceiling instead. "I'm hard again..." A sound that is both pained and pleasured. "...it hurts."
Malevola's chuckle can be heard as she stalks away from the bedside, moving around the room but keeping away from any possibly... questionable spaces. She's careful not to touch anything that might be bodily fluid adjacent, her tail flicking away from a particularly suspicious wet spot on the floor.
"What time is it?" Sonar asks, his voice rough from use—probably from all the moaning and the enthusiastic blowjob.
"Just turned 3 PM."
"Ah shit..." He processes this. "Blazer is going to kill me."
"Don't worry," Malevola reassures, moving to Sonar's closet and pulling it open. "C got you both covered. Told Blazer you wouldn't be in today just before leaving yesterday."
That catches Sonar's attention. His head turns, white eyes focusing on her with sudden focus. "What?"
The half-demon shrugs, but a smile plays on her lips—the kind that knows something good. "Guess he knew to play it smart. Can't really be helpful if you're limping everywhere like you got fucked in the ass."
Sonar seems fit to argue. The words are right there, his rain ready to formulate a rebuttal about his pain tolerance and professional capabilities or more importantly, how he’s never been with a man (because that had always been an initial statement). It doesn't happen though, especially as he feels just how sore his body is as he ever so slowly peels himself upright to sitting.
Every muscle protests. His ass is on fire—not in the fun way anymore, just in the deeply used way. His jaw aches. His hips hurt. There are twinges in places he didn't even know could get sore.
"I did get fucked in the ass," he states matter-of-factly, with the dignity of a man who's made peace with his choices. "And it was awesome."
Malevola's brows raise, surprised, followed by a huff of genuine amusement. "Good on you." She selects a graphic tee from his closet—one of his Vanderstenk merch shirts despite the dudes recent divorce with his wife. “Really, man."
"Despite the... clawing and looking like you got mauled and manhandled by a badger—" she glances at him again, her assessment more thorough, "—you look good. Or well, happy. Beyond just 'sex happy.'"
There's a knowing quality to her tone. Malevola's been his sponsor for a while now, then of course, a great friend—helped him through some of his darkest moments. She knows what his face looks like when he's just chasing the next high, the next rush, the next thing to make him feel something other than empty.
This isn't that.
"I get it." Sonar reassures, his voice softer. More honest. "I am. Happy..." He pauses, looking back at your sleeping form. A genuine smile crosses his bat features. "Thanks."
Malevola simply hums in acknowledgment before she tosses the shirt. It sails through the air, landing perfectly draped over his fuzzy head. "Don't mention it. Now get your angel dressed. Brought food for you two."
The shirt slides down his face as he pulls it off, looking at her with surprise. "You brought food?"
"You think I'm gonna let you two starve after fucking for—" she checks her phone, "—what, eight hours? Nine? The timeline's unclear but the results are obvious." She heads toward the bedroom door. "I got Thai. Your favorite place. It's in the kitchen. Whenever you two are... mobile."
"Mav?"
She pauses, looking back.
"Seriously. Thank you."
Her expression softens. "That's what friends are for, Victor. Making sure you don't die in stupid ways. Though I gotta say, 'death by birthday sex' would be a new one."
She leaves, pulling the door mostly closed behind her to give you both privacy but not completely—probably in case one of you actually does need help getting to the bathroom.
Sonar sits there for a moment, shirt in his hands, staring at your sleeping form. You're still out cold, exhausted in ways that speak to just how thoroughly you both wore each other out.
Slowly, carefully—because everything hurts—he shifts. His body stretches, causing his face to twist in soreness before relaxing as he’s brought himself closer to you. Resting on an arm, his other reached out, gently brushing along your wing. He’s learned that while its edges are delicate still, it isn’t as sensitive as other zones—allowing him to expose your face to the open.
To him.
Even in sleep, you're beautiful. Both forms, all forms, everything about you.
"Love you," he whispers, quieter this time. Meaning it even more than when he'd accidentally blurted it out before. "Not just the sex. Just... you."
You don't wake, but you make a small content sound and shift slightly closer to his touch.
Sonar allows himself a few more minutes of watching you sleep, memorizing this moment. He’ll just bring you food in bed. No need for both of you to suffer shuffling about. So, with a groan that would make an old man proud, he forces himself to stand.
His legs immediately protest. His ass screams at him. He actually has to grab the nightstand for balance.
"Worth it," he mutters to himself, and begins the arduous process of finding some pants that aren't going to rub against all his new sensitive areas.
This is going to be an interesting conversation when you wake up. But right now? Right now he's just grateful you stayed.
And later, with the rather helpful Mal, the two of you would soak in the bathtub (after she practically sprayed you two down like she just found out the two of you had fleas) while lazily eating Thai. It’s a surprise that half of it even got in your mouths but hey, a win is a win. But you do wince when Sonar accidentally kicks the hell out of you in the dick—he’ll eventually be mindful of the cargo.
Because it’ll become obvious just how much he loves bragging about you.
“My partner actually said—”
“You’re just jealous that my boyfriend—”
“Guys, my girlfriend—”
It’s like his Harvard rambling. Just cuter but also worse at the same time. In the end, he loves you and that’s all that matters. But you probably have to teach him not to talk about your personal time with the team.
“…Sonar, you have to stop talking to people about my dick like it’s a crypto investment.”
“I wasn’t. I was just saying—wait.” A pause that had made you shut your eyes and simply regret speaking. “We could totally make that into a coin—”
Author's Note: This was lowkey supposed to have an Alt. with Flambae (which would've been entirety masc!reader) and an Alt. w/ Robert (just bc it happened to happen.) I might still do the Flambae route because that one was more emotionally connected to the reader (difficulty with like shit they gone through and gender dysphoria) and the both of them dealing with their insecurities and whatnot. If you think this is a mess though y'all should've seen how it looked initially, there was like every damn thing going around left and right and had to be removed and put elsewhere because it just would've been a multi-fic instead of Sonar focused.
just wanted to let you know that i have not played dispatch or even heard of it before but i somehow came across your fics and now I'm so utterly obsessed with what if i spent 2 days doing almost nothing but reading it
FJEJSJSHS WHATTTT?!3$ THATS SO COOL!!!! 😭
Reading that made me kick my feet and shiii. Really it's such a delight to hear that. Thank you for taking the time to tell me because now I will wear it like a badge of honor. Dragging those outside of the fandom into it by the power (or curse) of fanfiction. 💛
I wanted to share the convo I had with friends after I released Cupid My Cupid. It’s esp funny tho bc like half of of them are just cis-straight men who support my very not straight endeavors.
Mention of Sonar (and his Mega Bat self), Waterboy, and… sigh… Darius from League of Legends. NSFW but like not Explicit.
more below (unfortunately /hj):
And other stuff… I blurred it bc I shy (outside my friend group). 😔🙃
summary: It's Sonar's birthday and what does he love more than anything in the world? Boobs. Needless to say, you make sure he has the best birthday possible till midnight.
pairing: Sonar x Cupid!Reader | NSFW
[Reader is Fem-Bodied and goes by She/Her a lot in this fic, however the others also change from that to they/he as you're generally genderfluid as a Cupid. There IS a scene as masc with a cawk at some points in the story. Anyway, I've always described Cupids as entities that just don't gaf about gender or sexuality; or at least in a way that humans have. I mean, why would they? they're cupids, they're contradictions, they're beautiful. Maybe we're all just cupids]
tags: Coworkers/Friends to Lovers (you and Sonar), reader is a literal cupid, Smut, Birthday Sex, Whiny Sonar, Nudes, Multiple Orgasms, Tit Fuck, Semi-Public Sex, Oral Sex, Penetrative Sex, Anal/First Time Bottoming(Sonar), Shapeshifting, Bloodplay (or is it Vamprisim? just a little bit though), biting, marking, Substance Use Reference, Blood High, Is that a thing? idk, Hurt/Comfort, Caught Feelings, Power Dynamics, Size Difference (but not focused), Wing Kink, Ear Kink (like stimulation not… the other one), Overstimulation, Marathon Sex, Dirty Talk, But not as much bc I honestly held back lol--I was going to be more lewd but I got shy... I didn't get to write the masc!reader x Sonar scenes as much as I wanted because of how shitty I set that up so I am sad about that...
author's note: I have this HC that is used in this fic of Sonar having sharp nails even as a humanoid (like he's still somewhat struggling to contain his true self)… also there's a bit more fur, not anything crazy just def a happy trail (or would it be a happy road?) I honestly dk how to feel about this fic. But I couldn't just leave it in the dust. I usually flesh out intimate scenes more but because this was lowkey just back to back sex scenes I had struggled. Might delete later. Who knows.
rq open // want to be on tg for specific character content? feel free to ask! (I.e. tagged for every sonar fic I release in the future.) Also dw I see y'alls requests I just take a moment to write stuff up!
[wrds: 18,188 | chrs: 107,855]
[NOT BETA READ] (burn me at the stake)
Read on Ao3
Today was rather mundane. Other than it being Sonar’s birthday—which he had pointedly told everyone about at least several times (even though they already knew and even gave him well wishes + promises to celebrate) all while he wore his birthday hat…
But again, everything was generally… normal. But, oh, of course that isn’t allowed to stay that way because this is SDN and this team in particular are anything but normal.
The SCREECH was sudden, inhuman, pitched, something that made your teeth ache and ears scream in agony. Especially as the audio emits a sort of pitched feedback thanks to the frequency echoing through all their ears. Several voices overlapped through it, pained yelps, creative combinations of curses, or just their own screams of agony at the torturous sound being forcefully bestowed on their persons.
"JESUS FUCKING—"
"MY EARS—"
“WHAT THE FUCKKKK!”
Then Sonar’s voice cuts through—properly, not via screeching—strained and reverent in a way that made Robert’s eye twitch.
“LETS GOOOOOOOOOOO, BOOBS!”
The words come out strangled, reverent, followed by more incomprehensible sounds that might have once been words but have devolved into pure noise. It was like a man—or rather a bat—was having a religious experience in real-time. Squeaking. Chittering. The distinct underlying sound of something—no, someone—hyperventilating.
“BOOBS! It’s BOOBS!”
“PERFECT BOOBS!” Sonar’s voice emits across the comms, each word dripping with an almost religious fervor that made Robert's professional composure crack just slightly.
“and-and the-the—boooooooooooooooooooooooobbbbbbbbbsssssssss!” Sonar’s voice emits across the comms, his voice cracking on the last word. Ascending into registers that shouldn’t be possible for anything with a larynx. Followed by gasps and… sobs? It’s getting really difficult to understand what’s going on.
Robert winched, pressing his headset tighter to his skull in hope no one was able to hear the obscene sounds happening thanks to the volume Sonar is emitting. “Sonar—Sonar!” He hissed, shoulders hunching as he kept close to his monitor. As if to shield it from view… not like there is anything to shield from view but you get the point. “Please don’t tell me you’re watching porn on the job—” his voice carrying that particular blend of exhaustion and annoyance-resignation that came from managing a team of reformed criminals with supernatural abilities and absolutely zero sense of workplace professionalism.
"What?! No. What am I? A gooner?" Sonar's indignation came through crystal clear, though the slight defensive pitch suggested he'd been called worse.
"Uh, yes?" That was Golem, wondering if it was a trick question.
"Absolutely yes," Invisigal confirmed.
"Without question," Coupé added, her tone dry.
"I—" Sonar sputtered. "That's—I'm a HARVARD GRADUATE—"
"Who goons," Malevola finished cheerfully.
"Fuck you, guys. I have class—" Sonar's rebuttal cut off abruptly. "Oh my god. Oh my god. Another one—dude-dude. Dude-” followed by another sound. Something that starts low and builds, something that sounds obscenely like a moan, breathy and broken and altogether far too intimate to be broadcast over a team-wide comm channel. Robert’s eye twitches more visibly now, his jaw clenching as he stares at the screen like it’s personally offended him. Or like he could just pull Sonar out and shut him up himself.
More than one Z-Team member grimaces with confused noises.
“Would you shut up! What the fuck is happening right now??” Flambae demands.
“Cupid…. Cupid’s perfect boobies… pictures of Cupid’s perfect boobies…” Sonar whispers, feeling far too close in everyone's ears right now.
Now the pause is directed toward you…
“I… may have… sent him photos as his birthday gift…?” Your voice piped up, almost questioning yourself, tinged with that particular innocent uncertainty that Robert was rapidly learning was absolutely, definitively a front. “He didn’t put anything else when he gave me his wishlist.”
Of-fucking-course it’s a front Robert. Cupid is still a criminal, albeit more with misdemeanors than felony shit—it doesn't matter, still a criminal!
"And it's PERFECT! Thank you! Thank you thank you!" Sonar's voice pitched higher, and he sounds close to tears. Happy tears. Grateful tears. The kind of tears that make everyone else on the line deeply uncomfortable. “This is the best gift anyone's ever given me. Ever. In my entire life. Better than my Harvard degree. Better than—”
“She sent you a nude? Let me see-” Invisigal pipped up, followed by a squeak—Sonar startled at her sudden appearance.
"No! no! Mine! Mine!!!" Sonar hissed, the sound distinctly animalistic, possessive in a way that sent his bat-like nature into sharp relief. "This is MINE." And he distinctively looks like Gollum and the One Ring to those witnessing his current state in person. The words dripped with a territorial aggression that would've been threatening if it wasn't about a goddamn nude photo.
"Dude. C'mon—" Invisigal argued, and Robert could hear the grin in her voice, enjoying this entirely too much.
"Absolutely fucking not. This is a gift. A personal, intimate, perfect gift and you can get your own damn nudes from your own Cupid! A different Cupid preferably—"
Some more scuffling, a squeak-screech.
Those two going at it. Invisigal mostly doing it just to harass Sonar.
“What kind of picture causes the bat-man to make such—odd noises?” Phenomaman’s voice questions, having remained quiet while he was dealing with thugs. Who were currently looking at him as they dangle by their shirts with confusion. There is no judgment in his tone, as usual—just curiosity. “Is he in distress? Does he require medical assistance?”
“Oh, he requires some assistance, alright.” Malevola murmurs, resulting into some chuckles from the others and Robert banging his head on his desk.
“Have you not been listening?” Punch Up questions Phenomaman. “Cupid sent Sonar a nude. Specifically of her, y’know—” most wouldn’t see it but you could just tell he was gesturing toward his chest in emphasis, “breasts. Respectfully.”
“Tits,” someone corrects helpfully and Robert is too deep in wanting to die to process who that was.
“Ah. Do you mean their mammary glands?” Phenomaman asks, earning startled looks from the helpless criminals. Slightly terrified. Why is this dude talking about boobs while handling them like this?!
“‘Boobs, tits, knockers, best things in the world.’ Not mammary glands, don’t call no lady’s girls that. That’s weird, P.” Prism’s voice is warm with amusement but firm in her correction. "It’s offense to the ladies… Anyway, can we see your nudes too, Cupid-Baby? I wanna see what’s got batboy squealing like that.”
You took a moment to reply but when you did, “Huh? Oh. Yeah! Okay!” Your acceptance layers over the comms, not hesitant so much as distracted, your attention clearly split.
“You heard the lady, show me those titties!”
Followed by more sounds of roughhousing—hands scrambling for a phone, Sonar’s distressed bat noises rising in pitch and frequency as he’s jumped by women.
"Batboy, I swear to fuck, if you don't—" Invisigal's threat cut off with an 'oof' of impact.
"Mine! These perfect, gorgeous, heart-nippled tits are MINE!" Another screech. "I will bite! I have rabies!"
"You don't have rabies," Malevola's voice cut through, dry as bone. "We literally just got your shots updated last week."
"I'll GET rabies! Specifically for this!"
“That’s not how that—” Robert begins, only to groan in his hands as he’s drowned out.
-
Twenty minutes later, the chaos has mostly died down. Most of the team is back actually working and answering calls they were dispatched to, the comms settling into something resembling professional as everyone returns to their respective duties. Robert's fingers fly across his keyboard, pulling up dispatch logs and monitoring active calls with practiced efficiency.
Then Sonar's voice cuts through again.
"Robby. Robertson… Bobby McSon. The man, my man, the myth, the legend—RobBobSon, my favorite dispatcher—”
Robert’s eye was going to get stuck in that twitch. “I’m your only dispatcher.”
“—I need like a 10 minute break, Boss." Sonar's voice had dropped an octave, rough and strained in a way that made Robert's fingers freeze over his keyboard.
"Sonar—" Robert started, already knowing where this was going and desperately wanting to head it off.
"Please, dude." There's something almost desperate in the bat-man's voice now. "Or else I'm going to end up busting in my pants—"
"TMI."
"—and that would be really embarrassing for everyone involved."
Robert pinches the bridge of his nose. "Why are you like this?"
"It's not my fault!" Sonar protests. "Blame Cupid for being perfect!"
Invisigal’s voice pipes up, “Cupid totally promised to give him a handy, y’know that, right?” Her voice carried that knowing, teasing lilt that made Robert want to throw his headset across the room.
"Please focus on work..." Robert managed, running a hand down his face, feeling the stubble that had accumulated over the shift.
Yet—and he'd examine why later, probably never—he didn't send you or Sonar out for a call.
The mission board blinked with three low-priority incidents. A noise complaint in the warehouse district. Possible vandalism near the old theater. Suspicious activity at a convenience store—probably just teenagers.
Any of them would've been perfect for Sonar's current position. Get him moving, burn off that energy, distract him from whatever was happening in his pants.
Robert's mouse hovered over the assignment button.
Didn't press it.
He told himself it was because the incidents were too minor. Because splitting the team's attention wasn't tactically sound. Because Sonar's abilities weren't needed for such basic calls.
Not because some part of him—the part that hadn't gotten laid in fucking years, the part that was apparently capable of being curious despite his better judgment—wanted to see what would happen.
Definitely not that.
"Bobby, you still there?" Sonar's voice crackled through, slightly breathless.
"Unfortunately," Robert muttered, then cleared his throat, shifting back to his professional dispatcher tone. "Yes. What do you need, Sonar?"
"Just... confirming that break? Please? I'm begging you, man. As a birthday gift?"
"…You have fifteen minutes," Robert heard himself say, voice clipped. "After that, I'm assigning you to the warehouse district call whether you're... composed... or not."
"You're the best, Bobby! The fucking best! Harvard's got nothing on your management skills—"
"Fourteen minutes now," Robert interrupted, cutting off what was clearly going to become an embarrassing ramble.
"Right! Yes! Going dark!" The comm clicked off, Sonar's channel going silent.
Robert sat there in the relative quiet of the dispatch center. The other channels still carried ambient noise—Malevola's dark chuckle, Prism commenting on something, the crackle of Flambae's flames in the background.
He should've been reviewing the mission parameters. Checking in with the other team members. Coordinating with the main SDN office on the ongoing Phoenix Program evaluations.
Instead, he found himself staring at, wondering—
No.
Nope.
Not going there.
He forced his attention to the monitor, pulling up security camera feeds from around the city, determinedly not thinking about what was happening in whatever secluded corner Sonar had found. Or who might be joining him there.
The cameras flickered between views. Street corners, building entrances, the designated patrol zones.
Definitely not thinking about you.
About Cupid.
About the alleged "sweetest and most innocent" member of the Z-Team who apparently sent nude photos as birthday gifts and—according to Invisigal's absolutely unnecessary commentary—was currently providing hands-on celebration.
Robert's fingers drummed against his desk, a restless rhythm that betrayed his carefully maintained composure.
Twelve minutes left on Sonar's break.
"What is a ‘handy?’ Is that a type of fruit basket?" Phenomaman asks, because of course he does.
"It's when—" Punch Up starts, clearly ready to launch into an explanation.
"Don't explain to him what that is, please." Robert's groan is audible even through the static of the comms. "I'm begging you."
"The guy is curious," Invisigal argues. "We’re doing a favor educating him, aren't we? Cultural exchange.”
"You're really not."
"A 'handy' is short for 'hand job,'" Malevola explains, ignoring Robert entirely. "It's when someone manually stimulates another person's genitals to orgasm."
"Oh." Phenomaman sounds genuinely interested. "Is this a common human mating ritual?"
"It's not a mating ritual, it's just—" Robert starts.
"Can we please stop having this conversation?" Robert's voice has taken on a slightly hysterical edge.
"Why? Is talk of sexual acts uncomfortable for you?" Phenomaman asks with that earnest, completely guileless tone that makes it impossible to tell if he's being genuine or subtly fucking with everyone.
"Yes! Very!"
"Fascinating. On my planet, we discuss such matters openly. There is no shame in—"
The supply closet on the second floor, near the entrance Sonar utilized as Mega Bat of the SDN building was, objectively, not designed for what it is currently being used for. Cleaning supplies lined metal shelving units. Boxes of printer paper stacked in corners. The faint chemical smell of industrial cleaner mixing with dust. All while the single bare bulb lays off from above… after all, why shower this perfect moment in unflattering light if he has great vision in the dark? You easily accommodate to the shadows too.
You knew better than to just take Sonar in that little nook he uses when returning to work via Mega Bat. He’s just too vocal for that. (Or at least you presumed he was and hell, good on you for that.) For It’d be way too obvious and you truly didn’t want anyone bothering you in the middle of the birthday gift. Plus, despite what others may think, you do have decorum.
In the end, none of it mattered to Sonar; his back pressed to the wall, white eyes wide as he stared down at you. His fur bristling just so as his hands hover, fingers twitching. His nails have grown out, more claw-like (or perhaps talon) as his excitement made it harder to control his other. Something that would def not fit in this cramped space.
"Oh, fuck. Oh fuck—This is actually perfect—" Sonar whispered, his voice carrying that particular reverence usually reserved for religious experiences or successful stock market manipulations. You stood there, top and bra pushed up to rest against your collarbone; exposing yourself to the startling clear vision of Sonar’s eyes. Your wings — soft, downy things in the shades of white and palest pink located at your lower back — were half-folded behind you, rustling with each of your own excited breaths.
“Oh my god.” His palms press against the swells with gentleness that contrasts sharply with the desperation in his voice. He whimpers, fanged jaw agape as he stares at his hands—HIS hands—touching such warm, soft perfection. It's so unfair! People just get to have these things for free? 24/7? You have these 24/7? Oh, it’s so unfair. So selfish to keep these away for so long.
"You really like boobs that much, huh?" You question despite already knowing the answer, smiling as you let him continue his exploration. Your fangs—small, delicate things so different from his sharp bat's teeth—peeked out as you grinned before catching your bottom lip. The expression was fond, indulgent even.
"Yes.” He replies without pause. “But these—these are fucking masterpieces." Sonar's bat-nose twitched, he was leaning in now. Breathing you in.
Or rather, very intently sniffing as he fondled. Each inhale was deliberate, his entire face practically buried between your breasts as he committed your scent to memory.
The sensation felt… interesting, to say the least.
The warm breath brushing-blowing against your skin. The slight tickle of fur from his face. The tickle of his snout. Paired with the careful, almost reverent way his clawed fingers kneaded and explored, tracing the curves, testing the weight, thumbs brushing over your nipples. You weren’t sure if it was thanks to your Cupid biology that had him practically intoxicated on your scent—for yes, there’s some specific expelling you do naturally—or it was just him being half-bat…
Actually, it likely both given his amplified senses. Some people just get hit harder being with you, enhanced especially.
"The hearts—" Sonar's voice cracked slightly. "Your areolas are actually shaped like hearts. That's not—that wasn't a trick of the photo lighting—"
"Cupid anatomy," you confirmed, still smiling. "Cute, aren’t they?”
"It's perfect. You're perfect. This is—" Sonar cut himself off, white eyes flicking up to meet yours. Wider. Almost vibrant even in the darkness. "Please tell me I can put these perfect things in my mouth.” He’ll likely wail and drop and roll in agony if you say no. Begging and clinging to your legs like a mournful soaking bat till you give him sympathy.
You laughed then, head falling back, the sound bright and clear in the small space. He definitely did not, not want to bite that perfect throat. Your wings fluttered, feathers rustling as you look forward. Already nodding before the word forms on your lips, "Yes—"
Sonar audibly groaned like a man dying of thirst finally finding water, then he was diving in.
Hot. Wet. Desperate.
Your back arched lightly at first contact, followed by further—pressing firmly into his mouth as he sealed his mouth around your nipple, tongue—god, that tongue—working against the peak while his other hand continued kneading your other breast. The wet heat of his mouth contrasted with the cool air of the closet on your exposed skin.
Soft gasps escaped you, audible exhales punctuated by the flutter of your wings responding to the stimulation. Your hands slide up, scratching gently then gripping the fur at the back of his neck. Finding purchase in the surprisingly soft coat, careful to avoid those ears.
He groans at the sensation, pressing against you in turn. His hands stablize you even as he pushes you forward—or rather back—so he can pin you instead. Rather mindful of your wings even in his consumed state.
Oh, fuck.
Your head falls to the side, leg shifting to hook at his waist. He moves even closer, invading that newly open space.
"Fuck, you're into this," he mumbled against your skin. "Can smell how wet you are."
“I can't help it.” You reply breathlessly, eyes falling shut briefly. “You feel so good.” And that’s encouragement enough.
It takes a moment for him to finally unlatch himself from your tit, having been on a mission to practically give the whole thing a hickey. A string of saliva stretches as he does—connecting from your nipple to his mouth. It breaks, leaving a faint trail in his fur and on that pink muzzle. But he didn't mind. Of course he doesn’t.
His tongue laps, swiping, savoring. It resembled a dog drowning in the delight of peanut butter; but rather it's a bat-man and he's being coated with the sappiness delight of Cupid’s flesh.
“Fuck, you taste—" His voice rough, vaguely slurred. Very recked. "Sweet. Literally sweet. Is that—?"
"Cupid thing," you managed, the chill hitting your saliva-slick breasts. "We taste like... honey? Nectar? Depends on the person."
“Taste’s fucking delicious,” he concluded simply, diving in to give the same undivided attention as its companion.
His enthusiasm evident in every lick, suck, gentle bite—
Your breath hitched as his fangs grazed your skin, not quite breaking through but leaving faint indentations. Marking in its own way. As well as leaving the hint of danger, of his predatory nature barely restrained—being tested by your very existence, sent heat pooling low in your belly.
His fangs press slightly harder then—
You moan, a sudden sound that filled the small space. He'd definitely left marks this time. Small idents from his fangs decorating your breasts, around the heart-shaped areolas, across the swells of flesh.
"Mine," Sonar muttered against your skin, voice possessive and rough. "Mine, mine, mine—"
His hands squeezed, mapping every inch while his mouth worked, alternating between gentle worship and sharp claiming bites. Within minutes, you were overheated, marked, slick with his saliva as he drowned in your breasts.
“Sonar—”You whimpered at one point, and his name on your lips made him whimper.
“Mm-” he hums around your nipple. “Yeah? Yeah?” His words muffled against your skin, reluctant to pull away.
“Can I touch you?”
He nearly came there.
His hips doing an abortive thrust as his fingers press into your sides.
"Fuck. Yes. Please," he breathed, the word somewhere between prayer and demand. "Please, please. Please touch me—I need—you're so perfect, I'm so hard, please—"
He stumbles as you push him back, his body hitting a shelf as he submits under the switch. The bulge in his pants is obscene, delightfully obscene in a way that makes your walls squeeze around nothing. The way he's desperately trying to get his belt undone only makes it better.
You eventually manage to get the light on, wanting to see it proper. The sudden flash causes you both to wince but the task at hand is too much of importance to care about temporary blindness.
Your hands join his then, helping work his belt that—it singing as the metal hits together. “Oh fuck—” Sonar whispers breathlessly as you’re lowering yourself. Settling on your knees. You’re surprised at the fur you find initially when undoing the button and unzip. But it leads to a happy meal so—
His cock is freed, springing out hard as a rock. Flushed, leaking, practically pulsing with desperate need that makes you salivate.
"What do you want?" you asked, wrapping one hand around his shaft, giving an experimental stroke that made him whimper.
"Your tits," Sonar gasped out. "Please, fuck, your perfect tits. Want to—want to fuck them, please—"
You smiled, that same indulgent expression.
Leaning forward and pressing your breasts together around his cock.
Sonar's resulting moan was obscene.
His head fell back, hands curling at the metal shelving ledge behind him for support. The shelf creaked ominously but held. Before he looked down, nearly busting at the sight of you.
The alleged sweetest and most innocent member of the team, kneeling in a supply closet, getting him off with those perfect—now shining with his saliva and marked with his fangs—tits out.
Your breasts create a soft, warm channel for his cock. The heart-shaped areolas framed the view obscenely, his shaft hugged between the valley of flesh with each small thrust of his hips.
"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh—" Sonar's vocabulary had apparently reduced to two words and desperate whimpers.
You squeezed them together firmer for him, providing more pressure, and his hips jerked involuntarily, fucking into the soft heat.
"That's it," you encouraged, voice low and sweet. "Take what you need. It's your birthday."
My birthday.
Yes.
It’s my birthday.
Sonar's hands released the shelf, moving to cover yours, pressing against your hands and supporting them as he began to properly fuck your breasts. His clawed fingers overlapped yours, careful not to scratch, as he set a rhythm. Fighting between hunching over for a better mount to being pulled back enough so he can watch the beautiful sight.
Thrust.
Retreat.
Thrust.
The head of his cock emerging from between your breasts, flushed and dripping, before disappearing again.
You tilted your head down, tongue hitting the tip each time he thrusts forward.
But you did it again. And again. Each thrust punctuated by your tongue catching the head of his cock, tasting the precum that leaked steadily, creating a lewd mixture with your saliva.
Saliva stretched between your tongue and his cock, breaking, then forming again with the next thrust. A mirror of how he was with your tits. The wet sounds filled the small closet, slick, slick, slcik, mixing with Sonar's ragged breathing and muttered curses.
"So good," Sonar babbled, losing coherence. "Perfect tits, perfect mouth, perfect Cupid, so fucking sweet, gonna—fuck—Harvard never taught me—oh god—"
His thrusts become erratic, losing rhythm as he chases his release. The head of his cock bumps more insistently against your mouth now, and you open up just slightly, letting him feel the heat of your breath, the wet promise of your tongue.
You kept your tongue out, kept that sweet expression even as saliva dripped down your chin, even as his precum mixed with the wetness. Your wings rustled with each impact, feathers trembling at being used. The way he was losing himself, how he started to unravel and that meant harder. Faster. More. More, more…
"Close, ngh-" Sonar gasped, balls drawing tight. "Fuck, I'm close, so close, so fuckin’ close, gonna cum.”
You whimper at that, lashes fluttering. “Fuck—Victor,” Oh fuck. His perked ears swivel toward you. Oh you used his name. Oh my god you’re just so perfect. So fucking perfect when you say that. You’re soaked all from him. No one else. He's going insane. Going completely insane.
"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh—" His voice breaks on a high keen as he comes, his cock jerking between your breasts as the first rope of cum shoots across your collarbones.
He hears your gasp of surprise as he suddenly pulls away. He’s fumbling, stance adjusting, one hand bracing on the wall behind you while the other fisted his cock frantically. Painting you with thick streaks of white.
It splatters across your breasts, drips down the curve of them, pools in the valley between, between those gentle fingers. He's trembling, shaking as he has the best orgasm of his life.
"Ah—ah—ah—" Each sound is punched out of him, raw and overwhelmed. He’s had crazy orgasms before, but never one that has him so eagerly milking himself just so he can cover you in cum.
Finally, finally, he couldn’t take it anymore.
He slumps back against the wall, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. His eyes are glazed, unfocused, and when he looks down at you—kneeling there, covered in his cum, your tits marked and claimed—the sound he makes is almost pained.
You're a mess.
Cum drips down your chest, cooling on your skin, streaking across your breasts in thick, creamy lines. There's some on your chin, your neck, even a bit that somehow made it to your shoulder. You look absolutely debauched, and from the way Sonar's looking at you, that's exactly how he wants you.
Carefully, curiously, you swipe a finger through one of the streaks and bring it to your mouth. The taste is salty-bitter-musk, distinctly him, and you hum contentedly as your wings flutter just so, feathers rustling with satisfaction.
"Holy shit," Sonar breathes, watching you with heavy eyes.
It’s almost audible—or is visible?—when he has a lightbulb moment.
"Wait—wait, don't move—"
He's fumbling for his phone, his hands still shaking slightly as he pulls it from his pocket. The screen illuminates his face.
"Can I—" He swallows hard. "Can I take a picture? Please?"
You laugh, shifting slightly to give him a better angle. "Of course."
The camera clicks once. Twice. Three times. Four. He's taking photos from different angles, capturing the way the dim light catches on the mess he's made, the way your skin glistens, the way you're smiling up at him like you're perfectly content to be covered in his cum. There’s even some he takes with the light off, doing flash photography.
"Perfect," he whispers, more to himself than to you. "Fucking perfect. These are going to be my most prized possessions."
"Just those?" You tease. "Not the original picture?"
"These are better." He's still taking photos, seemingly unable to stop. "You're here. You're mine. You're—" His voice cracks slightly. "You're covered in me and you look so fucking happy about it."
You stand finally, stretching slightly in the confined space.
“Here let me-”
“I can help-”
The two of you pause in reaching to help each other. Followed by gentle laughter. Laughter that brings the two of you closer as it ebbs. You helping with his boxers and pants as he’s more than content to lap up the cum from your skin. Enjoying your soft hums and sighs with his occasional nibble to suck. It was both erotic and comforting.
“You’re so perfect,” he whispers, pressing himself to your shoulder, just where it meets your neck, deeply inhaling. “Really. You're amazing, [Name].”
Your smile warms, the want from earlier turning gentle as you loop his belt into the hoops. “Flattery will get you everywhere, pretty.” Pretty. Not handsome—which he is, but pretty. And pretty makes him feel even more than handsome ever has. Whether it be because it’s coming from you or because that’s the first time he’s ever been complimented so sincerely, so warmly, especially regarding his appearance… He couldn’t care. He’s just happy.
He leans into your touch as you scratch his chin, his ears drooping just so. Such a cute thing.
"Good birthday gift?" You ask, brushing at some of his fur.
"The greatest..." he whispers, watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. He hesitates, then, fingers twitching against your sides.
Eventually, he softly asks, almost afraid of the answer: "...again, maybe? later?"
"Of course," you say without pause, and the sound he makes is somewhere between a whimper and a moan. "It's your birthday till midnight, after all."
For a moment, he just stares at you, those white eyes wide and disbelieving. Then he's moving, pulling you into a kiss that tastes like desperation and gratitude and something else you can't quite name. When he pulls back, he's grinning—actually grinning, fangs on full display.
"Best birthday ever," he declares. "Officially. Nothing will ever top this."
You laugh, finishing your cleanup and pulling your top back on. "You say that now, but wait till you see what else I have planned."
The noise he makes is inhuman.
The rest of the afternoon passed in relative calm. It wasn't until lunch actually that something… also happened. Robert was focused down in the workshop with Royd so…
Prism was holding court at a table in the breakroom, regaling Punch Up with some story about her latest Instagram drama while he was doing something that might have been eating but looked more like inhaling an entire pizza in three bites. Malevola was leaning against the counter, coffee in hand, watching the room with those unsettling yellow eyes.
And Sonar? Sonar couldn't stop staring at you.
He sat at the same table, but chose to sit across from you rather than by you (because he wouldn't be able to get his hands off you), close enough to be in your orbit but not so close as to be obvious. Or so he believes. His own lunch sat mostly untouched as his white eyes tracked your every movement.
The way you brought the fork to your lips. The delicate way you chewed. The slight flutter of your wings when you shifted position.
Every movement was torture. Because now he knew.
Knew how your skin tasted. How your breasts felt in his hands, in his mouth. How you looked covered in his cum, smiling up at him like you'd given him the world instead of just the best orgasm of his life. How amazing you felt in his arms. How you welcomed him and his oddities without freaking out or making a big deal about it.
Yes, you’re different yourself but—I don’t know. He doesn’t know. He does know his dress pants were already getting tight again just from the memories.
"You're staring," Invisigal's voice appeared next to his ear, making him jump.
She dropped in the chair beside him, grinning like the cat that caught the canary. Or in this case, the invisible woman who caught the bat-man being a disaster.
"Fuck off, Visi," Sonar muttered, finally tearing his eyes away from you to glare at his teammate.
"Ooh, touchy. Still worked up?" She leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Was the supply closet not enough? Need round two?"
"I will literally throw you out a window."
"You'd have to catch me first," Invisigal countered, but she leaned back, giving him space. Her grin didn't fade. "Seriously though, you've got it bad."
"It's my birthday," Sonar defended, knowing it was weak but unable to come up with anything better.
"Uh huh. And tomorrow? Next week?"
Sonar didn't have an answer for that.
Across the room, Flambae entered, and immediately the temperature rose several degrees. His flames flickered along his shoulders, dancing in patterns that suggested irritation. He’s honestly been in a mood, started randomly earlier today. No one really knew why and Prism didn’t push it.
"Great, grumpy's here," Invisigal muttered, crossing her arms.
Flambae grabbed something from the fridge—didn't even look at what it was—and slammed the door with more force than necessary. The whole room paused, attention shifting to him.
"Problem?" Malevola asked casually, yet her tone carried an edge.
"No," Flambae bit out, his accent thickening with annoyance. He stalked to an empty table, dropping into a chair hard enough to make it screech against the floor.
The room returned to its previous activities, but the tension lingered. Flambae radiated irritation like heat waves, his flames crackling audibly in the relative quiet.
You glanced over at him, expression shifting from serene to concerned. "Are you okay?" you asked, voice gentle.
"Fine," Flambae snapped, not looking at you.
"You seem upset—"
"I said I'm fine."
You frowned, setting down your fruit cup. Your wings rustled, a sign of agitation that Sonar had learned to recognize. "If something's wrong—"
"Not everything needs your fucking sunshine and rainbows approach, Cupid." Flambae's voice dripped with sarcasm on your designation. "Some of us are trying to actually be heroes instead of playing office bitch for birthday boy over there."
The room went dead silent.
Sonar's chair screeched as he stood. "What the fuck did you just say?"
"You heard me," Flambae shot back, flames intensifying. "It's pathetic. We're supposed to be reforming, becoming better, and meanwhile batboy is getting his dick sucked in supply closets like this is some kind of porn set instead of actual hero work—"
"That's enough," Malevola cut in, her voice dropping to that dangerous register that made smart people back off.
Flambae wasn't being smart.
"Is it? Because I'm pretty sure I'm the only one here taking this seriously. The rest of you are treating this like summer camp with benefits—"
"Flambae." Your voice cut across his rant, and there was something different in it now. An edge that hadn't been there before. "That's enough."
"Or what? You gonna blow me too if I apologize? That how you keep team morale up?"
You stood.
The change was immediate and dramatic.
Your form shifted, the soft feminine curves melting into harder, more masculine lines. Height increased, shoulders broadening. Your chest flattened while your hips narrowed. This wasn’t the form you usually took when presenting masculine, but it was the one that felt right in the moment.
Larger, bigger, stronger.
And no one could question why you wore what you did now because, hell, any other clothes and Little Cupid (but they sure as hell could see that is not ‘little’) would’ve been out. Not the first time they’ve seen a dick out on the job but it probably would’ve been startling nevertheless.
Your wings spread wide, each one easily double the size theh were before, filling the space behind you. Accommodating your larger size for possible flight. The soft downy feathers from before had been replaced by something more aggressive—longer flight feathers with dark tips rather than soft pink, reminiscent of a bird of prey. They ruffled, bristling with clear agitation.
Your eyes—usually soft and inviting—had gone hard. The pink pupils that Sonar had seen flash earlier now glowed steadily, a warning light in the irises.
When you spoke, your voice had dropped an octave.
"I am many things," you said, each word precisely enunciated. "Sweet, yes. Accommodating, absolutely. But I am not—and have never been—a pushover."
You took a step toward Flambae, and despite his flames, despite his confidence, he leaned back in his chair.
"So let me be clear, Flambae,” Another step. Your wings spread wider, casting shadows across the room. “Don’t ever talk to me like that again. And don’t ever—call me a bitch again. Do you understand me?”
Flambae's flames flickered, uncertain now. "I—"
You loomed over him now, and Flambae—who stood at a respectable 6'2"—had to crane his neck back to maintain eye contact.
"Because the next time you do—I’ll make sure everyone knows who’s the real bitch is around here.”
There was a choke of surprise from behind—paired with rough pats on the back of someone attempting another from choking in shock.
Flambae swallowed hard. The flames along his shoulders nonexistent as he stared up at you wide eyed.
"Now," you said, voice dropping even lower. “Apologize.”
"I—" Flambae started, stopped, tried again. "I'm sorry. That was—I was out of line. I'm sorry."
You held his gaze for another long moment, wings still spread, presence filling the room with barely contained power.
Then you stepped back.
The tension broke like a snapped wire.
Your form shifted again, flowing back to the feminine presentation from before. Wings folded neatly, shrinking back to their softer, smaller size. Your expression returned to its usual gentle serenity.
"Apology accepted," you said, voice back to its normal sweet register. You returned to your seat, picking up your fruit cup like nothing had happened. "I hope the rest of your lunch is better, Flambae."
The room remained silent for a beat longer.
Then, quietly, from Invisigal: "That was hot."
Flambae chose to largely remain silent.
But even he—like Sonar—couldnt disagree.
Sonar thought you were attractive before—gorgeous, even, with those perfect tits and sweet smile. (And obviously, you were just really sweet on him)
But seeing you like that? Powerful and commanding, wings spread and voice resonating with divine authority, cock on full display (mostly because he was staring at it) as you towered over Flambae?
Sonar was pretty sure he'd just discovered several new kinks.
He shifted in his seat, adjusting himself as subtly as possible. His pants were definitely tighter now.
Across the room, Malevola caught his eye and smirked, clearly aware of his predicament.
Sonar flipped her off.
You continued eating your fruit cup, peaceful and serene, like you hadn't just dominated their teammate and awakened something in at least half the room.
Yeah.
Sonar was absolutely getting another round before the day was over.
And maybe—if he was very lucky and played his cards right—he'd get to experience that version of you too.
The masculine form. The commanding presence. That cock that had been clearly visible even through your pants.
His own cock twitched at the thought and Invisigal couldn't help but snort. “Hornbat,” she coughed into her fist.
The sun had long settled, Torrance coming to life with street lights and the night sky.
Sonar had been particularly anxious—or excited? He wasn't sure anymore. He just knows he was all over the place than feeling all—bleh. Or ehh. Then, yay! But... Now, he felt like he couldn't keep still as he stood in his apartment. His hands getting uncharacteristically clammy as he stuck himself in front of the mirror again, grooming his fur. Brushing it back, only to grumble, doing it another way, then another—followed by returning to his pacing.
The Harvard graduate—man who'd orchestrated some of Silicon Valley's most effective investment frauds—was reduced to checking his reflection every thirty seconds like some nervous teenager. His white eyes caught his own gaze in the mirror. The bat-like features that usually gave him an air of menace now just looked... anxious. The fur was immaculate, then ruffled, then smoothed again.
Sonar adjusted his tie for the fifth time. Navy blue against the crisp white shirt. Then he yanked it off entirely. Too formal. This wasn't a business meeting.
This was... what was this exactly?
His phone sat on the coffee table, screen dark. You'd texted twenty minutes ago that you were on your way. Twenty minutes. Traffic in Torrance on a Friday night, that could mean another ten minutes, could mean you were already downstairs. Maybe you flew here instead—no. You mentioned how when it’s too cold it can be difficult on your wings. That's the last thing he wants, you flying here even when the chill would make you ache.
He moved to the window, peering through the blinds at the street below.
A few cars passed.
None stopped.
He pulled away, resumed pacing. His apartment was clean—cleaner than it had been in months. He'd actually tidied up, which said something about his mental state. The business textbooks were stacked neatly on the shelf instead of scattered across every surface. While his… drugs, well he had practically begged Malevola to take them. Keep them away from him and make sure no one gives him anything. And under no circumstances, even let him near them again tonight.
Even the couch cushions were arranged properly. He'd even lit a candle, then immediately blown it out because it felt too presumptuous. What was he, setting a mood? This was just... a follow-up to earlier. To those photos he'd received that had derailed his entire afternoon. To the supply closet. To the confrontation with Flambae that had you using your passive in such a way.
His cock twitched at the memory.
Those heart-shaped areolas.
The soft curve of breasts he'd gotten to touch, to taste, to fuck in that cramped closet with his cum painting that perfect skin.
The flare of power when you looked over Flambae.
knock knock
Sonar jumped, actually jumped, like some kind of prey animal instead of the predator his species suggested. He smoothed down his shirt—he'd kept the shirt, just the shirt and slacks—and moved to the door. His hand hesitated on the handle.
Get it together. You've negotiated with venture capitalists. You've talked your way out of federal charges. You can open a door for someone you already half-fucked today.
He pulled it open.
You stood there in the hallway, changed from your work clothes into something simpler—mostly bundled in a coat that made you so edible. The peak of your wings at the hem. Your smile was knowing, like you could read every thought that had been cycling through his head for the past hour.
"Hey," you said.
Sonar's mouth went dry. "Hey. I—come in. Obviously. That's why you're here. To come in. Not that—I mean—" He stepped back, gesturing.
You walked past him, and the scent of you hit him immediately. That sweet but not cloying, mixed with the underlying warmth of your skin. You'd showered since work. He could smell it from the faint cling of water on you and the muted whisper of his saliva and cum.
The thought of water running over your body—of your body washing clean of his claim—made his fangs ache.
"Nice place," you said, glancing around. Your tone was casual, but your eyes tracked back to him with clear intent. "Very... clean."
"I tidied up." The admission came out before he could stop it.
"For me?"
"I..." Sonar closed the door, locked it. The click seemed loud. "Yes."
You turned to face him fully, and the look in your eyes made his breath catch. "That's sweet."
"I'm not typically... sweet."
"No?" You took a step closer. "What are you typically?"
His brain, his clever Harvard-educated brain, chose that moment to provide absolutely nothing useful. "I'm... I'm a high-ranking Vanderstenker."
You laughed, and the sound wrapped around him like silk. "Are you networking with me right now, Victor?"
His real name in your mouth. You were one of the few people who knew it, who used it. Something about that felt intimate in a way that was separate from the physical.
"Maybe," he managed. "I can never have too many soft skills."
"No, you can’t." You were close enough now that he could feel the warmth radiating from you. Warmth that enticed your scent to simply rush as he takes an unconscious deep sniff—which brings back the taste of you on his tongue at an alarming level of clarity.
Oh god, he's so fucked.
"Now, what do you want?" you ask, inching closer. "You've got me until midnight. After that, I go back to being your teammate instead of your birthday gift. So tell me—what do you want?"
Time is ticking, Victor.
Sonar swallowed hard, his throat working visibly. "Everything," he whispered. "I want everything."
Your smile warms, hands undoing the ties of the coat. Till you revealed that you didn’t quite wear anything ‘normal’ underneath. An ensemble of colors that favored your completion decorated your skin in a pretty present of unravel.
“Visi’s idea.” You shrug off the coat properly, letting it fall to the ground and your wings to flare then resettle. Slightly around you, slightly shy even. “I thought it was a bit much–”
“It’s perfect.”
Sonar’s hands were on you then, pulling you close. His mouth finds yours in a kiss that was more enthusiasm than technique but no less effective for it. His fangs clicked against yours, tongues meeting, and yes—you did taste sweet. Like honey and nectar and something divine that made Sonar moan into your mouth. Without being cramped in that room, without the underlying smell of dust and whatever the fuck was on the shelves, everything was amplified. Or perhaps that’s just how Sonar felt. No restriction, no worries, no simple rush of excitement that means a quickie and done.
You made a sound against his lips—surprise morphing into enthusiasm—and your arms came up around his neck. Your fingers found the sensitive spot at the base of his skull, threading through the fur there, and he groaned into your mouth.
He leaned closer, deepening the kiss, and your wings instinctively responded. They spread wider, then began to curl forward, half-cocooning around the two of you. The feathers brushed against his arms, his back, creating an intimate space that shut out the rest of the world.
It was intimate. Far too intimate to be something just for one night.
The thought pierced through the haze of arousal like a shard of ice. This felt like more than casual. More than just scratching an itch. The way you held him, the way your wings wrapped around him protectively, the way you kissed him like you were trying to memorize the taste of him—it all spoke of something deeper.
But he chose to ignore that thought.
To simply drown and worry about oxygen later.
Your bodies stumbled through the apartment, you following his blind lead toward the bedroom. He walked backwards, pulling you with him, his hands roaming over your body—your waist, your hips, sliding up your back to feel where your wings connected to lower back.
"Can't believe—" he gasped between kisses, breaking away only to immediately seek your mouth again, "—can't believe you're real—can't believe this is happening—"
The walls of his apartment blurred past. He knocked into the edge of his coffee table, nearly sent the stack of business journals tumbling, but he didn't care. His hands were on you, your hands were on him, and nothing else mattered.
"Very real," you assured him, your voice breathless but amused. Your fingers began to work on the buttons of his shirt, deft and purposeful. Feathers teasingly brushed against his arms as you moved. Light touches that felt overwhelming and simply not enough at the same time.
He could feel your warmth even through the layers of clothing. Your palms, soft despite the whispers of callouses that spoke of labor. Of what? He wasn't sure. Field work? Training? Something that built strength without destroying the softness underneath?
He just hoped it was kind work. That whatever had put those slight roughness there hadn't hurt you. He wasn't sure why he thought of that exactly—just—it mattered. You mattered.
"Beautiful," you whispered, hands sliding down his chest once you'd gotten his shirt unbuttoned. Your fingers splayed over the fur there, feeling the soft texture give way to skin underneath. The fur was thicker over his collar and arms, sparser over his abdomen and other parts of his torso. It was so interesting, seeing how man met bat.
"I know, right?" He preened, his natural arrogance surfacing even in the midst of desire. He was a Harvard graduate. He'd built empires. Of course he was beautiful.
Then, he faltered, second-guessing. The confidence cracked slightly, showing the vulnerability underneath. "Do you—" he cleared his throat, his white eyes flickering away briefly before forcing themselves back to meet your gaze. "Do you mean that? Or—is it just..."
He didn't finish the sentence. Didn't want to voice the fear that you were just saying what you thought he wanted to hear. That this was just about his species, the novelty of fucking a bat-hybrid. That tomorrow you'd realize you'd made a mistake. Even cupids—or especially Cupids—should have standards, right?
You stopped your exploration of his body, your hands stilling on his chest. Your expression softened, something tender crossing your features.
"I mean it, Victor."
He trembled.
"You're beautiful."
The words were simple, but the sincerity in them hit him harder than any elaborate compliment could have. You meant it. You actually meant it.
He leaned in as you reached up, your hand cupping the side of his face. Your touch was gentle, almost reverent, as you began caressing—or perhaps petting was more appropriate. Your fingers traced the line of his jaw where fur met skin, then moved higher.
His chin did a slight lift as you stroked over one of his large ears, an instinctive response. The ear flattened under your palm, the sensation sending pleasure rippling through him, before shooting back up to its alert position as your hand moved away.
"Sensitive," you observed, your lips quirking into a smile.
"Very," he managed, his voice rough.
"Good to know." Your smile turned wicked. "Now, what does Batsy want first?"
His eyes followed as your hand trailed down from his face, ghosting over his neck, his chest, his abdomen. You lifted your hand slightly, switching from palm to fingertips, then letting your nails drag lightly as the fur returned under his belly button. That fluffy happy trail that led down to where his cock was still restricted by his slacks, hard and straining against the fabric.
"You—" His voice came out strangled. Then he was stepping closer again, crowding into your space, his hands on your hips guiding you backward. "Want to taste you. All of you. Been thinking about eating you out all day. Please—"
The desperation in that last word—the please—made it clear this wasn't just dirty talk. He genuinely needed this. Needed to taste you, to have his mouth on you, to make you fall apart on his tongue.
Your wings fluttered at his words, the feathers rustling in response to your arousal. For just a moment, your pupils changed—the hearts that marked you as a Cupid flashing briefly before returning to normal. Your breath hitched.
"Get to eating then."
His mouth was on yours again immediately, the kiss bruising in its intensity. You let yourself be guided backward, trusting him to lead you even as your eyes fell shut. Your hands fisted in his shirt, then slid up to his shoulders, pulling him closer.
The back of your legs hit the bed—silky and soft, expensive sheets that were surprising for someone in the Phoenix Program. But it made sense, really. Sonar had money, or at least he had when he'd been running his investment frauds. And he had to take care of his fur, after all. Cheap, scratchy sheets wouldn't do.
You fell back onto the mattress, and he followed you down. His body covered yours, one hand braced by your head while the other roamed. His mouth never left yours, kissing you like he was trying to consume you. And maybe he was.
Finally, he pulled back, both of you breathing hard. He looked down at you—hair mussed, lips swollen from kissing, eyes dark with want—and something in his chest tightened.
"Too many clothes," he growled, his hands already working your latex—or something akin to such—top. You sat up enough to help him pull it over your head, his strength helping with the stupid thing being tossed aside.
The sight of your bare breasts made his mouth water. Those distinctive heart-shaped areolas returned to his vision, already peaked with arousal and still delightfully marked from his excitement in the supply closet.
His mouth descended on them immediately, unable to resist. He'd gotten to taste them earlier but it hadn't been enough. Would never be enough.
His tongue circled one nipple before taking it into his mouth, sucking hard. You gasped, your back arching off the bed, pressing more firmly into his mouth. Your hands threaded into the fur on his head, not pulling but holding him in place.
He lavished attention on your breasts, moving between them, his hands kneading what his mouth wasn't currently worshiping. His fangs grazed the sensitive skin carefully, never hard enough to break but enough to send shivers through you.
"Victor," you gasped, and the sound of his name in that breathy, desperate tone made his cock throb.
He worked his way down your body, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your sternum, your ribs, your stomach. His hands explored as he went, squeezing your flesh, mapping every curve and plane. He pressed closer, inhaling deeply between lapping licks and gentle nips.
Your scent was stronger now, arousal mixing with the underlying sweetness that seemed inherent to Cupids. It made something primal in him roar to life, that predator instinct that his hybrid nature gave him.
His own blood roared through his ears, pounding with want and need. There was an itch under his skin, urging him to let go, to lose more control than was safe. To transform fully, to take you with the strength and power of his monster form.
But he held that down. Kept the transformation at bay through sheer will.
This isn't going anywhere... at least, not until midnight, he reminded himself. Then his birthday would be over and this would just be... what? A memory? A one-time thing?
He shoved those thoughts away. Focused instead on the soft sounds you were making—more panting and gasps rather than performative pitches that sometimes could hurt his sensitive ears. These sounds were real, honest reactions to his touch, and they had him harder than he'd ever been.
His claws—talons now really, sharper and curved—made quick work of your bottoms. He tugged the fabric down your legs and you lifted your hips to help. He swiftly pulled them off completely, tossing them aside.
You had opted to wear panties under the strangling fabric, it honestly was uncomfortable and weird otherwise. Especially given how it took you a moment to get here. Not like Sonar’d complaining, not when his eyes locked on the damp spot that had formed there. He could smell your arousal even more strongly now, and his mouth watered.
Those panties would definitely be pocketed later. He was already cataloguing where he set them so he could treasure them for the nights he expected to spend alone, missing this, missing you.
His fingers hooked in the waistband, and he looked up at you. Your pupils were blown wide, your chest heaving with each breath. You nodded—permission and encouragement all at once.
He pulled them down slowly, revealing you to him inch by inch. The fabric clung to your wet folds briefly before releasing, and then you were bare before him.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, you're perfect."
He spread your legs wider, settling between them, his eyes fixed on your pussy. You were glistening with arousal, slick and swollen and so fucking inviting.
"You smell—" He leaned closer, inhaling deeply, and the scent was even more intense this close. Rich and musky and uniquely you. "—you smell so good—"
Not some Cupid magic or pheromone bullshit either. This was just... fuck, it was amazing. It was you, your natural scent (something that's often made him dizzy during work hours) mixed with arousal, and it was driving him insane.
His hands gripped your thighs, and he felt his talons extending slightly with his excitement. Sharp points pressed against your skin, and he immediately forced them to retract. He couldn't risk hurting you, couldn't let his control slip that much. The talons slid back, leaving only the pads of his fingers against your flesh.
He glanced up at you, checking that you were okay, and found you watching him with heavy-lidded eyes. Your wings were spread across his bed, feathers rustling with each breath you took.
Then he lowered his head and tasted you for the first time.
Your hips gave a slight tilt at that first contact, a small arch that pressed your pussy more firmly against his mouth. His thumbs spread your lips, opening you to him, and a sound rolled in the back of his throat—something between a groan and a growl.
Before he could second-guess himself, he dove into his meal.
Hot warmth pressed against your cunt, his tongue flat and broad, lapping upward from your entrance to your clit. He was familiarizing himself with this new terrain, mapping every fold and ridge, and his taste buds were melting in delight.
You tasted incredible. Better than he'd imagined, and he'd imagined this a lot over the past few weeks. Sweet and tangy and slightly salty, with an underlying complexity that he couldn't quite describe. Like your blood would probably taste if he bit you—though that was a fantasy for later, if there was a later.
He groaned against your pussy, the vibration making you gasp. You moaned at the sensation, your thighs trembling around his head.
His tongue worked through your folds, gathering your wetness, exploring every part of you. He found your entrance and pushed inside, fucking you with shallow thrusts of his tongue before dragging back up to circle your clit.
Your clit was swollen and sensitive, and when he focused his attention there—flicking his tongue against it rapidly—your whole body jerked.
"Oh fuck," you gasped, your hands flying to his head. Your fingers tangled in the fur there, gripping but not pulling. "Victor, that's—don't stop—"
He had no intention of stopping. He sealed his mouth around your clit and sucked, his tongue continuing to work against the bundle of nerves, and your hips bucked up against his face.
It wasn't long until he found the rhythm that had you rocking against him. Moving your hips in time with his tongue, essentially riding his face, using him for your pleasure. And fuck, he loved it. He was buzzing with excitement, his cock so hard it was almost painful where it pressed against his slacks. Began grinding against the bed as he got off at your pleasure, at being between your legs.
Yes, yes, grind on his face, use him for your pleasure, keep making those noises for him, keep feeding him with your juices.
His hands gripped your thighs harder, holding you open and in place. His talons wanted to extend again with his mounting arousal, but he kept them retracted through sheer force of will. He focused that energy into his mouth instead, eating you out like a man possessed.
One of his hands released your thigh, sliding up your body to find your breast. He squeezed it, thumb brushing over that heart-shaped areola, adding another layer of stimulation.
Your responses were everything. The way your thighs trembled, the way your breath came in short gasps, the way you kept saying his name like a prayer—"Victor, Victor, fuck Victor"—it all drove him higher.
A punched out groan from him as your fingers tangle in his crown, the other pressed against his hand at your breast. This was amazing. This was fucking perfect. A thought that cycled in his brain as he worked a finger in your pussy, giving it something to clench around. Your wings flapped slightly at the intrusion, surprise then pleasure as it got used to him.
One becoming two.
Steadily fucking you on his fingers.
Until he could feel you getting close. Your pussy was clenching around him, more wetness flooding his fingers and tongue, your movements becoming more erratic. Those wings fully flapping against the bed, feathers rustling and spreading.
"I'm—fuck—I'm gonna—" You couldn't finish the sentence, too overwhelmed.
He doubled his efforts, sucking hard on your clit while his tongue flicked rapidly against it.
The combination of his mouth on your clit and his fingers curling inside you, finding that spot that made you see stars—it was too much.
You breathing sped up, hitching with every gasp.
Then, your head tossed back with a silent cry as you came, your whole body going taut. Your pussy clamped down on his fingers like a vice, pulsing rhythmically with your orgasm. Your thighs tried to close around his head, but he kept them open, kept working you through it.
More wetness flooded his mouth, and he lapped it up greedily, not wanting to miss a single drop. You tasted even better like this, and the fact that he'd made you come—that he'd made you lose control—sent a surge of pride and possessiveness through him.
The audible moans as you found oxygen utterly wrecked.
He only pulled back when you started to squirm from oversensitivity, your hands pushing weakly at his head. His face was wet with you, and he didn't bother wiping it away. Instead, he looked up the length of your body, meeting your glazed eyes.
"Fuck," you panted, your chest heaving. "That was—fuck—"
"Good?" he asked, though the smug satisfaction in his voice made it clear he already knew the answer.
"Understatement," you managed.
Needless to say, he did it again. Having moved up the length of your body, making out to sucking and kicking your neck to your tits as he fingered you again. Wanting to milk at least another orgasm out of you—prep you properly, more like—and also just hear more of your sounds. Just close up this time.
It wasn't until you were a real mess that he settled his weight over you.
His still clothed erection pressed against your bare pussy, and you both groaned at the contact.
Your hands went to his slacks, fumbling with the belt. "Fuck—These need to come off already."
He didn't argue. He pulled back just enough to help, both of you working together to get his belt undone, the button and zipper open. He shoved his slacks and underwear down his hips, kicking them off awkwardly, and then he was finally naked.
His cock sprang free, hard and leaking. The head was flushed dark, precum beading at the tip, and you reached down to wrap your hand around him.
"Fuck," he hissed at the contact. Your grip was firm and confident, stroking him from base to tip, your thumb swiping over the head to spread the precum.
"You're so hard," you murmured, your eyes dark with renewed arousal as you watched your hand work his cock. "Have you been like this all night?"
"Since you walked in," he admitted, his hips jerking involuntarily, fucking into your fist. "Since before that. Since you sent those fucking pictures."
You smiled, something wicked and pleased. "Good."
You guided him to your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your pussy. You were so wet, so ready, and the heat of you was incredible even with just that small contact.
"Please," you breathed. "Victor, please—"
He didn't make you wait. He pushed forward slowly, watching as his cock disappeared inside you inch by inch. The sensation was overwhelming—tight and hot and wet and perfect. Your inner walls gripped him, fluttering slightly as they adjusted to the intrusion.
"Oh fuck," he groaned, his head dropping to your shoulder. "Oh fuck, you feel—"
He couldn't finish the sentence. There were no words adequate to describe how good you felt wrapped around his cock. Despite your welcoming heat, he still took it steady. Sinking in ever so slowly that has you both panting.
Then, he bottomed out, his hips flush against yours, fully seated inside you.
You made a sound—pleasure mixed with the slight edge of being filled so completely. Your legs came up to wrap around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, keeping him close.
"Move," you demand after a moment. "Victor, please move—"
He started to thrust, pulling out slowly before pushing back in. The drag of his cock against your walls sent sparks of pleasure up his spine. He built up a steady rhythm, not too fast yet, letting you both adjust and savor the sensation.
Your hands roamed over his body—his back, his shoulders, threading into his fur, careful around his sensitive ears. Your wings had wrapped around both of you again, creating that intimate cocoon that shut out the world. The feathers rustled with each thrust, creating a sound like whispered secrets.
"You feel so good," you panted, your voice breaking on the last word as he hit a particularly deep angle. "So fucking good inside me—"
The praise sent a thrill through him, lighting up every nerve ending. His ego—always so carefully constructed—craved your words like a drug. He picked up the pace, thrusting harder, faster, determined to earn more of those breathy compliments.
The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mixing with your combined moans and gasps. The bed creaked rhythmically beneath you, the headboard starting to tap against the wall. His expensive sheets were definitely going to need washing, already damp with sweat and the evidence of your earlier activities.
He was practically drooling against your shoulder now, his mouth hanging open as he panted. Hot breath fanned across your already overheated skin, making you shiver despite the warmth. His fangs—long and sharp, a constant presence in his mouth—grazed your skin with each breath. The occasional jab of the points drew your pleasured attention there, making you gasp and clench around him.
Your nails dragged up his back, not quite breaking skin but close. The sensation was perfect—that edge of pain that heightened everything else. Your hands found his skull, gripping the fur there, then pressing firmly against the bone underneath.
"You can bite me, baby," you breathlessly whispered directly into his ear. The endearment made something in his chest clench. "Take a little drink."
He pulled back abruptly, his rhythm faltering. His hips did a particularly hard thrust almost involuntarily—his body continuing the motion even as his mind tried to process your words. The deep penetration squeezed a sound from your throat, something between a moan and a whimper.
"What—wh—" Sonar panted, his white eyes wide as he stared down at you. His cock was still buried inside you, twitching with need, but confusion warred with arousal on his bat-like features. "You want me to—"
"Bite," you confirmed, already pulling him back down, guiding his face to the junction of your neck and shoulder. Your hands were firm, confident, no hesitation in the gesture. "Just a little. To soothe the ache." Your fingers curled into his fur, grounding and encouraging at once. "Go ahead. I don't mind."
You punctuated your words by grinding up into him, rolling your hips to take him even deeper. The movement reminded both of you of your very eager predicament—his cock hard and leaking inside you, your pussy clenching rhythmically around him, both of you so close to the edge it was almost painful.
"Are you sure?" His voice was strained, the words barely intelligible. His fangs were—have been—aching, the urge to bite nearly overwhelming. "I don't want to hurt—"
"You won't," you assured him, your voice dropping into that lower register that made his cock throb. "I'm offering. I want you to."
That was all the permission he needed.
Sonar resumed his thrusting, finding that hard, fast rhythm again. His mouth found your neck, lips and tongue exploring the skin there first. He could feel your pulse under his tongue, rapid and strong, your blood pumping just beneath the surface.
He licked over the spot he'd chosen—where your neck met your shoulder, a place that would be easily hidden by clothing but was sensitive enough to make you gasp. His saliva would help numb it slightly.
Then his fangs sank in.
The resistance of your skin gave way, and the rich, sweet taste of your blood flooded his mouth immediately. It was nothing like the small taste he'd gotten from biting his own lip earlier, nothing like anything he'd experienced before.
Your blood was extraordinary.
Sweet like honey but with an underlying complexity—notes of something floral, something bright and effervescent, something that tasted like pure concentrated emotion. It sparkled on his tongue, almost fizzy, and warmth began to spread through his body from the point of contact.
"Fuck," you moaned, your back arching off the bed. Your pussy clenched around him hard, and he realized the bite had sent pleasure shooting through you. "Yes, Victor, yes—"
He groaned against your neck, the vibration traveling through where his mouth sealed against your skin. He began to drink, taking small pulls of your blood, each swallow sending that incredible taste cascading down his throat.
His hips never stopped moving, fucking into you with renewed vigor. The combination of sensations—your tight heat around his cock, your blood in his mouth, your nails digging into his back—was overwhelming.
The Cupid blood began to affect him almost immediately.
It started as warmth in his chest, then spread outward like liquid fire through his veins. But it wasn't painful—it was euphoric. Every nerve ending came alive, hypersensitive. The feeling of your pussy around him intensified until he could feel every ridge, every flutter, every clench with crystal clarity.
Colors seemed brighter behind his closed eyelids. Sounds became richer—he could hear the individual rustles of your feathers, the specific pitch of your moans, the wet sounds of his cock driving into you. Even the scent of sex in the room became more complex, layered.
It was like the best high he'd ever experienced, but cleaner. Brighter. There was no fog, no dulling of his senses—just pure amplification of everything.
"Oh fuck," he gasped, pulling back from your neck. Blood stained his fangs, his lips, and he licked them automatically, chasing every drop of that incredible taste. "Oh fuck, that's—what is that—"
"Cupid blood," you panted, your pupils blown so wide your eyes looked black. The hearts were visible now, pulsing with each rapid beat of your heart. "Hits different, doesn't it?"
"Different" was an understatement. He felt invincible, powerful, alive in a way he'd never experienced. Every thrust into you felt like the first time and the thousandth time all at once. He could feel your pleasure mixing with his own, some kind of feedback loop created by the blood connection.
He could almost taste your emotions—desire, affection, something deeper that neither of you had named yet.
His rhythm became almost frantic, chasing the building pleasure. The high from your blood amplified everything, made his approaching orgasm feel like it might actually destroy him in the best possible way.
"Not gonna last," he warned, his voice wrecked. "Fuck, I'm—"
"Me too," you gasped. Your legs tightened around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, forcing him deeper. "Come with me, Victor. Want to feel you—" your hand found your clit, rubbing frantically, and that was all it took. You came with an immediate moan this time, your whole body seizing, your pussy clamping down on him like it was trying to pull him deeper, to keep him inside forever.
The sensation of you coming—intensified by the blood high—shattered his control completely. He buried himself as deep as possible (even though he probably should've pulled out) and let go, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself inside you. The sensation making him press deep. Inside, fuck yes, inside.
But this orgasm was different than the one he achieved at work. Enhanced by your blood, it felt like it went on forever, wave after wave of pleasure that bordered on painful in its intensity. He could feel it in every cell of his body, could feel you everywhere, could feel the connection between you like a physical thing.
He roared against your neck, the sound inhuman, his body trembling with the force of his release.
When it finally subsided, he collapsed onto you, unable to hold himself up anymore. His cock was still inside you, both of you too sensitive and too exhausted to move. Your blood hummed through his system, that warm, bright high settling into a pleasant buzz.
"Holy shit," he mumbled against your neck, where the bite marks were already starting to close. Cupid healing, probably. "That was—I've never—"
"I know," you said softly, your hand stroking through his fur gently. Your other wing had come around to cover both of you more fully, a protective gesture that made his chest tight. "Cupid blood is... intense."
"That's putting it mildly." He managed to lift his head, looking down at you. Your face was flushed, hair plastered to your forehead with sweat, lips swollen from kissing. You looked thoroughly debauched and absolutely beautiful. "Are you okay? Did I take too much?"
"I'm fine," you assured him, one hand coming up to cup his face. Your thumb stroked over his snout gently. "You were careful. Just enough to feel good for both of us."
He turned his head, pressing a kiss to your palm. The gesture felt intimate in a way that went beyond the physical intimacy you'd just shared. "Thank you," he said quietly. "For trusting me with that."
"Of course." Your expression was soft, open in a way that made his heart stutter. "I trust you, Victor."
The words settled over him like a blanket. Trust. Such a simple word, but it meant everything. You trusted him—Victor, the con man, the addict, the man who'd built empires on lies. You saw all of that and still chose to trust him.
He kissed you then, slow and deep, tasting himself and you and the lingering sweetness of your blood. Your arms came around him, holding him close, and neither of you seemed in a hurry to break apart.
Finally, he had to pull out, both of you wincing at the sensitivity. He rolled to the side, taking you with him so you were pressed against his chest. Your wings adjusted, one tucking against your back while the other draped over both of you.
"I can still feel it," he murmured, his hand stroking absently along your spine. "Your blood. It's like... everything is brighter."
"It'll fade in an hour or two," you told him, your voice already drowsy. "Enjoy it while it lasts."
He planned to. The high was already starting to mellow into something more sustainable—still heightened senses and that pleasant warmth, but less overwhelming. It felt good. Really good.
So after a breather and cuddle, along with refresher of some water. Sex happened again.
A blur of positions and pleasure through the night. Sucking his cock while he ate you out, he cumming down your throat as you gushed against his snout; you bent over the bed or better yet, angled proper so the two of you could watch your reflections as you fucked. More biting, of course. Not too much blood taking, maybe just licking what did happen but no actual sips.
At some point, his hands found your wings, and when he gripped them—
—your entire body arched like you'd been struck by lightning, a sharp gasp ripping from your throat that might have been his name or might have been a prayer.
"Fuck—" Sonar's grip on your wings tightened instinctively, and the sensation shot straight down your spine to your core, making you clench around nothing. "Did you just—did I hurt you—"
"No—" You were panting, trembling, your wings fluttering spastically in his grip. "No, that's—that's really good, actually. Fuck.” A whimper. “Wings— sensitive. Really sensitive."
His white eyes seemed to go dark with understanding, with renewed hunger. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," you breathed, and when he gave an experimental tug—gentle but firm—you moaned outright, head falling back.
"Oh, this is dangerous," he murmured, fascinated, using your wings as leverage to pull you closer, to adjust the angle as you rode him. "This is—fuck, you feel so good, clenching like that—"
Each touch to your wings sent sparks of pleasure through your nervous system, made you tighten around his cock buried deep inside you. The combination was intoxicating—the stretch and fullness of him inside you, the electric sensation of his hands on your wings, the way he was looking at you like you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"Vic—" His name was a plea, a warning, and he understood immediately.
"Yeah, me too—come on, angel, cum for me—want to feel you—"
His thumb found where your wing met your back, pressing down on a cluster of nerves there, and that was it. You came with a cry-almost-sob, wings spreading wide involuntarily, feathers catching the lamplight as your body seized with pleasure. The sight of you—wings spread, head thrown back, body trembling—sent Sonar over the edge right after, his hips stuttering as he buried himself deep and filled you.
You collapsed against his chest afterward, both of you sweaty and panting and utterly spent. His arms came around you—careful of your wings now that he knew how sensitive they were—and for a long moment you just breathed together.
“That was… so hot.”
You giggled against his chest. “Yeah. It was.”
You weren’t sure what time it was or how many rounds you've went by the time you pulled yourself up. Hand caressing Sonar who still looked like he was riding some high, whether it be from the sex or the lingering effect of your blood you were sure.
“Wanna try something else?” You tilt your head toward your shoulder while looking down at him.
“Is that a trick question?”
You couldn’t help but chuckle at that.
The air around you shimmered, and your form began to change. Your breasts flattened, chest broadening. Your hips narrowed, shoulders widening. Your features sharpened, becoming more angular, more masculine. And between your legs, a cock emerged, growing until it stood proud and hard against your abdomen.
"Oh fuck yes," Sonar breathed, staring at your erection like it was the second coming. Despite the exhaustion of the entire night, he definitely could find the energy for more. “I've been thinking about this since lunch. Since you got all commanding and powerful with Flambae. This cock, these wings, you being all dominant and—"
"Sonar," you interrupted, amused. "You're rambling." But hey, now you know he was actually interested in it before this specific moment. It made some anxiety ease in your gut. It’s rare that you get to embrace this side of yourself. It’s nice. Especially when it’s Sonar you’re doing it with.
"Sorry, I just—" He looked up at you, white eyes wide and honest. "Can I suck it? Please? I've never—I mean, I've thought about it, but never actually—"
Sonar descended on your cock with the same enthusiasm he'd shown your breasts and pussy earlier. He started with his hand, wrapping his fingers around the shaft and stroking experimentally. Your cock was thick, warm, the skin velvety soft over the hardness beneath. Precum beaded at the tip, and he leaned down to lick it off.
The taste was different from your slick—more neutral, slightly salty—but still undeniably you. Always you. He swirled his tongue around the head, mapping the shape of it, before taking you into his mouth.
His technique was unpracticed, but what he lacked in experience he made up for in sheer eagerness. He took you deeper, tongue working against the underside, fangs carefully avoiding contact as he bobbed his head. The stretch of his jaw was unfamiliar but not unpleasant, and the weight of you on his tongue was grounding.
You gasped above him, wings spreading wider across his bed, feathers rustling. Your hand found his head, fingers tangling in his fur, not directing but encouraging
"That's it," you murmured. "Just like that. You're doing so good."
The praise made Sonar moan around your cock, the vibration sending a visible shudder through your body. He took you deeper, testing his limits, gagging slightly before adjusting and trying again. He wanted to take all of you, wanted to prove he could.
Your hips rocked in small movements, fucking his mouth gently, letting him set the pace. His hands gripped your thighs, claws pricking skin and neither of you minded him breaking skin, holding you in place as he worked. Drool began to leak from the corners of his mouth, making everything sloppier, wetter.
"Fuck, your mouth," you groaned. "So eager, such a good slut.”
That had Sonar nearly cumming. Yep, he's a slut and he sure as hell likes being called one.
He let out a whine when you pulled him off minutes later, “None of that.” You laugh as you easily began to pull him. “Don’t want to cum down your throat. Not yet.”
And he whimpered at that thought.
"Tonight is about you," you murmured. "What do you want?” Echoing the same question that began this night.
Sonar's mind was hazy as his chest heaved. "I want—" He swallowed hard, the mixture of saliva and precum working down his throat. “I want you to fuck me. Please."
You pulled back to meet his eyes, searching. "You've done this before?"
"No." The admission felt vulnerable. "But I want to. With you. Tonight."
You cupped his face gently, thumb brushing over his cheek. "We'll take it slow."
You flipped your positions in one smooth movement, pressing Sonar into the mattress. Your wings spread wide, creating a canopy over both of you, blocking out the rest of the world. It felt intimate, protected, like nothing existed beyond this bed.
"Easy, pet," you cooed, kissing his snout. "I have to make sure you're prepared."
“Do you though?” He grumbled and you simply chuckled, working a pillow under his hips.
“Yes. Now behave or get nothing.”
He was smart to listen this time.
Sonar heard the snap of a bottle cap— had you gotten the lube from his nightstand? Or did you bring it yourself—and then slick fingers were trailing down his spine, over the curve of his ass. You took your time, massaging the muscle there, helping him relax.
When your finger first circled his hole, he tensed instinctively. You paused, your other hand stroking soothing patterns on his lower back. "Relax," you instructed softly. "I've got you."
He forced himself to relax, focusing on his breathing. Your finger pressed in slowly, just the tip at first, and the sensation was strange—not quite uncomfortable but definitely foreign. You worked it gradually, letting him adjust to each new increment.
"Ngh—ugh—" His abdomen tensed as he curled before his head fell back, hand gripping at your shoulder.
"There you go," your voice lathered his ears, a frequency he found himself zeroing in on. "Just breathe."
He clenched briefly around your finger as your other hand reached for his cock. Fingers wrapping around the length and steadily stroking him. The dual sensation—the intrusion and the pleasure—helped distract his focus from the new experience.
You worked him open with patient precision, adding more lube when needed, not rushing. One finger became two, stretching him wider, finding angles that made him gasp. You crooked your fingers, searching, and when you found his prostate he nearly came off the bed.
"Fuck!" The pleasure was intense, radiating from that spot throughout his entire body. "What—"
"That's your prostate," you explained, stroking over it again and making him moan. "Feels good?"
"Yes—fuck yes—don't stop—"
But you did slow down when you added a third finger, giving him time to adjust to the increased stretch. It burned slightly, but you were generous with the lube and your other hand never stopped stroking his cock, keeping him aroused and distracted.
Time became fluid. You worked him open thoroughly, refusing to rush despite his increasing desperation. Your fingers thrust into him steadily, spreading occasionally, making sure he was truly ready. The sight of him, folded open and drunk on a new level of pleasure made your cock practically ooze with precum.
"'Stop—stop! Stop—" he finally gasped.
You immediately froze, your fingers going still. Concern colored your voice as you asked, "What's wrong? Are you hurt—?"
"No, no." He shook his head, chest heaving. "I was about to cum." He turned his head to look back at you, white eyes meeting yours with raw honesty.
“I want to cum on your cock, not your fingers. That's why I told you to stop."
Your expression shifted from concern to dark hunger. You withdrew your fingers fully now, carefully, and he felt the immediate emptiness. He heard you slicking up your cock and then the blunt head was pressing against his entrance.
"Ready?" you asked, one hand steady on his hip.
"Yes," Sonar breathed. "Please—"
You pushed in slowly, and even with all the preparation, the stretch was intense. Your cock was thicker than your fingers, and the burn made him gasp. You paused when just the head was inside, giving him time to adjust.
"Breathe," you reminded him, your hand stroking his flank. "You’re doing amazing. Taking me so perfectly.”
Sonar forced himself to relax, to breathe through it. The burn gradually faded into something else—fullness, pressure, the overwhelming awareness of being penetrated.
"More," he managed. "I can take more."
You obliged, pushing deeper with careful control. Inch by inch, you filled him, pausing whenever he tensed, not moving forward until he'd relaxed again. It felt like it took forever, but finally your hips were flush against his ass, your cock fully seated inside him.
"Ohhh, fuck!" Sonar gasped. He felt impossibly full, stretched around you, and when you shifted slightly it sent sparks up his spine. "Oh fuck, oh fuck— fuck.”
"I'm gonna move now," you warned.
You pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, before pushing back in. The drag of your cock against his inner walls was overwhelming. You knew it would be so you set a gentle rhythm, letting him get used to the sensation.
But Sonar didn't want gentle.
He'd never wanted gentle. Not right now, at least.
He pushed against you, trying to get you deeper, harder. "More," he demanded. "Fuck me properly. I can take it."
You didn't need to be told twice. Your knees adjusted, hands gripped his hips as you picked up the pace, thrusting harder. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, mixing with his increasingly desperate moans.
"Yes—yes—fuck—" He couldn't form coherent sentences anymore. Every thrust hit that spot inside him that made his vision white out. His cock was leaking steadily onto his stomach, bouncing untouched, and he'd never been this turned on in his life.
Your wings mantled over both of you, feathers brushing his skin with each thrust.
"Your ass was made for my cock. So tight, so perfect. Taking it like a good cocksleeve,” you growled, your voice rough with exertion and pleasure.
Sonar could only moan in response, completely lost in sensation. Every nerve ending felt electrified. Your cock stretched him so perfectly, filled him so completely. He'd never felt anything like this—never felt so utterly claimed, so thoroughly used.
You leaned forward, adjusting his legs—mindful of how flexible he is and isn’t, but enough is enough and you manage to press deeper. Enticing a moan from his unique chords.
You release one of his legs, letting it rest against your chest as you reached, finally wrapping around his aching cock. The moment you touched him, he was gone.
His orgasm hit like a freight train, his whole body convulsing as he came harder than he ever had in his life. His ass clenched rhythmically around your cock, his own cock pulsing in your hand as he painted the sheets beneath him. The pleasure was so intense it bordered on painful, wringing him out completely.
You fucked him through it, your thrusts becoming erratic as his tightening walls pushed you over the edge. You buried yourself deep, your cock throbbing as you filled him with your cum. The feeling of being filled in both ways—your cock and your cum inside him—made him whimper with oversensitivity.
You collapsed forward, careful to catch yourself on your hands so you didn't crush him. Both of you were panting, covered in sweat, thoroughly spent. Slowly, carefully, you pulled out, and he winced at the drag. He could feel your cum starting to leak out of him, and the filthiness of it made his spent cock give a weak twitch.
"One more—" Sonar murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, body aching in ways that should probably concern him but don't. Every muscle feels used, stretched, pleasantly destroyed. His ass is sore, his jaw aches from earlier, and there are bite marks scattered across his body that sting when he moves. He doesn't want it to end. Even after hours and hours of this, especially after your shift. He doesn't want this birthday to end. Not if it means the gift stops.
"Victor—" you softly start, fond yet concerned. You can feel his exhaustion through the connection your wings create, wrapped as they are around both of you. "We've been at it for hours. You—"
"I can handle it." He argues, but he doesn't even have the strength to look over his shoulder. His white eyes are half-lidded, his breathing still uneven from the last round. "I can." Softer, he adds—or perhaps pleads, like it truly is that meaningful—"One more."
You lay there, staring at his back. The fur is matted with sweat in places, and you can see the marks you've left on him. Scratches from your claws when you'd lost control. Bite marks on his shoulders. Bruises on his hips from gripping him too hard. Your feathers bristle as you pick up on the emotions, the turmoil, things overlaying each other that make you confused as you process them.
In a way, you had assumed he would take it casually. Take this, casually.
Not like you minded it being something else but... it’s confusing, I guess. You don't know.
Cupids do a lot of things, but you can't say that you are as sexually active as others. Or at least your relationships are more emotional and complicated than most Cupids you've encountered. It was difficult for you to be as open as they were. Sex was easy for most of your kind—a tool, a pleasure, something freely given and taken without attachment. Because love can be like that, love can be many things and when you’re kin that is both love and war—contradictions are expected. Even if it sometimes you’re confused even with your own nature.
But just like any individual that is distinctively not human, partners who focused on what you are and only engaged with you because of it is just tiring. The fetishization gets old fast. People want to fuck a Cupid, want to experience the mythological being, but they don't want you. They don't see past the wings and the transformations and the supernatural allure.
Maybe that's sort of how it started with the two of you today—or rather yesterday, you realize, noting the early morning light starting to creep through his blinds. Casual. Friends doing it because fuck it, who cares. The Z-Team dosen’t. Neither of you expecting it to change until it did.
Maybe it was in the closet, when the two of you had engaged in helping each other rather than doing your individual cleanups. He'd groomed you—a gesture far more intimate than you initially thought it to be, his tongue lapping up his mess and simply soothing your skin with a reverence that made your chest tight in memory of it now. While you had carefully got him redressed, did his pants, his belt, fixed his tie, smoothing down his fur and clothes alike; both of you moving in synchronicity like you'd done this a hundred times before.
Or maybe it started forming long before that and you jumping the ship and actually sending him pics of your tits was just the thing that finally kicked it in motion. The culmination of weeks of tension, of lingering looks during dispatch calls, of inside jokes that only the two of you understood.
Or... that's all just projection on your part. Wishful thinking.
You aren't as keen as you thought you were on matters of love. Reading others' emotions, facilitating their connections—that's easy. Your own? A fucking mess.
Sonar snaps you out of your thoughts, his name on his lips, questioning and oh so vulnerable.
"Okay," you whisper.
You see and feel him relax. Feel the way his body eases, melts even, as you settle closer. The relief that radiates from him is palpable, and it does something to your heart that you're not sure how to approach.
This time you simply keep to the spooning position instead of doing something grand. Your masculine form is still active, your cock already hardening again despite the marathon you've both been through. You're running on supernatural stamina at this point, but even that has its limits.
Your hand is gentle as you adjust him and he lets you. Trusting and pliant in your control as you hook his leg forward slightly, opening him up. Your right arm tucks under his neck, adjusting a bit to find a comfortable position before relaxing. His own arm bends, his hand managing to find your fingers. It's a hold first, his claws grasping at your digits in a clasp.
"You sure?" you ask, seeking confirmation one more time. Because consent matters, even in the haze of exhaustion and desperate need.
"...If it's okay."
And you softly exhale.
"Of course it's okay."
Your other hand carefully guided yourself back in, treating it like the first time despite the multiple rounds declaring otherwise. He's looser now, as expected. His body having adjusted, but you're still careful. Slow. Your cock slides in easier this time, his hole still slick with lube and cum from before.
Sonar makes a small sound—not quite pain, not quite pleasure, something in between. His hand tightens around yours as you bottom out, your hips flush against his ass.
This time, it's slower. Your hips rolling to work in and out, a gentle rhythm that's more about connection than pleasure. Fingers interlacing with his as your other hand settles on his thigh, feeling the muscle there trembling with fatigue.
Your lips press to his shoulder, eyes shut as you focus on the moment rather than the rush of adrenaline or eagerness to please. This is probably the quietest the both of you have been since starting. Not to say neither of you were enjoying it. Just the focus was different. That's all.
The room is filled with soft sounds—the rustle of feathers, the quiet gasps and sighs, the gentle slap of skin on skin. Your cock drags against his inner walls with each slow thrust, and you can feel him clenching around you occasionally, like his body doesn't want to let you go.
"Feel good?" you murmur against his shoulder, against fur and flesh.
"Mm-hmm." He can't seem to form words anymore, reduced to small sounds of contentment. His eyes are closed, long ears relaxed rather than alert.
You fuck him like this for a long time, slow and steady and intimate. There's no urgency now, no desperate race to orgasm. Just the two of you, connected in the most primal way, your wings creating a cocoon that shuts out the rest of the world.
When you finally cum, it's gentle. A slow build rather than an explosive finish. Your cock pulses inside him, adding to the mess already there, and he makes a satisfied sound.
"Together," he mumbles, and you realize he's coming too, his cock untouched but leaking onto the sheets beneath him. His ass tightens rhythmically around you, milking the last of your release.
You stay like that for a while, still buried inside him, both of you catching your breath. Your supernatural form is starting to flicker at the edges—a sign that even your stamina has limits.
“Best… birthday… ever.”
“So you’ve told me.” But amusement is laced on your tongue.
His white eyes are glazed with exhaustion and satisfaction, a dopey smile on his bat-like face. "Love you," he mumbles, then immediately seems to realize what he said.
His eyes widen slightly. "I —"
"Shh." You give his hand a gentle squeeze, readjusting so the arms could rest in a comfortable position. Your other hand tucking across his chest. "Sleep first. Talk later."
He nods, relief evident, and his eyes start to drift closed.
But even in his exhausted state, his hand finds yours, fingers interlacing. And that simple gesture feels more intimate than everything that came before it.
You watch him fall asleep, his breathing evening out, his body finally relaxing completely. The marks on his body are extensive—you've really marked him up. Bite marks on his shoulders and neck, scratches down his back, bruises on his hips and thighs. He's going to be sore for days.
But he looks happy. Content in a way you've never seen him during work hours, when he's all sharp intelligence and business acumen and barely controlled addiction issues.
You should sleep too. You're exhausted, your body aching in unfamiliar ways. But you stay awake a while longer, watching him, your wings tucked close to conserve warmth.
Eventually, sleep claims you too.
Of course, later, you’d force yourself to stir. Making every moment and step a second of taxing existence, as the additional exertion of simply being awake (even worse, moving) after finally being lulled to rest is its own kind of torture.
It took a minute to find the necessary items, sliding the sheet inward. There you had filled Sonar ever gently to his side, cleaned him gently with a soaked towel, removed the other half of the sheet then did the reverse movement with the new one. He listened so well, even in his exhausted state. Let you give him some water and carefully help him in boxers at the very least. By then, you truly were faltering. But hey, despite the very deep exhaustion you couldn't be mad. That's as good as you’re getting right now…
Hours pass, as they do. The sun has rose fully, bright morning light eventually giving way to afternoon. Neither of you stir, too deeply exhausted to notice the passage of time.
The door to the apartment clicks open sometime around 2:45 PM. Footsteps, quiet but deliberate, move through the living room. A tall figure appears in the doorway to Sonar's bedroom, surveying the scene with amusement.
Malevola leans against the doorframe. Her yellow pupilless eyes take in the chaos: clothes scattered everywhere, the smell of sex heavy in the air, the two thoroughly debauched figures passed out in bed.
She moves closer, noting with professional concern the extent of the marks on both of you. Nothing that looks dangerous, but definitely thorough. Her prehensile tail swishes behind her as she approaches Sonar's side of the bed.
The cup of ice water in her hand hovers over his face. Till she lovers it, pressing it directly against that sensitive pink snout.
A groan fell from his lips, nose twitching as the chill pressed against the sensitive flesh. The cold makes his face scrunch up, snout twitching in dismay as he turns away, protecting himself from the attack.
"Morning you wild animal. Or afternoon, I guess," Malevola says cheerfully. Her tail comes up, delivering a gentle but firm smack to his groin.
Sonar squeaks—actually squeaks—and shoots upright. The motion brings him forward then back down in his collapse, hands protective over his crotch. "Ow! What the—"
"Mav?" He blearily frog blinks, processing the familiar figure looming over his bedside. "What... what are you doing here?"
"Making sure you aren't dead." Malevola smiles, hand resting on her hip. The cup of ice water settles on the bedside table, courtesy of her prehensile tail. "Seems like the two of you went all out. Don't think those are going to disappear anytime soon."
She nods toward the bed, drawing his eyes over.
You.
You're here.
You're still here.
The anxiety he woke up with—something unexplainable, that cold dread that you'd have left, that it was just casual, that he'd read everything wrong—immediately disappears.
You're lying on your stomach, one wing tucked against you for extra warmth as the other is askew across his legs. Still nude, and now the marks from last night—his bites, his fangs, his hickies, the occasional clawing—are artfully displayed under the teasing afternoon sun streaming through the partially open blinds.
Your a mess even after the bath he vaguely remembers sharing with you, there's a particularly prominent bite mark on your shoulder that's going to bruise spectacularly, and there are scratches down your back where his claws had dug in during one particularly intense round.
His own body bears similar marks, badges of honor that buzz ever so delightfully under his skin. He can feel every one of them, the pleasant ache that speaks of a night well spent.
"Uuugh," Sonar turns his head away from the sight of you—because looking at you is making his body respond in ways it absolutely cannot handle right now—staring at the ceiling instead. "I'm hard again..." A sound that is both pained and pleasured. "...it hurts."
Malevola's chuckle can be heard as she stalks away from the bedside, moving around the room but keeping away from any possibly... questionable spaces. She's careful not to touch anything that might be bodily fluid adjacent, her tail flicking away from a particularly suspicious wet spot on the floor.
"What time is it?" Sonar asks, his voice rough from use—probably from all the moaning and the enthusiastic blowjob.
"Just turned 3 PM."
"Ah shit..." He processes this. "Blazer is going to kill me."
"Don't worry," Malevola reassures, moving to Sonar's closet and pulling it open. "C got you both covered. Told Blazer you wouldn't be in today just before leaving yesterday."
That catches Sonar's attention. His head turns, white eyes focusing on her with sudden focus. "What?"
The half-demon shrugs, but a smile plays on her lips—the kind that knows something good. "Guess he knew to play it smart. Can't really be helpful if you're limping everywhere like you got fucked in the ass."
Sonar seems fit to argue. The words are right there, his rain ready to formulate a rebuttal about his pain tolerance and professional capabilities or more importantly, how he’s never been with a man (because that had always been an initial statement). It doesn't happen though, especially as he feels just how sore his body is as he ever so slowly peels himself upright to sitting.
Every muscle protests. His ass is on fire—not in the fun way anymore, just in the deeply used way. His jaw aches. His hips hurt. There are twinges in places he didn't even know could get sore.
"I did get fucked in the ass," he states matter-of-factly, with the dignity of a man who's made peace with his choices. "And it was awesome."
Malevola's brows raise, surprised, followed by a huff of genuine amusement. "Good on you." She selects a graphic tee from his closet—one of his Vanderstenk merch shirts despite the dudes recent divorce with his wife. “Really, man."
"Despite the... clawing and looking like you got mauled and manhandled by a badger—" she glances at him again, her assessment more thorough, "—you look good. Or well, happy. Beyond just 'sex happy.'"
There's a knowing quality to her tone. Malevola's been his sponsor for a while now, then of course, a great friend—helped him through some of his darkest moments. She knows what his face looks like when he's just chasing the next high, the next rush, the next thing to make him feel something other than empty.
This isn't that.
"I get it." Sonar reassures, his voice softer. More honest. "I am. Happy..." He pauses, looking back at your sleeping form. A genuine smile crosses his bat features. "Thanks."
Malevola simply hums in acknowledgment before she tosses the shirt. It sails through the air, landing perfectly draped over his fuzzy head. "Don't mention it. Now get your angel dressed. Brought food for you two."
The shirt slides down his face as he pulls it off, looking at her with surprise. "You brought food?"
"You think I'm gonna let you two starve after fucking for—" she checks her phone, "—what, eight hours? Nine? The timeline's unclear but the results are obvious." She heads toward the bedroom door. "I got Thai. Your favorite place. It's in the kitchen. Whenever you two are... mobile."
"Mav?"
She pauses, looking back.
"Seriously. Thank you."
Her expression softens. "That's what friends are for, Victor. Making sure you don't die in stupid ways. Though I gotta say, 'death by birthday sex' would be a new one."
She leaves, pulling the door mostly closed behind her to give you both privacy but not completely—probably in case one of you actually does need help getting to the bathroom.
Sonar sits there for a moment, shirt in his hands, staring at your sleeping form. You're still out cold, exhausted in ways that speak to just how thoroughly you both wore each other out.
Slowly, carefully—because everything hurts—he shifts. His body stretches, causing his face to twist in soreness before relaxing as he’s brought himself closer to you. Resting on an arm, his other reached out, gently brushing along your wing. He’s learned that while its edges are delicate still, it isn’t as sensitive as other zones—allowing him to expose your face to the open.
To him.
Even in sleep, you're beautiful. Both forms, all forms, everything about you.
"Love you," he whispers, quieter this time. Meaning it even more than when he'd accidentally blurted it out before. "Not just the sex. Just... you."
You don't wake, but you make a small content sound and shift slightly closer to his touch.
Sonar allows himself a few more minutes of watching you sleep, memorizing this moment. He’ll just bring you food in bed. No need for both of you to suffer shuffling about. So, with a groan that would make an old man proud, he forces himself to stand.
His legs immediately protest. His ass screams at him. He actually has to grab the nightstand for balance.
"Worth it," he mutters to himself, and begins the arduous process of finding some pants that aren't going to rub against all his new sensitive areas.
This is going to be an interesting conversation when you wake up. But right now? Right now he's just grateful you stayed.
And later, with the rather helpful Mal, the two of you would soak in the bathtub (after she practically sprayed you two down like she just found out the two of you had fleas) while lazily eating Thai. It’s a surprise that half of it even got in your mouths but hey, a win is a win. But you do wince when Sonar accidentally kicks the hell out of you in the dick—he’ll eventually be mindful of the cargo.
Because it’ll become obvious just how much he loves bragging about you.
“My partner actually said—”
“You’re just jealous that my boyfriend—”
“Guys, my girlfriend—”
It’s like his Harvard rambling. Just cuter but also worse at the same time. In the end, he loves you and that’s all that matters. But you probably have to teach him not to talk about your personal time with the team.
“…Sonar, you have to stop talking to people about my dick like it’s a crypto investment.”
“I wasn’t. I was just saying—wait.” A pause that had made you shut your eyes and simply regret speaking. “We could totally make that into a coin—”
Author's Note: This was lowkey supposed to have an Alt. with Flambae (which would've been entirety masc!reader) and an Alt. w/ Robert (just bc it happened to happen.) I might still do the Flambae route because that one was more emotionally connected to the reader (difficulty with like shit they gone through and gender dysphoria) and the both of them dealing with their insecurities and whatnot. If you think this is a mess though y'all should've seen how it looked initially, there was like every damn thing going around left and right and had to be removed and put elsewhere because it just would've been a multi-fic instead of Sonar focused.
<- Chapter 7. || Chapter 8. [You ARE Here]
summary: Robert isn't an idiot. Allegedly. More candy, more Z-team, more worries.
author's note: This took longer than I’m used to—my sleep was actually the worse and my motivation staggered for a bit, I also had this assignment that literally killed me on the inside. 😭 The recent episodes didn't help my happiness either. I became a bundle of horror sadness…. I'm all gucci now. No sweat.
Anyhow, I drafted this properly on Saturday predawn (DAYS after Ch.7 came out) and it only started coming to life at like 3AM while I was half asleep then again at 5AM before I promptly fell asleep (thank goodness). But hey, it honestly made me feel better because I liked the continued plot.
Apologies for the delayed update, hope you enjoy.
xoxo, V
[Tag List is Active/Open, Feel Free to RQ to be tagged for future updates in the comments! <3 Tell me if I missed you too!] + working on requests after this <3 I got a lot of them YIPPEEEEE
SPOILERS FOR EP 5-6. CANON DIVERGENT BUT SOME INFO IS FROM THOSE EPISODES.
[wrds: 10,323 | chrs: 61,215] Short one </3
[NOT BETA READ]
Read on Ao3
Coming back from lunch was expectantly easy for the team.
The usual shit resuming—dealing with problems that probably could've been more efficient if people who specialized in it were called instead (tech support, plumbing emergencies, electrical issues that required actual electricians (which, Golem sure as hell wasn’t), the casual noise complaints, the boring reports of suspicious packages that turned out to be Amazon deliveries, the occasional exciting high-speed chase, the close calls that got the adrenaline pumping just enough to make the job feel worthwhile.
In other words, the usual nonsense that comes from being a hero at SDN and answering the calls of dear subscribers.
All in the name of rehabilitation! (Or rather for the money and not dealing with actually staying in prison—but it's not like any other person wouldn't do the same if given the option between freedom with supervision versus a cell and three questionable meals a day...)
But something was off.
The air felt different. Like when you can smell the rain coming before it finally begins its downpour rather than its initially predicted sprinkle. Except this wasn't weather—this was something else. Something that made veteran criminals turn paranoid, even more than usual, made reformed villains remember why they'd developed survival instincts in the first place. Second glances over their shoulder or at something they saw in their peripheral, scoping out the area, checking corners more than usual—the same things you did before you did something. Something that was often illegal but this time existing felt like a broken law.
It was actually Malevola who messaged the group chat—because of course they had a group chat, duh, what kind of team doesn't have a group chat in this day and age—while waiting at her current location to be dispatched to her next call instead of returning to SDN. She was perched on the edge of a building downtown, her tail swishing behind her with the kind of agitation that meant something was bothering her but she couldn't quite articulate what.
Malevola: tf is going on?
The phones buzzed across Torrance, drawing the attention of the reforming criminals in varying states of activity. Some were mid-patrol, others grabbing an additional snack or other from food trucks or convenience stores; just killing time between calls by doing absolutely nothing productive.
Flambae: ???
There was a pause. Then another buzz as Malevola's fingers flew across her screen, that uncomfortable feeling crystallizing into something she could finally name.
Malevola: Idk everything feels… weird
Prism: You too?
Thank God I wasn't alone
Thought I was going crazy
Sonar: Define weird
Malevola: Like we're being watched
More than usual
Punch Up: Aren't we always being watched?
That's kind of the whole dispatcher thing
Flambae: No she's right
Something's off
Bob's been too quiet today
Invisigal: *Robert
And yeah actually
Where's all the nagging?
Coupé: He congratulated me earlier
For a successful extraction
Without any sarcasm
Coupé: It would be
If it didn't feel like he was setting us up for something
The group chat went silent for a moment as everyone processed that. Because Coupé was right—Robert had been too pleasant since returning from lunch. Too accommodating. Too... normal. Which was deeply abnormal for someone who usually operated with at least three layers of sarcasm and a persistent undercurrent of "I can't believe I have to deal with you people."
Prism: Okay so we're all feeling it
Malevola: The question is WHY
Sonar: Perhaps he's finally accepted his role?
Embraced the position with grace and maturity?
Flambae: Or he knows
Invisigal: Knows what exactly?
Flambae: About the medical liaison
About us knowing
About ANY OF IT
Various team members started typing, only to delete their responses. Because that was the real question, wasn't it? How much did Robert know? Had he figured it out? Was he putting pieces together? Was this calm demeanor just before everything came crashing down just before it could get started?
Punch Up: We've been careful though
Haven't we?
Invisigal: Did you do something while you were there, Flambae???
Flambae: No! Wtf
I didn't do shit
Just got patched up and left
Like a NORMAL person visiting medical
Invisigal: then how does he know?
Punch Up: We don't know if he knows
Could just be coincidence
Maybe he's having a good day?
Several people started typing responses to that pathetically optimistic statement, but before anyone could reply to Punch Up's hopeful thinking:
"What are you guys doing?"
Several bodies froze at the voice in their ears piping up through the comms. It was like witnessing a colony of odd beasts freeze after the warning sound of a predator was cried. That particular stillness that only comes from being caught red-handed—or in this case, red-screened—doing something you absolutely shouldn't be doing.
It was comical from an outside view, really.
A bunch of heroes freezing in their scattered spots across the city. Not even remotely close together but knowingly connected in the moment of ‘shit’.
Kids, really. If kids had felonies and superpowers and were technically adults but still made the same stupid mistakes, that is.
Malevola went completely rigid. Her tail stopped mid-swish, frozen in the air like a taxidermied specimen. Her phone was still in her hands, the group chat clearly visible on the screen, her thumbs hovering over the keyboard where she'd been about to type another message.
Flambae, who had been leaning against a lamp post while scrolling through his phone, actually dropped it. The device clattered to the sidewalk with a crack that suggested his screen protector had just earned its keep. "Shit—"
Prism, in the middle of taking a selfie to post later (because hero work was also personal brand maintenance), fumbled her phone so badly she nearly threw it into traffic. "Oh my god—"
Sonar, who had been in his human form and very obviously looking at his phone instead of paying attention to his surroundings, transformed instantly into his bat form—like his animal brain decided the best response to being caught was to literally become something else. The sudden transformation caused his phone to drop onto the roof he'd been standing on, the screen still lit up with the group chat. (Honestly, Sonar. Pre—ejac, I mean, Pre-transformation? Thought you had more control than that man.)
Punch Up's reaction was perhaps the most dramatic. He'd been sitting on a bench, and the surprise made him actually fall off it. Just—toppled right over backward, his short legs flailing briefly in the air before he hit the ground with a thud and a string of Irish cursing that made passing parents gasp and cover their kin’s delicate ears as they hurry past. Although he’d likely be more frustrated at no one tried to help than being scandalized at. Bunch of assholes. Lend a hand like a nice person would.
Coupé, ever the professional, simply went very still. Her expression didn't change behind her mask, but her grip on her phone tightened imperceptibly. She was already calculating—how much had he seen? How long had he been watching? What was the best way to explain this without incriminating anyone? Maybe she should just kill him like she initially planned…
Golem, bless his rocky heart, was the only one who didn't immediately panic. Mostly because his phone was had been zoomed in to maximum because he struggled with the tiny keyboard sometimes or reading the small text that caused him to hunch uncomfortably to read properly. Hence the adjustment. Which meant the group chat was comically large on his screen. He tilted his head, looking at one of the nearby security cameras with genuine confusion. But hey, smart to actually look for the first possibility of exposure.
Invisigal—who had been walking about, going in an out of invisibility while typing—froze. Flickering out of existence from pure shock, leaving but her phone floating mid-air before it bobbed in movement as she scurried to hide in the nearest alleyway.
The pause seemed to stretch.
Malevola: Maybe he isn't talking TO us??
"No, I am talking to you." Robert's voice came through the comms again, dry in that particular way it nearly infuriatingly was—dry with parts that spoke of someone amused and exasperated. Like a teacher who had just caught the entire class passing notes and was deciding whether it was worth the effort to discipline them or just let it play out for entertainment value. "All of you."
"Specifically," Robert continued, and they could hear the smile in his voice now that they all wanted to punch off, "I'm talking to whoever has their phone out right now instead of paying attention to their surroundings. Which appears to be... let me check my screens here...” he didn’t really have to, obviously, “all of you. Literally every single one of you."
The comms exploded.
"PRIVACY!" Prism's voice cut through first, sharp and indignant. "This is a violation of privacy! You can't just—"
"Can't just what?" Robert interrupted. "Monitor the team I'm dispatching? Check to make sure you're all safe and doing your jobs? Use the security cameras that are literally installed all over the city for exactly this purpose?"
"That's different!" Malevola argued, her Australian accent thickening with irritation. "Looking at our phones is—"
"Not my fault Golem's screen is the size of a billboard," Robert pointed out reasonably. "I can literally read his texts from the traffic cam angle. Not even trying to spy, it's just there. Taking up like forty percent of my monitor when the camera is pulled up."
"Oh fuck—" Golem's rumble carried embarrassment now as he snapped out of his stare, turning his back toward the camera while curved around his device like a rather odd boulder. Which isn’t entirety wrong.
"And before anyone else chimes in," Robert continued, clearly happy to point out all their mistakes, "Sonar, your phone is still on the roof displaying the chat. Flambae, you dropped yours screen-up on the sidewalk where literally anyone walking by can see it. Punch Up, you're currently lying on the ground—are you okay by the way?—with your phone three feet away, also screen-up. Malevola, you're holding yours at an angle where the sun is creating this beautiful glare directly into the camera. Very cinematic. Prism, you nearly threw yours into traffic which would have been both hilarious and expensive. Coupé, you're actually holding yours at a discreet angle, well done, except you forgot you're standing directly under a traffic light with a camera pointed down. And Invisigal—"
"I was invisible," Invisigal interrupted defensively. "You couldn’t have seen me."
"But I could see the very visible phone floating in mid-air on its own down the sidewalk because you went invisible but your phone didn't." Robert's tone was deadpan. "Really subtle. Very stealthy. Peak invisible person behavior."
There was a beat of mortified silence.
Then Invisigal turned to glare at a camera, shoving her phone into her jacket pocket like it had personally offended her. "I hate you."
"The feeling's mutual. Now—" Robert's voice took on that particular dispatcher tone that meant he was about to give orders whether they liked it or not, "—can we please get back to actual work? Or do I need to confiscate everyone's phones like a substitute teacher dealing with a classroom of teenagers?"
"You can't confiscate our phones!" Flambae protested up at the nearest camera (much to the confusion and fear of innocent bystanders), clutching his previously dropped device after trying to smudge away the new crack across the screen. "These are our personal property!"
"Then stop looking at your personal property during work hours when you're supposed to be on patrol," Robert countered. "I'm not asking for much here. Just basic attention to your surroundings. Awareness of your environment. Not texting and walking. Returning to SDN rather than wandering where you shouldn’t be. The ability to do your jobs without constantly checking your group chat."
"How do you even know it's a group chat?" Sonar asked suspiciously, collecting his phone with a talon. For if he honestly just turned back human now he’d be butt ass naked and despite what some people may think, he has decorum. No nude sun roofing unless it’s the Wednesdays or a holiday weekend.
"Because all of you stopped moving at the exact same time to look at your phones. Either you're all getting the same spam calls about your cars' extended warranties, or you have a group chat. Not exactly rocket science."
"Could be a mass text," Punch Up suggested, having finally gotten back to his feet and brushed himself off.
"From who? Each other? That's just a group chat with extra steps."
"He's got us there," Coupé admitted quietly.
Several people started trying to talk over each other through the comms—protests about privacy, arguments about monitoring, questions about what Robert actually saw, defensive explanations about why they were all on their phones at the same time that definitely weren't coordinated.
"Alright, ALRIGHT!" Robert's voice cut through the chaos. "Enough. Here's what's going to happen. You're all going to put your phones away. You're going to get back to work. And if I see anyone on their phone again for non-emergency purposes during this shift, I'm making everyone do written reports about today's activities. Detailed written reports. With proper grammar and everything."
The collective groan that went through the comms was almost musical in its harmony of despair.
"That's cruel," Malevola muttered.
"That's motivation," Robert corrected. "Now get back to work. All of you. Golem, you've got a call coming in about a collapsed storm drain. Malevola, domestic dispute, sounds like it might need your particular brand of intimidation. Prism, noise complaint at the art museum, probably nothing but someone needs to check it out.”
“Ugh, not an art museum!”
Robert pointedly ignored her groan. “Flambae—"
"I know, I know, I'm going," Flambae grumbled.
The comms went quiet as everyone got back to their actual jobs, phones disappearing into pockets and pouches and wherever else they'd been stored before the great group chat incident of Thursday afternoon.
But as soon as they were sure Robert had moved on to other things, the group chat lit up again.
Invisigal: THAT WAS TOO CLOSE
Punch Up: My arse still hurts from falling
Prism: Did he see what we were talking about though???
Sonar: Nope
He mentioned the chat but not the content
Coupé: He's playing it cool
Seeing if we slip up
Flambae: Or he actually doesn't know
And we're all paranoid for nothing
Malevola: Since when do we get paranoid for nothing?
We're criminals
Paranoia is basically our love language
Golem: Sorry about the screen size thing guys
Didn't realize it was that visible
Invisigal: Not your fault
He would've caught us anyway
Dude's like a hawk
Prism: A really annoying hawk
With dispatch powers
Punch Up: Do hawks have dispatch powers?
Sonar: I think she's making a metaphor
Punch Up: Oh
Right
Metaphors
Coupé: Back to the original question
Does he know about the medical liaison?
Malevola: If he does, he didn't mention it
Flambae: Yet
Invisigal: We need to be more careful
Punch Up: Or we could just TELL him??
There was a long pause in the chat.
Malevola: And ruin the surprise?
Prism: What surprise?
We're not throwing him a party
We just helped his friend get a job
Sonar: A job he doesn't know they have
In his workplace
Where they'll be in constant proximity
Coupé: When you put it that way
It sounds worse
Punch Up: It IS worse
That's the whole point
Make him sweat
Golem: I thought the point was to help their friend?
Invisigal: It's BOTH
We can help someone AND make Robert uncomfortable
Multitasking
Flambae: I'm just here for the chaos honestly
Malevola: Shocking
Back at SDN headquarters, Robert leaned back in his chair and stared at his aged monitor. Eight different camera feeds showing eight different heroes now actually doing their jobs—after sending whatever final messages they had—instead of huddling over their phones like a bunch of teenagers. He smoothly closed them all, monitoring their GPS instead of dealing with being that creepy and tracking them with all the cameras around Torrance.
He wasn't an idiot. He'd seen the way everyone had paused, pulled up one camera then another… and one by one it became obvious they were in some sort of group chat. He hadn't been able to read the actual messages, not even from Golem’s phone—the angle was wrong, the text too small even with Golem's aggressive zoom—but he'd seen enough to know they were talking about something that warranted ALL of their attention to answer.
It didn’t help they had been previously been whining about injuries that could possibly land them visiting the infirmary or rather a visit with the Medical Liaison. With you… You.
He had just seen you but he found himself growing restless again. Something he wasn’t used to. Not with years of stakeouts and endless hours of scanning through dozens of screens at the same time—and now sitting behind a desk for most hours of the day. In other words, him sitting in one place for long periods wasn’t meant to feel so uncomfortable. Wasn’t usual to make him feel restless.Like he had to get up and pace as if he was some overexcited pup.
Robert's fingers drummed against his desk. He should be focusing on work. Should be monitoring calls, tracking the team's movements, making sure nobody was setting anything on fire or accidentally causing property damage that would require even more paperwork. Make sure his heroes are actually, y’know, doing hero work like he caught them not doing but moments ago. Gotta follow your own example, right? Do your job when on hours…
Instead, he found himself pulling up the employee directory. Scrolling through names until he found yours. Listed officially now, with your credentials and department and extension number. Additional proof that you worked here. That you existed in his professional sphere as well as his personal one.
Except the personal sphere was currently in shambles, and the professional sphere was brand new and fragile and he had no idea how to navigate it without making things worse.
He wasn’t sure if it was divine or sinful intervention when the voice crackled back into his ears.
"Uh, hey?" Flambae's voice, uncharacteristically hesitant. "I might need medical again."
Robert's hand went to his headset. "What happened?"
"Nothing! Nothing serious. Just... maybe twisted my ankle. Might've landed wrong coming out of a portal. Mal's portals are tricky sometimes—"
"I resent that," Malevola's voice cut in.
Robert sighed. “I swear,” he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I just told you guys not to do anything that would cause injury to each other—”
“We didn’t!”
"It’s not my fault he doesn’t know how portals work.”
“My fault? How was that my fault? You’re the one that portaled me on a fucking corner with one of those shitty ass ledges—”
“And how is that MY fault? You just go through portals without looking where you’re going? What are you, five??”
“Okay. OK! Holy shit, head back to medical.” Robert interuptted the bickering. “I’ll let them know you’re coming.”
"The medical liaison specifically? Dr. Candy?" There was something odd in Flambae's tone. Something that made Robert's eyes narrow. Dr. Candy? Are you serious? It sounds like a fucking pornstar. A thought that caused him to internally groan at the imagination he truly didn’t want flashing behind his eyes of you, especially not at work. Oh my god.
Robert rubbed at his temples. "Unless you'd prefer someone else—” because he’d honestly prefer someone else, anyone else, to deal with Flamabe.
"No! No, Dr. Candy is fine. Great. Perfect. I'll head there now."
Great. He is serious with that nickname.
Robert stared at his screen. At least his suspicion was right. For whatever reason, the Z-Team had something to do with… you. Or at least had more interest and want that even Flambae complies with medical orders with more excitement than argument.
Robert pulled up the internal communication system and typed out a message to your extension:
Flambae incoming with possible ankle injury. Sorry for the repeat customer so soon.
He hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Should he add something else? Something personal? Something that acknowledged the weirdness of this situation? Why is he so anxious to send a message? Would it show that he’s incapable of taking care of his team? That he is actually a horrible dispatcher and doesn’t know what he’s doing?
Before he could overthink it further, he hit send.
His finger lingered on the button, as if the computer would hesitate with him and just not send it. Of course, that’s not how it works. It sent.
It being you though, you responded quite quickly:
Ouch. Those suck. It’s okay! Things happen. Thanks for telling me, I’ll take care of him and update you! :)
That…
That wasn’t half bad.
Relieving even.
While he found himself a bit happy about the smiley face (even if it was meant in the topic of Flambae of all people), at least it didn’t seem like you were mad or overtly professional over text. You always found it hard to express through messages without things like emojis or emoticons or something akin to such—don’t want to come off serious and cause unnecessary anxiety. Former situations where he remembers you spam correcting yourself or over-explaining about whatever you said because you believed you may have come off wrong (you hadn’t); until he had to stop you before you think he hated you rather than him finding fond amusement of it all.
And maybe he hovered his cursor over the smiley face like some stupid lovesick idiot before minimizing (not closing) the tab. All whilst the Z-Team’s group chat stirred to life again.
Prism: AGAIN?????
Flambae: IT'S LEGITIMATE THIS TIMEActually hurts like a bitch
Invisigal: Sure it does
You baby dude
Flambae: I'm serious!
Mal's portal was weird
Landed wrong
Malevola: My portals are fine
You're just clumsy
Sonar: This is the second medical visit today
Robert's definitely going to notice a pattern
Coupé: He already noticed
Did you hear his tone?
Punch Up: What tone?
Coupé: Suspicion
He knows something's up
Golem: Or he thinks we're all just accident-prone
Which, to be fair, we kind of are
Flambae: Look I'm going whether you all approve or not
My ankle hurts
And maybe I'll get more lollipops
Prism: BRING ME SOME
Punch Up: Me too!
Malevola: If you're taking requests
Cherry flavor
Sonar: I prefer the blue raspberry
If they have it
Coupé: Green apple
Golem: I'll eat whatever
Not picky
Invisigal: This is ridiculous
We're superheroes
Reformed criminals
And we're bartering for candy like children
Flambae: Your point being?
Invisigal: ...
Get me watermelon flavor
Flambae: CALLED IT
Prism: We're all disasters
Punch Up: The best kind of disasters though
Invisigal: Debatable
Sonar: But also accurate
That message having the addition of some crypto-mascot gif that said ‘100%’ with rising ‘stonks’ in the background. Really just brainrot things that earned a mix of thumbs-down emojis and question marks as reactions.
Sonar simply sighed, shaking his furry head. These people just don’t get the joy that is crypto life… A bunch of incels.
(In truth, which Sonar might argue with, he is actually—very much so—closer to an incel than the rest of them… Being a crypto bro truly doesn’t help his case either.)
A long day meant a night of drinking. It’s the sacred rite.
No getting drunk—yet, the weekend starts just tomorrow—but at least getting buzzed. They went to the Sardine this time because Flambae simply can’t avoid causing trouble (in other words, he just can’t stop getting himself banned from the places they all enjoy). Obviously, they didn’t want to ditch him so they came here instead. Their other bar was closed for the night too so that meant no ‘accommodating’ seating for Golem, his big butt sitting outside. Not like he truly minds, enjoying his music—or is it poetry? Plus candy. Flambae had gave him extra, plus the others gave him the wrappers too. Both his and their mouths lingering with the flavors of sweet, sweet sugary nonsense. A not-so surprisingly good mix with some liquor combos.
"Maybe it was a mistake. Working with your ex is totally not worth it."
Prism’s voice cut through the low murmur of conversation and clinking glasses that filled The Sardine's back corner. The statement hung there, casual yet pointed, like she’d been turning it over in her mind and finally decided to just throw it out into the open.
Malevola arched a brow as she looked up from her drink, stating matter of fact, "They never dated."
"Or fucked," Invisigal added, her tone matter-of-fact as she reached for the bowl of stale pretzels that had been sitting on their table since before they'd arrived. Probably dirty as fuck or drugged (both is most likely) but she couldn’t find herself to care that much right now. As long as they tasted like edible.
Several pairs of eyes snapped toward her. Flambae paused mid-sip. Punch Up's eyebrows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into his hairline. Even Sonar tilted his head with sudden, sharp interest.
"What?" Invisigal asked, defensive now.
"How do you know that?" Flambae asked slowly, very carefully. Whether it was because he was interested in details or in general wasn’t obvious. Or maybe he was now recognizing just how much Visi uses her ability in the moment.
Voyeur nonsense or whatever it’s called.
But they also sort of knew the answer. She’s been watching them since last week, that Friday of Robert Robertson’s first day, the fall of his personal life. She knew routines, habits, the lack of interactions after Roberts’ idiotic self decided to be well, his idiotic self, and more.
But had she really... watched for that? That would be fucking weird. Even for her… eh. Sorta. Details details.
"I just... I mean, it's obvious, isn't it?" Invisigal scrambled, trying to sound confident. "Body language. Proximity patterns. The complete lack of sexual tension despite the emotional codependency."
"Proximity patterns," Punch Up repeated, deadpan. Even he wasn’t falling for this. "Right. Normal thing to notice."
Meanwhile, Sonar—far, far too curious for his own good and probably everyone else's sanity—opened his mouth to speak. His eyes had that gleam they got when he was about to dig into something he absolutely did not need to know. Anatomical details, his expression screamed. Tell me all the details you may have observed during your totally-not-creepy surveillance operation. I NEED to know!
(Fucking horn bat. Of course he wants to know if Visi watched them shower or something equally invasive.)
"Did you see—" Sonar started.
"A best friend breakup is the same thing," Prism cut in, mercifully derailing whatever deeply uncomfortable question was about to emerge from Sonar's mouth. She waved a hand dismissively, like the distinction between romantic relationships and platonic ones was purely semantic. "It's like if Flambae and I broke up."
"That'll never happen," Flambae said immediately, automatic, like it was a fundamental law of physics.
"—because I'd just kill you first—" Prisim said at the exact same time. "—because our friendship would—" Flambae continued, then stopped. Blinked. "What?"
Prism’s expression didn't change. "Hm? What?"
"What did you just say?"
"Working with your best friend is a mistake?"
Flambae's brow furrowed, suspicion creeping into his features like frost over a window. Ironic… Given he’s literal the flame dude. "After that—"
"That our friendship could never have a breakup because we're just that amazing?" Prism’s tone was so perfectly innocent it wrapped back around to being obviously suspicious.
"Oh." Flambae paused, processing, his brows drawing together as he replayed the last few seconds in his head. "Okay. Yeah. I was going to say the same thing..."
The moment stretched out, Flambae's eyes narrowing just slightly, but then he shrugged and pushed back from the table. "I need another drink. What do you fuckers want?”
Orders were taken with varying levels of 'fuck’s given’ before he stalks off.
Prism watched him go, shoulders relaxing incrementally once Flambae was out of earshot. The bar's ambient noise—someone's too-loud laugh, the crack of pool balls, the ancient jukebox grinding out something from the '90s that nobody had bothered to update on top of drunk ass karaoke on the stage—filled the gap.
Malevola leaned closer, her voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial. "Would you actually kill him if the two of you had a fallout?"
Prism didn't hesitate. "Yes." She paused, then added with a heavy, theatrical sigh, "With a heavy heart, obviously." Another beat. "But girl, he just knows too many of my secrets and I know how he can get after a breakup."
Like that time with the fire marshal's car. And the fire marshal's house. And the fire marshal's boat. Honestly, that guy had it coming, but still.
"Trust me," Prism continued, reaching for her own drink, "you don't wanna deal with that."
Malevola made a small noise of understanding, like this was a perfectly reasonable stance to take. Which, in their world, it probably was. Friendship through mutually assured destruction. How very them.
Across the table, Punch Up was shaking his head, either at the conversation or at the absolute dysfunction they all just accepted as normal. Hard to tell.
Invisigal had gone quiet, her attention drifting toward the dartboard in the corner where Coupé stood, methodical and still, studying the board like it held secrets instead of just holes from decades of bad throws.
She pushed away from the table eventually, leaving the others to their increasingly bizarre conversation about the acceptable boundaries of friendship-ending homicide, and crossed to the dartboard. The floor was sticky beneath her feet—some combination of spilled beer, whiskey, and substances she didn't want to identify.
But before she could speak, Coupé's voice cut through the space between them without the woman even turning around.
"You've yet to see them."
Invisigal's stomach did a complicated flip. Of course she noticed. She always fucking notices.
"What do you mean?" Invisigal asked, playing dumb, which they both knew she was doing.
Coupé finally turned, her expression neutral in that way that meant she was reading everything Invisigal wasn't saying. "Despite being the one to start this whole plan, you didn’t try to be the first one to meet them. Nor have you attempted to. Why?"
"What do you mean 'why'?" Invisigal's voice pitched up, defensive. "Robert has been riding our asses since he found out that we were behind this. He's probably going to try to get enough proof before showing Blazer and tossing us back into prison."
And I can't risk being there. Can't risk them seeing me and putting it together. Can't risk the look on their face when they realize what we did.
Coupé's head tilted, just slightly. "How are you sure he knows?"
"No, he does." Coupé's voice was calm, certain. Stomping out the ember of hope before it could catch. “I simply wanted to know why you thought otherwise."
Invisigal felt something deflate in her chest, her shoulders sagging. "I don't think he doesn't, I—..." She paused, fingers fidgeting with one of the darts she'd picked up from the worn wooden ledge. "I guess I hoped. He didn't." Another pause, heavier. "At least not this soon."
She'd underestimated him like an idiot. She knows who he is even if the others don't, the guy is a hero. A real one. One that she treated like he was an a newbie. Not one that understood how to uncover secrets long buried thanks to being pushed onto a pedestal young.
She underestimated him.
Despite knowing full well who he really was. What he was capable of when he actually gave a shit about something.
Stupid. So fucking stupid.
Amateur mistake.
"You're more scared of the consequences they may face, not us."
It wasn't a question. Coupé didn't do questions when she already knew the answer.
Invisigal twisted the dart between her fingers, the metal cool and slightly sticky. "It's not like I don't care what happens to us. Obviously I do." She lined up a throw, not really aiming, just needing something to do with her hands. "We're finally doing shit right. Or trying to. So it'd fucking suck if we lost it all."
The first dart flew, straying wide, barely managing to hit the right side of the board with a pathetic thunk.
"But what happens to them?" The words came faster now, like a dam breaking. "What happens when they find that out?" She grabbed another dart, gripping it too tight. "Then they'll think 'Hey, I'm not actually as great as I thought I was and instead a bunch of criminals forged papers just to get back at their boss.'"
The second dart hit, but only barely—catching the very edge near the bottom, tilting at an angle that suggested it might fall out at any moment.
"'Not because they cared but because they didn't want this asshole around anymore. So in reality, I was never wanted in the first place. I was never actually—'"
Her wrist was caught mid-motion, firm but not painful. Invisigal's eyes snapped up to meet Coupé's masked face.
Coupé's expression remained neutral, unreadable and almost eerily aglow at this angle. "We never did it to get back at him, not really."
Invisigal tried to pull her hand back, but Coupé held firm.
"We did it because you spent days watching someone you believed deserved better. Came out of your lone wolf solitude and asked for help—not for yourself, but for someone else."
Coupé carefully plucked the dart from Invisigal's fingers, turning it around with deliberate precision. The point had been facing toward Invisigal's face, not the board. Each pull-back of her arm had been bringing it unknowingly closer to her eye—edging closer and closer to piercing her like some olive on a toothpick.
Shit. I wasn't even—I didn't realize—
"We don't know what they will say or think if they ever do find out how their job came to be," Coupé continued, her voice even, measured. "But we do know—you were right."
She released Invisigal's wrist, letting her fingers settle more comfortably on the dart.
"They deserved better. And you helped them get it."
"It doesn't change the fact we're criminals and did illegal shit—" Invisigal protested, but her voice had lost its edge, gone hollow.
"No. It doesn't." Coupé nodded toward the dart, signaling for the other to throw it. To try again. "But it's not like they see us as criminals."
The dart flew. Hitting the board with a thunk. It wasn't dead center, couldn't be with the way Visi’s mind was racing. But it wasn't off the edge or the wall; so that's better.
"How do you know that?" She asks softly, watching as Coupé stalked toward the board. Smoothly collecting the darts despite her entire being having a collection of blades to wield and throw. Partaking in an actual game.
"Because you weren't the only one stalking."
Coupé stated simply, returning to the non-existent line of distance of the board.
Invisigal's head whipped around. "I wasn't stalking. I was..." She faltered, searching for the right words, for some way to frame months of surveillance and boundary-crossing observation as anything other than what it was. Which was useless, because this conversation had happened before. Just last weekend.
Fuck.
"Stalking," Coupé finished, not unkindly. The dart she launched—with precision and control—embedding dead center, it’s thud echoed the finality of the statement.
Invisigal stared at the board, at the perfect throw, at the casual display of skill that Coupé wielded like she wielded everything else—effortlessly. "When did you—" Invisigal started.
"Monday. Before the offer was delivered.” Coupé examined one of the darts, frowning at a bent tip. "While they were still working at the clinic.”
Invisigal tried to picture it. Coupé, out of costume, stripped of her usual monochrome assassin aesthetic. No mask, no wings, no following darkness that are her shadows. Just... a person. Walking into the clinic where you worked, where you helped people who couldn't afford real healthcare or couldn't risk going to a hospital with questions about how they got injured.
"You went to the clinic," Invisigal said slowly. "As yourself."
"I needed stitches." Coupé remarked simply. "Seemed efficient to address both needs at once."
"What did you—did they recognize you? Did you—" Questions that didn’t truly make sense but when you’re in this state, thoughtful questions are confusing to articulate.
"Then? No. Now? Most likely.” The dart is twirled between her fingertips. A thoughtful gleam in those yellow eyes. “I told them my real name.”
Invisigal felt her jaw drop. Actually drop. "You what?" Because telling someone your real name, in their line of work, especially Coupé was… well, it could be suicide. It is suicide. Visi doesn’t even know Coupé’s name, hell, she doesn’t even know the rest of the teams name. Their titles feeling more and more like their truth than the actual truth.
Coupé shrugged, the movement small, controlled. "It was weird." She paused, and for the first time since they'd started talking, something shifted in her expression. Not quite discomfort, but close. An uncertainty that didn't belong on someone so perpetually composed. "But it felt right at the time."
She still couldn’t explain why. A conflicted flex of emotions that was usually unnatural for Coupé. It didn’t feel wrong, per se. Even though it should. You had been taking care of her, making sure she wasn’t in too much pain, focusing on her well being without question of how or why because you clearly could tell she didn’t want to say. And you accepted that. Your expression soft and understanding even with the exhaustion under your eyes from sleepless nights. Most of which, if Visi’s previous comments were anything to go by, was because of your dragged on crying over the Z-Team’s new dispatcher. Yet you were still at work even in your own emotional turmoil, even if the job itself lacked the purpose it originally had now that you returned to the real world alone.
"Right," Invisigal echoed, disbelieving. "You told them your actual name. The one you've kept hidden for—how long has it been? Ten years? Fifteen?"
"Told them some things I probably shouldn't have too." Coupé lined up another dart, but didn't throw it yet. "I initially believed they may have had an ability. Something to cause an unnatural sense of vulnerability and influence you to confess."
That would make sense. That would make so much fucking sense. Invisgal thinks. Because why didn't she think of that? Why only now was that a thought? Some kind of empathy manipulation, trustworthiness aura, something to explain why everyone who spent time with them ended up spilling their guts like confessional booths had gone mobile.
"And?" Invisigal pressed, leaning forward.
"Nothing." Coupé threw the dart. Another perfect hit, just left of the occupied center. "I found nothing that pointed to being enhanced. No form of manipulation or supernatural ability.” And she had looked into it, extensively. Violated more laws than was initially necessary for this mission just to sate her curiosity. She covered her tracks, of course. In this system, it’s unlikely anyone would’ve ever expected it or ever find out less through a confession.
“They're just... them."
Not eloquently put, but it worked. It fit.
Just them. No powers. No manipulation. Just a person who gave a shit and somehow that was enough to make hardened criminals want to be better.
— “Janelle.” she had said while you were finishing up. “My name is Janelle. Not Maria.”
You had looked up, confused, surprised, followed by a softening that could be described as a a buzz of pleasure. If you had a tail it probably would’ve been swooshing happily in that moment. As if you had won gold at simply being trusted enough to know someone’s name. Their true self. Which, I suppose is practically the same. Especially with how you seem to look at things.
“It’s nice to meet you, Janelle.” You had said simply, softly, warmly, before returning to your task. Making sure she had things necessary for pain management. She didn’t need the pills, not really, but she took them anyway. Agreed to return if anything bad happened. Ring you, even. In another life, and maybe a bit in this one, Coupé would’ve found not only herself but you sloppy. Giving your number to some possible criminal just because you want to make sure they have someone to call? What if they abuse it? Use it to lure you to your doom? Or something equally heinous? Did you truly not care that much if it meant taking care of people in the end?—
Coupé, who had retrieved the darts again and was holding them out in offering to Invisigal now.
"Your turn."
Invisigal took them, the metal warm from Coupé's hands. She lined up a throw, actually trying this time, and managed to hit somewhere in the general vicinity of where she'd been aiming.
"Improvement," Coupé noted.
"Don't patronize me."
"Wasn't. Observation."
And oddly enough, Visi—or perhaps more so Courtney—found a warmth curling in her chest. Something that made her straighten up and her expression soften just so.
“Do you regret it?” Invisigal asked, lining up for another shot. “Telling them your name?”
Coupé was silent for a moment. Not hesitant. Just pausing evenly, as she often did. “No.” Her word ringing true. “I don’t regret it.” This time this was a pause, this time it was hesitant, as if unsure she’d be taken seriously. “It was refreshing, actually.”
Invisigal didn’t need an explanation on why. Because she understood. It’s exposing yourself to your bone. Names have power. You either carry them in dark secret or find others to embrace them. Even if it meant keeping it a little hush hush from the rest of the world.
"You owe me drinks," Coupé commented after a moment, casual, like she hadn't just dropped a bomb about infiltrating the very person's life they'd been trying to protect from exactly that kind of thing. As if she hadn’t just confessed to Visi about confessing to a literal stranger about her deepest secret (her name) and even more simply because it felt ‘right.’
"Drinks? Plural?" Invisigal scoffed, but it was lighthearted, the tension that had been coiling in her chest since this whole conversation started finally beginning to unwind. "Why? Because you gave me a pep talk and it painfully lightened the darkness on your soul?"
"Yes."
The simple affirmation made Invisigal laugh—actually laugh, the sound surprised out of her.
"Fine." She threw another dart, this one going wider than the first. "Just turn away when you do end up throwing up."
"I don't get sick."
"Everyone gets sick. Especially you.”
"Not me." Coupé's voice held the faintest hint of smugness. "Superior metabolism."
"Superior bullshit," Invisigal muttered, but she was smiling now, mouth quirked up at the corners.
Maybe it'll be okay. Maybe they won't hate us. Maybe Coupé's right and they really do see us as more than just criminals playing dress-up in hero costumes.
Maybe.
Invisigal had laughed more with Coupé as they played a couple more rounds. The conversation, not only with the two of them but the others, drifting after that. Bullshit encounters, funny things, the bar’s new martini flavors, whether the fish in the tank (for there is a fish tank near the pool tables) were actually the same fish or if one of the employees kept replacing them when they died (current consensus: definitely replacing them, possibly monthly).
"You really think they'll be okay?" Invisigal asked quietly, just one last time, after some games passed. Just one more reassurance, so quietly that even with Sonar's enhanced hearing across the room, he wouldn't catch it under the ambient noise.
Coupé was silent for a long moment, retrieving the darts one final time. When she spoke, her voice was equally low. "I think they're stronger than Robertson gives them credit for. Stronger than we give them credit for." She paused. "And I think they've already survived worse than finding out some criminals gave a shit about them."
From your mouth to whatever deity is listening.
"Come on," Coupé said, normal volume now. "You promised me drinks. And I'm going to hold you to plural."
"How many are we talking?"
"Enough that you stop spiraling about hypothetical conversations that haven't happened yet."
"So like, eight minimum."
"At least."
As she walked away, Invisigal’s gaze flickered over to the party’s booth. Finding herself smiling in vague fondness at the controlled chaos around it.
They're getting comfortable, Invisigal thought, watching Punch Up laugh at something Flambae said while Malevola rolled her eyes with fond exasperation. Too comfortable. That's dangerous. Comfortable means careless. Careless means we fuck up.
But underneath the cynicism was something else, something she refused to acknowledge directly: relief. They were comfortable because they felt safe. Here, in this shitty bar, with each other. They'd built something—not quite friendship, not quite family, but something in that undefined space between. Something fragile and strange and probably doomed, but real.
She would resettle with Coupé, no one questioning where they had gone or what they had talked about. Simply welcoming them without the extravagance of nosiness that was unnecessary.
She took a sip of her drink for the first at one point—more of a watered down whiskey than one on the rocks now—as she lets the conversation flow through her veins. Warming her blood greater than any hard liquor.
"—absolutely could take a shark," Punch Up was insisting, gesturing wildly. "Size doesn't matter if you know where to hit—"
"Size always matters," Malevola countered. "This is basic physics—"
"I'm talking about technique—"
"You're talking about fantasy," Sonar interjected. "A Great White would eat you before you landed a punch."
"Not if I punched it in the nose first—"
“Like hell you’re reaching it’s nose before it reaches you.” Flambae interjects.
“The hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Your arms are short. Too short to even reach a Great White’s nose. You would have to leave it to the big guns—”
“And you are the big guns?” A dismissive scoff. “Ah, sure. The thing would just put you out and then you’re a soggy cigarette in our way—”
They're idiots, Invisigal thought affectionately. Complete fucking idiots.
Coupé caught her eye from across the table, one eyebrow raised in a silent question: You good?
The assassin—or rather former assassin—let her lip quirk in a slight smile. Chin dipping in acknowledgement, her and Invisigal’s glasses inclined in a silent cheer.
Outside, Golem waited in the alley, too large to fit through the door, content to sit in the cool night air and count stars while his friends drank themselves into poor decisions inside. He'd get the recap later. He always did.
And somewhere across the city, in a small apartment a certain dispatcher laid on the cold floor, phone resting against his chest like some pathetic lifeline to a world that had moved on without him.
Robert Robertson, former pilot of the Mecha Man suit that had saved countless lives, defender of the fucking Los Angeles, reduced to this.
Eyes heavy-lidded, Robert found himself staring at the ceiling. A scenario that had been more frequent and familiar in the past seven days than it had been in years. Since before the job, really. Before everything went to absolute shit. The ceiling’s water damage, one that seemed to have been the very metaphor of all that has happened, is too blended in for him to notice where it began or ends anymore. The closed curtains—cheap things really, he can’t remember where he bought those, maybe he wasn’t even the one to buy them—keeping the light out of the apartment from the balcony.
He was still in his SDN shirt. The fabric clung to him, slightly damp with sweat from the day's shift, the SDN logo across his chest wrinkled. He'd stripped his pants the moment he'd gotten home, leaving him in just his boxers because if you have no one—no best friend to impress, but even then... were you ever truly impressing them, Robert?—what's the point of wearing clothes?
Not like he had the necessary room to invite anyone over anyway.
The thought settled in his gut like a stone.
He should've felt embarrassed at the state that was himself and his 'home.'
He had been, many blue moons ago, when you first started coming over. You had known about the Mecha Suit for awhile so obviously, that didn’t matter. You had known about the shitty financial struggles of upholding the mantle but it was different when you actually see the it, right? Instead of the words and self-deprecating comments that mix in with the ‘funny’ stories he used to tell. All funny stories about his life.
You looked around the apartment with those eyes—those fucking eyes that saw everything, that never judged but always worried—and Robert had wanted to sink through the floor.
"It's temporary," he'd said then, like a liar. Like someone who had a plan, a future, anything beyond this.
"Hey, no judgment," you'd replied. "I've seen worse."
You had though, despite what Robert may have thought. Thinks. Seriously, this wasn’t bad. It was better for most standards in LA. Just… lonely. Which, either way, it didn’t make Robert feel any better. His grown age (for that’s how he always held himself) and he couldn’t even keep a couch. Couldn't even thrift one like the many times you suggested he should.
"I saw this couch at the Goodwill on Fifth," you'd said once, scrolling through your phone to show him a picture you'd taken. "Sixty bucks. It's in decent shape, just needs a good cleaning. I could help you move it."
"I don't have sixty bucks," Robert had replied, which was true. "And it wouldn't fit."
"It would if we—"
"It wouldn't fit," he'd repeated, sharper than he'd meant to. The apartment was too small. Everything was too small. His life had shrunk down to this pathetic box and he couldn't even afford to fill it with the basic shit that normal people had.
You'd dropped it after that. Changed the subject to something lighter, easier. You were good at that. Good at knowing when to push and when to let things go.
But you never truly judged him for it.
You worried, of course you did. Because he never gave you a reason not to. Even as you were dragged on this rollercoaster that his life. He hadn’t asked for it, sure. But you sure as hell hadn’t asked for it either. Making him something he hated. Something that only broke you apart because of that stupid, stupid fucking Friday. After everything, it was that Friday. Some people would argue that it was just a single thing. That they should get over it. But that’s not something you say. Especially not from his mouth and to your ears. To your face. That’s like ultimate asshole-toxic move.
Robert's phone buzzed against his chest, the vibration pulling him partially out of his spiral. He didn't look at it. Didn't want to. It was probably work, some schedule change or update he didn't give a shit about. Or maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just the phone's way of reminding him it existed, that the world was still turning even though he was lying here in his underwear feeling sorry for himself.
The memory crept in unbidden, unwanted, but persistent.
"This would look sick on your wall," you would say, both teasing and genuine as you stopped your flipping through those example posters at Target. One of those little displays where a bunch of them were framed and you could move through them like it's a picture book. The plastic numbers corresponding with the sections of rolled up, plastic-sealed posters below. Most of which were probably not in the right place or even numbered right because it was Target and nothing was ever where it was supposed to be. Making you kneel or sit there thoroughly examining each plastic strangled paper that probably been grabbed by who-knows till you found the prize you really wanted.
You'd been looking at a Godzilla poster. The classic one, the monster rising from the ocean with the city burning behind him. Dramatic and over-the-top in the way only those old movie posters could be.
Robert remembered standing close to you. Too close, probably, but you hadn't moved away. The store had been busy, people brushing past them in the aisle, but it had felt like they were in their own little bubble. Your shoulder had been warm where it pressed against his arm.
"I think I'd be called a 'poser,'" he murmured, reaching over to push the one you were viewing further back. He was close to you then. Chest brushing to your back, and he could smell your shampoo—something clean and simple, unscented almost, but distinctly you. Yet, back then, neither of you seemed to have minded the proximity. Or at the very least it wasn't as mind-boggling to him as it became when jealousy started to surface, when he realized what he was feeling went way beyond friendship and into territory he had no right to explore. "I've never watched Godzilla."
"Okay, One. Don't ever say 'poser,' again. Sounds so weird coming from you." You laughed, and the sound had hit him square in the chest. It always did. Your laugh was ridiculous and genuine and it made him want to say stupid shit just to hear it again. "And two, you're such a loser. You haven't watched Godzilla? Your whole thing is like perfect for fighting against Godzilla."
He'd felt the warmth of you against him, the casual way you leaned back into his space like it was natural, like you belonged there.
"Okay. One rude thing after another doesn't ease the pain," he chuckled, and he remembered how easy it had been to smile then. How light he'd felt despite everything. "And do I need to remind you that the suit isn't exactly 300 feet Zilla over here—"
"Depends which version you're talking about. You could totally take on a hundred-footer OG Godzilla."
The certainty in your voice. Like you believed it. Like Robert Robertson in his daddy’s Mecha Suit could take on a monster.
"And I'm the loser," he grumbled, earning a light-hearted glare from you. But that smile—your beautiful smile—spoke of your lack of offense. You'd narrowed your eyes in that playful way, the corners of your mouth twitching like you were fighting not to laugh again. He mirrored the expression, eyes narrowed, and for just a moment everything had been perfect. The two of you facing off like two silly, judgemental cats before laughing and hurrying along to get what you two actually came for.
Robert draped his arm over his eyes now, blocking out the water-stained ceiling and the harsh reality of his shithole apartment. His lower back ached from the flat surface, the cheap surface doing absolutely nothing to cushion his spine, but he couldn't find himself to care.
Not when there was a warmth that caressed at his chest, sprawling and splaying against his skin like a living thing at such a fond memory.
Something so simple.
Talking over fucking silly posters at Target felt like damnation to him now. A possession that brought him agony knowing that he was at fault. That he'd taken those moments—those perfect, simple, easy moments—and destroyed them through his own stupidity and fear.
You'd never bought the Godzilla poster. At least not to knowledge. He'd never bought anything to put on these bare walls. The apartment remained as empty as it had always been, because Robert Robertson was apparently committed to living like someone who didn't plan to stick around.
The floor was cold beneath him. Hard and unforgiving. Nothing like the warmth of having you sprawled next to him, the weight of you against his side, anchoring him to something real. That morning—fuck, was it really just this morning?—when you'd been there on his floor, when Beef had been curled up between you, when everything had felt impossibly fragile but also impossibly right.
I’m sorry.
Two words he’s written again and again within the span of 24 hours among the chaos of other things. Only 24 hours, he curses himself. Only today because he couldn’t let himself to get ‘distracted’ when he had his first proper week on the job to focus about. But that doesn’t matter anymore. Not with you now working at SDN. Not with you two now being coworkers. A newbie that his team apparently is actually genuinely excited to exist in the same proximity as. There had been no shit talk like his first day of work. No speculation or harsh words that were meant to drive you away—which would’ve been done still despite you not being at all part of that conversation to hear, for that’s just how they are.
At least, that’s how they usually are.
Maybe it was simply because you weren’t a dispatcher. You weren’t someone who was there to put a headset on and order them about. Rather your whole purpose was to treat them like people. Like beings worth of the second chances they were promised. Not little solders (which Robert has been easing up on) but rather those who are… actively in rehabilitation. Listen to what they have to say, make sure they’re happy—actually happy, not pretend happy—and ensure their work environment is healthy. While the team has grown to respect Robert, or at the very least tolerate him, you could have a different power than him with (not over) them. Different power than Blonde Blazer even. Because that power dynamic was a whole other mess too, wasn’t it? Blazer is a hero, sure. A well established one. One that has earned respect. But she’s also a hero with that persona engraved into her, someone who is a bit detached because media of heroism sort of makes you different. On top of being their literal parole officer?
SDN is a lot more complicated than he initially expected it to be.
He should’ve listened to you.
Should’ve talked to you about it.
Gave you a damn chance to overthink for once, to search up like you always did (despite that allegedly being his expertise) to ensure it was right for him. Not in the sense of him being incapable of doing it, but whether or not it was worth it in the end. Because while you had been stuck in a never ending loop of shitty jobs, you always tried to make sure he (or anyone else) ever had to deal with that too.
He blinks, craning his head back till his upside down vision lands on Beef. The dog snoozing contently, chin resting on a mini stuffed animal. he had been tuckered out by the time he came around to pick him up. You had been preparing to leave for the night, all the while with Beef in your arm like he was a baby demanding to be carried while they slept and will scream bloody murder if you set them down—even for a second. The transfer had been easy, whether it was because Beef would see you again tomorrow or thanks to the little stuffed animal you gifted the chonk (or maybe both), Robert wasn’t sure. He just knew Beef had a perfect little day with you. A perfect little day that Robert wished he had been part of.
The two of you had walked out of work together. Took the elevator together. Shared conversation, casual conversation, anything that you could speak about your day that wouldn’t violate HIPPA. It was nice. You had even walked him to his car.
Your voice softening then when you whispered a farewell to Beef too, “Sweet dreams, baby. See ya tomorrow.” Your hand having bestowed some final pets and chin scratches before pulling away. “Night, Robert.”
You’ve said that same line before, many times. Night, Goodnight, Sweet Dreams, Rest Well… All the variants, used interchangeably. So why had it hurt that time?
“Night—” his echo was delayed. Leaving him standing there stupidly, Beef in arms, backpack on shoulder, watching as you stalked off into the parking lot. A bit tired but never like you used to be. Even smiling as Waterboy hurried after you because I guess the two you carpool. Because you’re coworkers and friends. Because in this economy and environment, it’s just better to do. Even with your anxiety behind the wheel. Even with your anxiousness of what-if’s. But with Waterboy—who you called something else, something Robert didn’t quite catch but knew started maybe with an H—you seemed fine. The two of you laughing as you made your way to your Toyota.
Robert got jealous again. Of course he had. But that time he hadn’t bared his teeth.
Instead he… sulked, I suppose. Basked in the night, under the parking lot lights, in the near-empty space. Before finally, getting in his car and driving home.
And now he’s here. A sack of a sorry excuse sleeping on the floor.
And message that went ignored would disappear by morning.
Deleted.
You snooze you lose.
author's note: I was lowkey imagining giving Golem an ipad and sort of turning him into like one of those 'ipad kid' stereotypes but I just might save that for his Kaiju child. Who knows. Also finale of the game coming up. That's crazy. I was gonna sort of rant but I'll leave that for another chapter, lol.
Following chapter will likely result in more of Robert being awkwardly there, cockblocked (unintentionally by a recently broken up alien) and whatever else comes to mind. I am also working on some requests that I'm getting in from tumblr so those might come around following this post. Can't leave my requesters hanging </3. Obv they'll be posted on here too so don't worry about switching around if you don't want to! :0
…I find it funny bc technically Rob gave Golem liquor during that one scene despite him being underage. YES, I know he's a construct, it's a villain bar, whatever… But obv the laws still apply to a construct.
My friend also told me I should write a scene eventually where Robert has a wet dream of reader instead of the Invisigal scenario (given I'm not doing that route anyway) and lowkey………LOWKEY might…might…. Also sorry for the chapter being short. I def was not in my up game the past three chapters/
Tag List (feel free to ask/comment if you want to be in future ones!): @kbd-cryptid @moonlight-sonata99 @milkyshukes @idioticstar @lokigirlszendaya @sxftiebee @send-me-places @noodleryworld @susanhill @sunbl3achedfly @aberix @rileeznuts @encantedoasis @tsukikyo @boundedtodream @steadyzombiehottub @2tty @lizzythalizzard @shin0buk1nn1e @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni @oreeowe @parcetamoldaisy @misdollface @asmaraloca @fayewebluv @dovey-quacks2332 @penabuttahhh @lucycarlisleswife @lizbix @pri00r @isabellaferreiras2-blog @yourbelovedtoaster @jackierose902109 @levisungjingwoo2099 @jellyedkazoo @crackmuffins @mixplara @lillanirobertson @suddenlysquelch @lettucel0ver @no1eyedressfan @bakugouswh0r3 @iammariposa @killerwendigo @bitchysouljellyfish @hibiscus-paradise @superdupersunny420 @rimuuuo @viosilein @frozenballsack69 @iv-vee @umiexe
Sooo I have found a new fandom to join in and this fanfic series didn’t help at all, if your interested go check it at @tholyveil “What If” I highly recommend it! it’s so good I might make my own dispatch fanfic.
Now here’s some memes from the chapters…. Spoilers!
Chapter One:
Hospital staff: Good news! Robert is at the hospital barely alive—
When Beef wants more leftovers even though he already ate
