#nyraeafterdark

His voice had that strained, polite edge he only used when he was barely hanging on.

“Work… was a mess. And you weren’t answering your phone. Again.”

You smirk. “Missed me?”

He exhaled once through his nose — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh — stepping closer, hands slipping to your hips like he didn’t remember deciding to touch you.

“Sweetheart,” he said calmly, eyes dropping to your thighs then snapping back up, “I’ve had a long day. And if I don’t get what I’ve been thinking about,”

his thumbs press firmer,

“we’re gonna have a problem.”

You blink. “And what exactly have you been thinking about, Robertson?”

He doesn’t blush.

He doesn’t stutter.

He doesn’t lose composure.

He simply sinks to his knees.

Smoothly.

Purposefully.

Like a man who’s been planning this all damn week.

Then he sits back on his heels and looks up at you — brown eyes dark, steady, focused with the same intensity he uses when giving life-or-death orders over the comms.

“Nothing,” he says quietly, firmly, “but this.”

His hands trail down your thighs as he adjusts his position on the floor — back straight, shoulders squared, expression serious like he’s taking on a mission briefing.

You raise an eyebrow. “You planning some kind of worship scenario?”

He huffs a short breath. “Planning? Sweetheart, I’m offering you a throne.”

And then, with devastating calm:

“Sit.”

And thus, that is how you’ve been for the past couple of hours — trembling, slumped over him, thighs shaking around his head as you hover above his mouth. Your release streaks warm down your legs, mixing with the slick from his tongue and the shine of his spit, all of it soaking into the sheets beneath him.

Your whole body feels wrung out, your voice raw from the sounds he’s pulled from you. Your fingers curl weakly in his hair, tugging because you barely have the strength to do anything else.

“R-Robert… no more…” you breathe, the plea breaking apart into a thin, wavering whine.

He answers with a low, dissatisfied grunt — the closest he’ll allow himself to sounding feral — and keeps going, undeterred. His lips, his tongue, even the faint scrape of his stubble… every tiny movement sends another pulse of heat through your overstimulated nerves.

Your clit is so sensitive you flinch every time his nose bumps you, every time his mouth shifts. Your whole body jerks with each touch, thighs quivering violently around his head.

“R-Robert—” you try again, voice trembling.

He just tightens his grip on your hips, holding you steady above him like he’s refusing to let gravity or exhaustion steal you away. His thumbs rub slow, grounding circles into your skin — the only mercy he’s offering.

This man is going to kill you.

You can feel the determination radiating from him, the way his breath huffs hot against you, the way he refuses to give you even a moment to fall apart properly.

Every swallow, every groan, every small shift of his mouth makes you see white behind your eyelids.

Your legs nearly buckle, and he responds by pulling you down closer — not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you whose throne you’re sitting on.

His voice finally rumbles out beneath you, low and hoarse, vibrating against your core:

“Not done.”

And you realize —he absolutely means it.

He’s not stopping until he decides you’re done.

Until your legs give out.

Until your voice breaks.

Until you physically can’t say his name anymore.

Robert Robertson III — former hero, dispatcher, polite menace —is going to worship you to death.

You’re beyond words at this point — the noises spilling out of you aren’t even moans anymore, just broken, delirious sounds you can’t swallow down. Your body trembles like you’ve been hit with a live wire, vision fragmenting at the edges.

Robert is a disaster beneath you.

His SDN uniform shirt is completely soaked from your earlier releases, chin slick, hair damp, the entire front of his pants ruined — a dark, obvious patch spreading across his thighs from where he’s come in them again and again without ever touching himself a second time.

And he still refuses to stop.

You whimper something that might be “enough,” or “please,” or maybe just his name — you’re not even sure — and try, with the last remaining strength in your body, to lift yourself off him.

It’s a mistake.

A growl rips out of him — low, sharp, warning — and then everything flips.

Your back hits the mattress before you even register he moved. Robert pins your hips down with both hands, his grip firm but careful, dragging you back to his mouth like you’ve offended him by trying to get away.

His lips close around your clit again, and the shock of overstimulation makes your spine bow clean off the bed.

His arms lock around your thighs.

You can’t move.

You can’t breathe.

You can only take it.

He pulls another orgasm out of you, painful and bright, then a second, then a third — each one tearing through your nerves until you’re shaking so hard you’re practically vibrating under him. At some point you start crying, overwhelmed, and he still doesn’t stop until your body goes limp.

Then — only then — does he finally pull away, breath ragged, eyes unfocused with how far gone he is.

He pushes himself up on trembling arms, chest heaving. With a strained groan, he shoves his ruined pants down just enough and releases over your stomach and hips — weak, barely-there pulses that tell you he’s as spent as you are.

For a few seconds, there’s nothing but the sound of both of you panting like you’ve nearly died.

You stare at the ceiling in a daze, chest rising and falling too quickly.

You’re never letting him go down on you ever again.

You also know — with painful clarity — that you’re lying.

Because it happened again the next week.

And the week after that.

And the week after that.

Robert Robertson III doesn’t know moderation.

He only knows devotion.

And once he decided his face belonged beneath you…there was no undoing it.

Tomás Vrbada:

Thwack!

Your fist slammed into the training dummy again, knuckles stinging, breath sharp. You glared at the poor thing like it was personally responsible for every insecurity you’d ever had.

No matter how much you trained, pushed, sweat, fought—your body never seemed to reflect the skill you had.

Soft where others were carved.

Curved where others were straight lines.

Strong, yes, but never looking the way people expected a top-performing warrior to look.

It got into your head more than you wanted to admit.

You grunted and pulled back for another strike, ready to beat the thoughts out of your skull if that’s what it took—

“Y/N!”

You tensed instantly.

That voice.

Of course.

Tomás.

“Babe!” he whined happily as he jogged over, arms already outstretched. “I missed you!”

You flinched before you could stop it, body going stiff, instinctively stepping just out of reach. You forced a smile onto your face, hoping he didn’t notice the crack in it.

“Sorry, love. I’m all sweaty,” you said, waving him off. “Still have a bit more training to do.”

His smile faltered.

He lowered his hand slowly, almost unsure of the movement. The brightness in his eyes dimmed, replaced with something softer, concerned.

“…Did I do something wrong?” he asked gently.

You opened your mouth, some flimsy excuse ready to tumble out, but he didn’t give you the chance.

He stepped closer, carefully this time, like approaching a startled animal.

“Y/N,” he murmured, “you tense up every time I touch you lately. And you’ve been pushing yourself too hard. Talk to me.”

He wasn’t judging you.

He wasn’t disappointed.

He just looked at you with that warm, steady tenderness that made your chest ache.

The kind of look that made all the feelings you’d been shoving down push right back up.

You bit your lip, eyes darting away as your thoughts spiraled. You debated with yourself harshly—tell him, don’t tell him, keep it in, he doesn’t need to worry—but he was already worried, wasn’t he? You’d already given yourself away.

A long, defeated sigh slipped out. You glanced at him, then dropped your gaze again.

“I just… dunno…” you muttered, voice barely holding together. “Haven’t really been… feeling that great about myself.” The words shrank into a whisper as your arms wrapped around your torso like you were trying to hold yourself together.

Tomás’ brows pinched in concern, his whole expression softening.

You looked away again, shame prickling under your skin. “It’s just… no matter how much I do, I keep looking like… this.” You gestured weakly at your own body, unable to fully meet your own reflection, much less his eyes. “I just… I don’t look like I should…” you mumbled, throat tight.

Tomás shook his head gently, in an achingly tender way.

He stepped into your space slowly, giving you every chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

His fingers slipped under your chin with featherlight care, coaxing your gaze upward until your eyes met his.

And his eyes… gods.

Those eyes were nothing but soft, warm, and full of a kind of devotion that made your chest ache.

He leaned down slowly, pressing a sweet, steady kiss to your lips. You whimpered at the tenderness of it, at how careful he was with you even when you weren’t being careful with yourself. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his hands settling on your hips. His thumbs traced slow, grounding circles that eased some of the ache inside your chest.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered, voice warm enough to melt stone. “You’re strong. You’re smart. You’re our best-performing Lin Kuei member… even Bi-Han says it.”

His hands moved up your sides, following every curve with reverence rather than hesitation.

“You’re…” he paused, cheeks flushing pink, “…absolutely beautiful. You make me look bland next to you.”

He smiled, shy and earnest.

You let out a small, conflicted sound, palms pressing weakly against his chest as your feelings tangled into a knot inside you.

“But I’m… so chubby…” you murmured, the words heavy with shame.

He shook his head instantly, firmly, leaving no room for doubt.

“You’re healthy,” he corrected softly but with conviction. “The extra meat is proof of how well you take care of yourself, and I love that about you.” His arms wrapped fully around you now, drawing you into his warmth. “I’m lucky I even get to stand next to you. You’re absolutely gorgeous.”

You swallowed thickly, his words settling into places inside you that had been sore for far too long. You let yourself breathe, let yourself feel what he was telling you instead of fighting it.

Slowly, you nodded.

“Okay…” you whispered, shy and a little shaky, “I believe you.”

Tomás’ smile bloomed instantly, relieved, full of love. He leaned in and pressed another gentle kiss to your lips, lingering just long enough to make your heart flutter.

“Good,” he murmured against your mouth. “And I’ll keep reminding you. As many times as it takes. You’re beautiful, Y/N. I love you.”

“I love you too,” you whispered back, voice matching his softness.

The insecurity didn’t vanish into thin air, didn’t magically fix itself, but it loosened, eased and quieted.

Because your sweet, patient boyfriend held you like you were the easiest thing in the world to love.

Kuai Liang:

Groans and whimpers filled the room, swallowed by the dark as Kuai’s breath fanned against your neck. His movements were slow but hungry, hips rolling against yours in a desperate rhythm that betrayed how badly he wanted you.

His hands kept wandering, seeking your skin, your warmth, the curves he adored, but each time he drifted toward your stomach, you gently caught his wrist and redirected him higher.

He didn’t question it at first.

He trusted your boundaries, always.

Yet the tension in your touch didn’t match the intimacy of the moment.

The lights remained off per your request, not his. Normally he’d tease you, coax you, kiss you until you forgot why you wanted the dark in the first place but tonight, your voice had been too quiet when you said it. Too small, too unlike you.

When his hand drifted again and you pushed it away faster this time, the shift was obvious.

Your breath hitched, giving you away.

Kuai slowed.

Then stopped.

His forehead stayed pressed to your neck, the darkness settling around both of you as he breathed you in, feeling the tremble in your body that had nothing to do with desire.

“…What happened?” he murmured against your skin, his voice low but steady, the kind of calm that made it impossible to lie.

You swallowed hard, shame curled in your gut, hot and sharp, tightening your throat. You almost said nothing, almost told him to keep going, almost buried it the way you buried so many other things.

But his hands…

His hands gently cupped your hips, holding you in a way that asked nothing of you—just presence, honesty.

That made it worse.

That made the tears sting.

You exhaled shakily.

“I heard… someone talking about me earlier,” you whispered, each word fragile. “One of the women in the clan. She said I… that I don’t look like someone who belongs with someone like… you.”

The air shifted instantly.

Kuai went utterly still, every muscle locking beneath you. The dark did nothing to soften the tension radiating from his body.

He lifted his head slowly, a frown settling over his features, even if you couldn’t see it fully.

“Who said that?” he asked, voice low and tightly controlled, emotion coiled beneath every syllable held back only by sheer discipline.

You shook your head, shame burning your throat. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Y/N.”

His tone didn’t rise, didn’t sharpen. It didn’t need to. It was gentle, but firm enough to leave no room to retreat.

“Tell me.”

You turned your face away from him, shoulders curling inward. “I’m… not sure who it was. I just heard what they said…”

He exhaled slowly, not satisfied, but choosing not to push further. For now.

“What else?”

You blinked, “What?”

“What else did they say?” he repeated, calm on the surface, something colder brewing underneath.

You bit your lip and shook your head, unable to voice it.

Another sigh, softer this time, left his lips. Then he lowered his head back to your neck, placing slow, deliberate kisses along your skin.

“My love…” he murmured, voice roughening as he began to move against you again, each motion unhurried but purposeful.

Your breath hitched, fingers digging into his shoulders as the sensation made your thoughts stutter.

“…Please tell me,” he whispered against your skin, the plea vibrating through you, his own breath catching when he felt you clench around him.

You were caught completely off guard. The mix of emotion, touch and darkness tangled together until your voice slipped free without your usual restraint.

“I… they… they said I was too… fat…” you gasped, barely coherent, “and that I’m ridiculous for… for thinking you’d ever… fall for me.”

With every word, Kuai’s expression darkened. The scowl that overtook his face was sharp enough to cut.

He sat up suddenly, adjusting himself between your legs with a controlled but unmistakable urgency. His hand reached out, lighting the candle on the bedside table with a flick of his fingers.

Soft, amber light flooded the room.

You gasped and immediately scrambled to cover yourself, panic blooming. Kuai caught your hands, gently trapping them, stopping you from hiding even an inch.

“Do not hide from me,” he growled, voice dropping into something possessive, fierce, and absolutely unshakeable.

His eyes locked onto yours, burning with a devotion so intense it stole the air from your lungs.

He scoffed softly, a sharp exhale through his nose. “That I haven’t fallen for you?” he muttered, voice low and rough. “Ridiculous.”

His pace shifted deeper, more deliberate, every movement punctuating each word.

“They have no idea,” he growled, “how hard I’ve fallen for you.”

You gasped, fingers digging into his back as he worked you over with a rhythm that knocked thoughts loose, leaving you clinging onto him in pure desperation.

“Look at you…” Kuai rasped, his gaze drinking in every inch of you in the candlelight.

His hands slid up your curves with purpose, worshipful and hungry all at once. He gripped you firmly, possessively, like he couldn’t stand the thought of letting you go.

“So gorgeous,” he murmured, breath shaking, “letting me take you like this…”

Heat flushed up your neck as a flustered whine escaped you.

“You’re so beautiful,” he continued, voice thick with awe. “Strong. Thick. Made for me.” His tone dropped to something primal. “No woman in this clan has your kindness. Your strength. None of them could ever hold my heart the way you do.”

His breath hitched, voice going rough. “None of them could ever take me the way you do.”

Your moans spilled freely, unrestrained, your body clinging to him like he was the only solid thing in the world.

“Kuai—!” you cried out, overwhelmed.

He looked down at you with a slow, devastating smile, pride and hunger blended into something that made your pulse stutter.

“That’s my girl,” he crooned, voice dark and tender all at once. “Let’s show them how wrong they are, hm?”

As if you had any room to protest—his hands, his voice, his body left no space for doubt.

And he made absolutely sure you understood just how wrong they all were.

Bi- Han:

You were taking a small stroll through the Lin Kuei gardens, hoping the cold air would clear your head. The sharp breeze usually helped, but tonight it felt useless against the heaviness in your chest.

You’d overheard some of the women earlier, chatting animatedly as they compared their newest purchases, showing off jewelry and garments that fit them perfectly—sleek silhouettes, slim waists, confident smiles.

Your gaze had lingered too long, compared too deeply, and now every insecurity gnawed at you one after another, louder and crueler with each thought. Your eyes drifted down to your own body, your bigger form framed harshly by the moonlight. The contrast made your stomach twist.

And of course, your mind went straight to him.

You weren’t even official yet, circling each other, growing closer in quiet, subtle ways that made your heart race, but the doubts always crept in. He never seemed put off by your size, yet he also never pushed forward. Never initiated anything. Never made a move.

Maybe his warmth toward you was just… discipline.

Politeness.

Obligation.

You chewed at your lip as your thoughts spiraled. Every memory of your time together felt suddenly skewed: you talking too much, him responding too little, you feeling too much, him staying unreadable. Maybe he listened only because it was easier than interrupting you. Maybe you were embarrassing yourself by assuming he cared.

You were so far inside your head that you didn’t even notice a solid figure ahead of you.

You walked straight into a wall—hard.

The impact jolted a yelp out of you as you stumbled backward and fell onto the cold stone floor.

“What the—!” you hissed, rubbing your shoulder as you looked up in irritation only to freeze.

Dark brown eyes stared down at you, unimpressed and sharp as ice.

Bi-Han.

Standing over you like a disappointed deity you had personally offended just by existing.

You flinched under his stare, scrambling awkwardly to your feet, head ducked low.

“Bi-Han…” you breathed out, voice small. “I’m sorry, I… wasn’t looking where I was going.”

His frown deepened, the crease between his brows sharp and irritated, but not at you.

Not really.

His gaze traveled across your face with unnerving precision, taking in every twitch, every flicker, every hint of emotion you tried desperately to hide. He’d already known something was wrong the second he found you wandering as he had called your name three times before you walked straight into him.

And Bi-Han did not like repeating himself.

“…What happened?” he asked bluntly, arms crossing over his chest with that suffocating authority he carried so easily.

You blinked up at him, startled. “I—uh… what?”

He grunted, stepping closer, boots scraping against stone. The air dropped a few degrees.

“You are distracted,” he said flatly. “It is unlike you.”

His eyes narrowed.

“What happened?”

You swallowed hard, the weight of his stare pinning you in place. It was too direct, too sharp, too knowing. You looked away with a wince.

“Um… nothing?” you tried, the word wobbling out pathetically.

Bi-Han exhaled through his nose, unimpressed.

“Try again,” he said calmly.

You bit your lip, eyes darting away before you reluctantly looked back at him, a small frown pulling at your features. “It’s truly nothing… just had some… stuff… in my mind, is all.”

His eyes narrowed immediately.

“What stuff?”

You squirmed under his stare, stomach twisting. He wasn’t going to let this go, you knew that much. He’d stand here all night if he had to. The man had the patience of a glacier and the stubbornness to match.

You huffed in frustration, shoulders curling defensively as you finally let the words slip.

“Erm… I was just… thinking about my size.” Your voice strained on the last word, “I’m not like other girls.”

Bi-Han’s frown deepened, gaze sweeping down your body once, slow and assessing.

Yes, you were different—thicker, softer, fuller.

And in his eyes?

That was superiority, not flaw.

“And?” he questioned, raising a brow as if challenging the logic itself.

You blinked at him, thrown. “And…? Well…”

Your courage wavered.

“…I don’t exactly look like I belong with the Lin Kuei,” you murmured, then softer, almost inaudible,“…or next to you.”

His gaze sharpened instantly.

His posture straightened, his shoulders squared, and the air around him seemed to chill by sheer instinct.

The look he leveled at you wasn’t anger, more like disbelief and something far more dangerous beneath it.

“…Did someone tell you this?” he asked, his tone almost cautious.

You shook your head quickly. “No, no… no one told me this. It’s… it’s what I felt.”

Your voice shrank as your head dropped again.

Bi-Han’s frown deepened, displeasure tightening his jaw. Without hesitation, he stepped right in front of you, closing the space with that unyielding presence only he possessed. His fingers caught your chin, gentle, but firm enough that you couldn’t look away, and tilted your face up.

Your breath hitched, eyes widening at the sudden closeness.

“Then you are foolish to think such things,” he said quietly, the softness in his tone at complete odds with the sharpness of his words.

He dipped his head slightly, letting his gaze sweep over your face, studying every detail as if memorizing them.

“You are the Lin Kuei’s most capable warrior,” he continued, voice low and unwavering. “Most of our clan looks up to you. They ask for you. They want to train under you. They trust you without question.”

His eyes narrowed, almost offended on your behalf.

“You always complete your tasks without fault, and you have never once returned to me with failure.”

Your cheeks heated under the relentless praise, your heartbeat thundering in your ears.

“You are what the clan should aspire to be.”

Your breath faltered.

Bi-Han rarely spoke this much, especially not like this. He leaned closer, voice dropping into something rougher, darker.

“…You are also the only woman capable of bringing a man like myself to his knees,” he admitted quietly.

Your eyes flew wide, confusion and shock flickering across your face, but he didn’t stop. He watched every reaction.

“I often find myself forcing distance between us,” he muttered, breath warm as it ghosted across your lips, “because if I allowed myself… I would reach for you.”

His arm slid around your waist, slow and deliberate, pulling you flush against the hard lines of his body.

“Touch you,” he bit out, voice thick with restraint and hunger. “Claim what tempts me beyond reason.”

Your lips parted, a soft, stunned breath escaping you as his hold tightened.

You had never seen Bi-Han look at anyone like this, like you were the one thing that unraveled him.

You stayed speechless, breath caught in your throat as his confession rippled through you. After a moment, you swallowed hard.

“I… wasn’t aware you felt that way about me…” you whispered, voice trembling.

Bi-Han scoffed quietly, then leveled you with a look so sharp it rooted you in place.

“Do you truly think I would spend my time with someone I do not desire the way I have with you?” he asked, voice low, cutting, and impossibly sincere.

You shook your head weakly, hands rising with hesitant uncertainty before settling on his biceps. His muscles tensed under your touch, a low sound humming in his chest—approval, want, something dangerously close to both.

He leaned in, agonizingly slow, his lips hovering just shy of yours. The air between you tightened, heavy and electric.

“Never,” he whispered against your mouth, “doubt yourself again.”

Then he kissed you fiercely, consuming, leaving no room for second-guessing, no space for insecurity. His hands pulled you closer as if daring anything in the world to tell him you weren’t his equal, his match, his desire.

And with the way he kissed you and with the way he held you like you were something sacred and inevitable…

You realized you wouldn’t have to worry about doubting yourself again. Ever.

✧ Has to be touching you at all times

✧ Rubbing your lower back

✧ Draping himself over you

✧ Burying his face in your scent glands just to get a deeper whiff

✧ “You smell sweet like honey… it’s distracting.”

✧ You’ll see him in his reptile form more often, with his scales shining brighter and prettier colors

✧ Becomes more territorial around you, often glaring at the boys if they come too close

✧ When you actually start to ovulate, he’s on you fast

✧ I’m talking face pressed up against your pussy

✧ He lives there now

✧ “I can stay here all night… you smell divine.”

✧ His only sustenance becomes your arousal dripping for him

✧ You know he’s lapping at your cunt like a dehydrated lizard

✧ “You’re irresistible like this… too irresistible.”

✧ Definitely triggers his rut

✧ You run hotter while ovulating and he absolutely loves that

✧ Becomes slightly drunk on you the moment he sinks into you

✧ “You’re so warm… I can’t think straight.”

✧ His instincts absolutely take over

✧ Will bite down on your neck while he thrusts into your hot core

✧ Holds you down in a mating press, forcing you to take his fat cock

✧ “Just breathe—let your body take me deeper.”

✧ Determined to fill you up as many times as it takes

✧ His eyes turn into slits as he pumps you full of his spunk

✧ Desperately wants it to take

✧ “I’ll fill you again and again if I have to.”

✧ You’re definitely going to have a fun week with him

Bi-Han:

✧ This one is obvious, I think, for many of us

✧ Only notices you may be ovulating when you start squirming around uncomfortably

✧ You keep adjusting your bra, massaging your breast as you huff about the soreness

✧ Keep complaining about oddly specific cravings

✧ (chocolate-covered lime slices with a sprinkle of tajín goes hard, let’s be honest)

✧ Definitely confirms it when you start getting clingier and trying to initiate sex more often

✧ He’s nothing if not a willing lover

✧ He does, after all, need a future heir, no?

✧ He’s mean about it though

✧ “You’re needier than usual,” he’ll note with indifference. “Are you ovulating? Every time you do, you hover around me like a lost thing.”

✧ He’ll act indifferent about you wanting him at first

✧ Right up until you flat-out ask him to fuck you

✧ Will smirk and make you wait just a bit longer

✧ Wants to make you needier on purpose because he’s a shithead

✧ “You want me to help you? Say it without shaking.”

✧ But trust me, when he does acquiesce? It’s the best fuck of your life

✧ Think: the ruthlessness of hate sex mixed with the passion of lovemaking

✧ Makes sure he’s plowing your spine respectfully

✧ “Stop squirming. You wanted this.”

✧ Despite being oh-so cruel to you, he still has wandering, loving hands

✧ He’s definitely caressing every plush part of you

✧ And he’s 100% imagining them getting even softer as you grow with child

✧ “You’ll swell with my child, and everyone will know exactly who touched you so well.”

✧ Get ready for a long, fulfilling night with this man

✧ You know he won’t let you go until he’s certain he’s filled you up enough to take

Kung Lao:

✧ Another obvious one

✧ This man has a giant 'I have a breeding kink' sign above his head

✧ That’s basically canon for most of the MK fanbase

✧ But I think for him, it’s more about the risk of the possibility than the act itself

✧ While he does want a loving family with you one day

✧ He is WAY too young to start one now

✧ Still though

✧ There’s something so primal about filling you up while you’re at peak fertility

✧ It scratches an itch he didn’t know he had

✧ He’s also a bit of a munch when you’re ovulating

✧ You’re just so sweet and smell so good down there for him

✧ “You’re intoxicating… it’s not fair to do this to me.”

✧ Turns into a whining mess over it

✧ Spends hours between your thighs making sure he gets his fill

✧ He’s making sure you’re prepared to take him fully

✧ And when he’s plowing into you?

✧ He’s trying desperately not to spill too quickly

✧ “You’re pulling me so deep—like you want me to get you pregnant.”

✧ He’s mesmerized watching your arousal drip from your hole as he fucks you

✧ You’re so much wetter when you ovulate

✧ The sight of him covered in your slick makes something possessive snap in him

✧ “You’re soaking me up… Gods, you’re incredible.”

✧ He’s absolutely putting you in a mating press or doggy

✧ He doesn’t want a single drop spilling from your quivering hole

✧ And if it does, he’s lovingly pushing it right back inside

✧ “Take it. Every bit of it. I want it right where I put it.”

✧ Yeah… he’s definitely trying not to think about fucking you while your breasts drip milk

✧ Let him live

Liu Kang:

✧ I hesitated adding him, but honestly it makes sense

✧ Canonically this man gave EVERYTHING up for peace

✧ If everything hadn’t been on the line, I genuinely think he would’ve wanted to be a family man

✧ Therefor, I think it’s safe to say he’d get a little feral when you start ovulating

✧ This man is SO in tune with your body

✧ Might as well call him your flow chart because he already knows what day you begin to ovulate

✧ “You’re warm, starlight… it’s starting, isn’t it?”

✧ He turns the whole thing into something sensual

✧ Your boobs ache? He’s already massaging them before you even ask

✧ “You’re aching aren't you? I can help with that.”

✧ You’ve got weird cravings? He somehow already bought whatever it is

✧ Libido spikes? He’s got you pinned to the bed with soft kisses trailing everywhere

✧ And while the goal is to keep you satisfied, his personal goal is to fuck you through all six days of your fertile window

✧ “I want you. All of you. Every day you’ll allow me.”

✧ He’s so sweet with you, so gentle

✧ Cherishes you and devours you at the same time

✧ Absolutely a fan of your slightly bloated ovulation belly

✧ You’re squishy, which means his hands get to dig in deeper

✧ “You’re so warm and plush under my hands… you’re perfect.”

✧ Also obsessed with how swollen your breasts get

✧ He’s on them constantly, mouthing them as much as you'll allow him

✧ Whispers filth and devotion in the same breath while his thrusts get deep and purposeful

✧ He absolutely talks to you like you’re already pregnant

✧ “Look how you glow. Anyone would think you already belonged fully to me. Be a good starlight and take everything I give you.”

✧ Spills inside you and keeps his hips flush until he’s done

✧ If any leaks? He’s gently pushing it back where it came from

✧ “It’s a sin to waste a god’s gift, you know?”

✧ Overall, he takes care of you in the sweetest, most reverent way possible

“Got a surprise for you.”

And then the photo: the edge of a black lace bra hugging the perfect curve of your chest, just enough of a tease to fry every neuron in his stupid bat brain.

You’d think he would’ve learned after Coupé had handcuffed him for falling for the exact same setup in the gym.

But nope.

Genius Boy saw one glimpse of cleavage and came running like you rang the dinner bell.

At least you kept your word.

Small mercies.

“Sonar…” you giggled breathlessly.

He peeked up at you, white eyes glazed. “Feels good…” he mumbled, almost slurring. “You’re so pretty.” Then, softer, like he was asking for oxygen, “Can I… can I lick ’em?”

You giggled again, nodding before he even finished.

He dove back in immediately.

His tongue slid over your skin, slow and hungry. A groan rumbled through him, the vibration buzzing against your chest as he rubbed his face all over you, snout dragging over the lace. The texture made him shudder, fur brushing the fabric in a way that had him practically whining.

His hands gripped your waist tighter, like he thought you’d vanish if he didn’t anchor himself. His breath came hot against your skin, every exhale sounding like a man seeing god for the first time.

“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, licking harder, “you smell so good…”

You were already panting, chest rising and falling under the onslaught of his obsession. One hand slid into the fur at the back of his neck, stroking once before you curled your fingers and pulled him back just enough to make him whimper.

His white eyes flicked up at you, pleading, then froze when he saw what you were doing.

A slow, wicked grin tugged at your lips.

You lifted a hand, hooked a finger beneath the center of your bra, and yanked it down in one sharp motion. Your breasts spilled free, nipples hardening instantly in the cool air.

Sonar’s whole body jolted.

His eyes practically turned into cartoon hearts.

He didn’t even try to play it cool—he lunged, latching onto one nipple with a desperate, needy groan, tongue swirling around it like he’d been starved for weeks.

“Thank you… thank you…” he whined against your skin, voice muffled and pathetic in the best way.

He switched sides without warning, burying his face in your other breast with an eager, breathless sound. He mouthed at it like he worshipped it, each lap more frantic than the last, hands squeezing the sides of your chest like he couldn’t get enough.

You're pretty sure he would’ve cried if you pulled him off again.

You were barely managing to breathe with the way he worshiped your chest, mouth buried between your breasts like he was trying to ascend to a higher plane. One hand braced against a metal shelf behind you, the other slid into the fur at the back of his neck, tugging just enough to keep yourself steady while he left dark, messy hickies across every inch of exposed skin.

He didn’t even realize he was doing it.

His hips kept jerking forward helplessly, rutting against your thigh like he didn’t have a choice, straining hard beneath his uniform pants.

Your breath hitched, the cramped supply closet feeling ten degrees hotter.

Finally, you tugged on his hair—gentle but firm.

He whined at the interruption, giving your nipple one last desperate lick before lifting his head. His eyes were glazed, lips swollen, chest heaving. He looked like he’d die if you told him to stop.

Perfect.

You leaned down, voice low and sinful.

“Wanna fuck my tits?”

He froze.

Then nodded so fast you genuinely worried about whiplash.

Your grin turned wicked. You slid off the overturned storage crate you’d been half-sitting on and sank to your knees on the dusty floor, the cleaning supply smell completely overwhelmed by the scent of him.

Sonar’s breath stuttered—sharp, hungry, needy.

You reached up, fingers closing on the buckle of his belt. The metallic clink echoed obscenely loud in the tiny closet. You tugged it open, unzipping him slowly, deliberately, watching him fall apart before you’d even touched him properly.

He was already panting like you were suffocating him with nothing but possibility.

Your hand curled around him, easing his length free from his pants with a care that made him shudder. He was already painfully hard and the moment your fingers wrapped around him, his breath stuttered like he’d forgotten how lungs worked.

You stroked him once.

Twice.

Slow, deliberate, watching the way his hips jerked helplessly into your palm.

Then you leaned in and dragged your tongue in one long, unhurried stripe up the length of him.

Sonar choked on a moan, biting down on the back of his hand to keep himself from yelping loud enough to alert the whole floor.

You didn’t give him a break. You took him into your mouth, bobbing your head just enough to make him whine, making his knees tremble under your hands. His nails scraped the wall behind him, desperately trying to anchor himself.

When you pulled off, saliva clung to him in messy, obscene strings. You didn’t wipe them away, simply letting them shine.

Then, with a slow, teasing confidence, you wrapped your hands around your breasts and pressed them together, sliding him between the soft heat of them. He let out a sound you’re pretty sure would’ve gotten the two of you kicked off the premises.

You leaned forward, tongue flicking across the tip to lap up the bead of precum gathering there, tasting him, savoring the barely-controlled tremor that ran through his whole damn body.

Then you looked up at him—eyes half-lidded, breath warm against his skin—and gave him the slightest nod.

A green light.

He cursed—long, low, and broken—before grabbing for purchase, his fingers scraping the wall beside your head like he needed something, anything, to ground himself.

Then he finally started thrusting.

Slow at first, like he was testing the feel of you. Testing the squeeze of your breasts around him. Testing the way his length slid between your soft skin, the press of your cleavage enveloping him so tightly he let out a strangled whimper.

And then the testing phase ended.

He jerked forward, hips snapping harder, faster, like he couldn’t stop himself once the sensation hit him full-force. His breath stuttered into little gasps, his white eyes fluttering halfway shut as he lost his rhythm, finding it again, losing it again, completely at your mercy.

“F–fuck…” he choked, voice cracked and nearly silent as if speaking at full volume might make him fall apart.

You pressed your hands tighter, squeezing your breasts around him just a little more, and he full-body shuddered. His thighs trembled. His grip on the wall slipped.

Then you raised your chest the slightest bit—lifting him, guiding him—and stuck your tongue out, letting it graze his tip every time it peeked out between your cleavage.

That’s when he really came undone.

A sharp, helpless noise ripped out of him, somewhere between a gasp and a whine. His hips stuttered like he forgot how to move entirely, then thrust forward again in a desperate, jerky motion.

He didn’t care how messy he sounded or looked. His mouth hung open, his breathing ragged as he tried to hold himself back and failed spectacularly.

“W-wait… wait—” he stammered, voice too thin and wrecked. He was trembling from head to toe. “I… I’m close… too close—”

You didn’t even let him finish.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, soft and devastating. “I want you to. Cum all over them.”

His whole body answered before he did—hips pushing forward in a shaky, involuntary thrust, chest arching as though the words alone short-circuited his brain.

“Ah—”

A guttural sound tore out of him.

“That— don’t say it like— I can’t—”

His tip nudged forward again, poking out between your breasts, twitching violently before spilling.

It wasn’t a quick release, it was long, messy, and overwhelming—spurts coating your chest, striping across your cleavage, dripping between your breasts until the warmth of him spread down your skin in slow, languid trails.

Sonar’s knees buckled so hard he had to brace himself with both hands on the wall, forehead dropping down toward you as he groaned through the thickness of it, riding each pulse with small, helpless thrusts.

By the time the last shudder worked through him, he was panting openly, chest heaving, mouth slack with the dazed satisfaction of someone whose entire nervous system just short-circuited.

Even then, his hips gave a tiny, instinctive push—greedy and unashamed—pressing himself between your breasts one last time like he needed the contact or he’d collapse.

“H-hah… shit,” he rasped, voice rough. “You— you’re gonna kill me…”

He didn’t move away.

Didn’t even try.

He just stood there, flushed and trembling, staring down at the mess he left on you like he wanted to worship it. Like he wanted to drop to his knees and lick every drop off your skin.

And judging by how ruined he looked?

He absolutely would if you let him.

You make a beeline toward them, silent enough that the temperature drops when you arrive.

“Robert.”

Both him and Blazer jolt like you fired a gun behind them. They spin, wide-eyed, and find you standing there, arms crossed, expression flat as glass.

“Vespera,” Robert mutters, deadpanned. “I’m glad you almost made me shit myself.”

“Great. Do it.”

Your voice is ice.

You stare at him like you’d happily watch.

Blazer offers you a brittle smile, the kind people give wild animals before they get mauled. “Okay… what’s up?”

“I’m out for the day. Don’t bother dispatching me for shit.” You turn on your heel before either of them can breathe wrong.

“The hell? What for?” Robert snaps, instantly alarmed. Blazer mirrors him, eyes going wide.

“To commit murder, obviously.”

“Vespera.”

His tone is flat. Deadpan. Annoyed.

You roll your eyes. “Fine. To prevent myself from committing murder? Better?”

“You can’t just declare you’re not going to work.”

“Visi always does,” you fire back, “and you let her. But then again, she lets you empty your balls inside her, so you’re biased.”

Blazer lets out a nervous little laugh—part choke, part wheeze. “Okay, how about we calm down. Y/N, why are you actually taking the day off?”

“Because I said so and can,” you sigh, already walking away.

You don’t wait for a response.

You don’t want one.

You just need to get out before the hunger—and the rage curling beneath it—makes you do something you can’t justify later.

You mentally scroll through your options like a deranged grocery list. It’s been a while since you last fed—properly fed—and your body is starting to file official complaints. Your head aches. Your gums burn. Your patience is a corpse on the floor.

A “snack” isn’t gonna cut it.

You need a meal.

Let’s see…

Option one: murder.

Easy. Effective. Satisfying.

Unfortunately, you just told your superiors you wouldn’t do that today. Tragic, really.

You roll your eyes at yourself.

Option two: rob the nearest blood bank.

Fast. Discreet. Morally gray, but who cares.

Except Robert and Blazer would absolutely catch you and suspend you again.

Suspension sucks. No pay. No opportunities to punch people. No excuses to avoid your boyfriend.

You sigh. Loudly. Painfully.

Option three: your boyfriend.

He’d probably let you feed if you asked nicely.

But he’s been… bitchier than usual.

You don’t have the energy to deal with him whining while you’re trying not to drain him dry.

Another sigh tears out of you, harsher this time.

Your vision sharpens and blurs in waves as you cross the room toward the exit, every pulse of hunger dragging claws across your control.

You need something.

Someone.

Preferably someone who won’t complain, cry, or pass out.

You almost wished Sonar was here.

He’d definitely help—at least keep the hunger steady instead of letting it spiral out of control. He never panicked around you. He never got squeamish. He treated your fangs the same way he treated tax evasion: exciting, risky, and vaguely erotic.

And unlike your boyfriend, Sonar didn’t complain when you were starving.

He liked it.

He watched you.

Hell, last time you were even slightly hungry, he’d sniffed you and said:

“Your cortisol levels are through the roof—want me to run analytics? For science.”

You almost bit him then.

You freeze at the familiar screech echoing overhead.

Please don’t let that be—

A thud.

A flutter.

A groan.

Yeah. It’s him.

Sonar drops from the rafters like a malfunctioning chandelier, lands in a crouch, and immediately fixes his crooked tie like nothing happened.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter.

He blinks those pale white eyes at you.

“Yeah, He abandoned me a long time ago. Anyway.”

He sniffs.

Once.

Twice.

Then very pointedly again.

His ears twitch. “You smell like dogshit and homicide. Everything okay?”

You glare, clenching your jaw. “I’m fine.”

He tilts his head, deadpan. “Right. And I’m sober.”

The corner of his mouth twitches—almost a smirk, almost a snarl, impossible to tell with him. He steps closer, shoes clicking softly on the floor, posture deceptively casual.

“You hungry?” he asks.

Not gentle.

Not worried.

Just blunt, bored, and annoyingly perceptive.

You swallow. “I said—”

“—you’re fine, yeah, got it,” he cuts in flatly, waving a hand. “Except you’re pale as my ass, your pupils look like dinner plates, and your heartbeat’s doing a Skrillex remix.”

Your stomach twists again.

He smells it.

Of course he does.

Sonar exhales slowly. “Okay, well, good news. Half the team’s gone, Malevola’s not here to narc, and Robert’s probably eating a twink somewhere.”

You blink. “…and that’s good news because?”

He stares at you like you’re slow.

“Because if you’re gonna go feral, I’d prefer you do it somewhere I can fucking supervise it.”

You stiffen. “Sonar—”

He raises a brow, expression turning dry enough to sandpaper a desk.

“What? You think I didn’t notice? You’re practically vibrating out of your skin, sweetheart.”

Your fangs throb.

“Stop calling me sweetheart,” you growl.

He shrugs. “Then stop looking at me like I’m a Michelin-star buffet.”

You open your mouth to argue—but your hunger hits again, brutal and sudden, like a punch to the ribs.

You stagger.

Sonar catches your elbow instantly.

Cold fingers meeting warm skin.

Firm grip.

Too close.

He mutters under his breath, low and irritated:

“Fuck me… you’re worse than last time.”

You grit your teeth. “I can handle it.”

“Sure,” he deadpans, tightening his hold. “And I can stop doing drugs.”

Your breath stutters.

His eyes drop to your throat.

Your eyes drop to his.

Shit.

This is bad.

He leans in slightly, voice quieter, more dangerous:

“Vespera. Look at me.”

You do.

And the hunger surges.

Sonar frowns, then grabs your arm and tugs you down the hallway with surprising force. He doesn’t give you time to protest before he shoves open the door to an empty conference room and pulls you inside.

“Sonar—”

“When was the last time you fed?” he cuts in instantly.

You squirm in your spot, scowling at your best friend like he personally invented starvation. “That’s none of—”

“Y/N.”

His tone is sharp, flat, an order masquerading as concern.

“Stop cutting me off, you fuck,” you hiss, then exhale through your nose, shoulders sagging. “…About two weeks ago,” you mumble.

Sonar goes still.

He studies you in that unnervingly analytical way of his. His white eyes scan your face, lingering on the dull cast of your skin, the way your normally brown eyes flash red every few seconds, the full extension of your fangs.

You look awful.

You feel worse.

“Why haven’t you been feeding?” he asks bluntly.

“I have,” you snap, which is mostly a lie. “I just haven’t… gotten my supply yet.”

You yank off your sunglasses and rub your temples hard, the migraine pulsing behind your skull getting worse by the minute.

Sonar’s ears twitch. “And Brad? Did the two of you finally break up?”

Your head snaps up, glare immediate and sharp.

“No,” you huff. “He’s been whining like a bitch lately, and I’m tempted to drain him dry just to permanently shut him up.”

Sonar stares at you for a long, heavy beat.

Then:

“…Holy shit,” he murmurs. “You are actually feral.”

“What gave it away?” you drawl sarcastically. “My ugly-ass skin, or my eyes flashing red like a fucking stoplight? I’ve got more—go ahead, pick your poison.”

You bare your fangs at him, a quick, irritated flash, then turn your face away with a sharp huff.

Sonar just shakes his head slowly, crossing his arms. His ears twitch once, the only sign he’s irritated.

“I’ll take you home myself,” he says. “You clearly can’t be trusted outside right now. You’ll pounce on someone faster than a whore does at a rich fucker.”

He snickers at his own joke, the bastard.

You sigh and peek at him over your shoulder. “Victor… there’s no need. I’ll just—I don’t fucking know—steal from the nearest blood bank or some shit.”

You slide your glasses back on, even though they aren’t doing shit for you right now.

“Nah,” he replies immediately. “I’ll take you home. Then I’ll steal some of that shit for you. You really can’t be out.”

Your jaw tightens.

You can hear your pulse pounding in your own ears now.

He steps closer—too close—voice dropping into something serious beneath the sarcasm.

“You’re two seconds from sinking your teeth into the first idiot who looks at you wrong,” he says. “And this place is full of idiots.”

He pauses.

White eyes flick down your body, then back to your face.

“So let me handle it before you commit an actual homicide.”

You tilt your head at him, expression flat.

“You count as an idiot.”

He grins, wide and sharp, showing a flash of those bat fangs he only exposes when he’s entertained.

“Careful,” he purrs. “You know I’d love that shit.”

Before you can tell him to choke, he hooks two fingers into the sleeve of your jacket and starts guiding you toward the exit. He doesn’t pull hard—just enough to keep you moving, enough to keep you from drifting toward anyone whose pulse might trigger something catastrophic.

He’s hyper-aware of you.

Your breathing.

Your pacing.

Your gaze darting a little too long at throats and wrists.

He’s watching everything.

“Come on,” he mutters, steering you away from the receptionist whose neck is way too exposed. “Let’s go before you try to snack on a fucking intern.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue. Your control is paper-thin and both of you know it.

The two of you step outside, the door swinging shut behind you. The air hits you like a slap—cold, sharp, and carrying the scent of the city. It should help.

It doesn’t.

Sonar stays half a step ahead, close enough to reach out if you stumble, far enough you don’t bite his forearm open out of reflex.

It’s only a short walk to your apartment.

Should be.

Then—

You stop.

Dead in your tracks.

Your head whips sideways so fast you hear your own vertebrae crack. Sonar stops beside you, ears flicking like a satellite dish.

The alleyway to your right reeks of it.

Fresh.

Warm.

Metallic.

Blood.

The hunger slams into you like a freight train.

Your fangs drop fully. Your pupils blow wide. The world narrows to one point—a pulse, a body, a heartbeat slowly leaking itself away in the dark.

You inhale once—deep, involuntary—and your knees nearly buckle.

Sonar’s hand snaps around your wrist instantly, grip iron-tight.

“Oh, fuck no,” he mutters, jerking you backward before you can take a single step. “Absolutely not. We are not doing that today.”

You snarl without meaning to, eyes locked on the alleyway.

He yanks harder, putting himself between you and the scent, ears flattening in irritation.

“Vespera,” he snaps, voice dropping into something sharp and commanding.

“Don’t even fucking think about it.”

But your hunger is a beast with its claws in your spine. And you’re not sure you can stop yourself.

You run your tongue slowly over your bottom lip, trying to gather whatever scraps of control are left.

“…He’ll bleed out and die anyway,” you murmur, voice shifting into that sultry, dangerous register that only comes out when your hunger takes the wheel. “It’d be a waste…”

Your feet start moving before you can consciously tell them not to—drawn toward the hunched figure like gravity itself shifted.

Sonar swears under his breath. A low, sharp, “Shit.”

He plants himself at the alleyway entrance, posture tense, ears pricked, ready to intervene if this spirals into something SDN can’t cover up on short notice.

You hum lightly as you approach the stranger.

Up close, he’s… young. Fragile.

Bleeding through his shirt.

Barely conscious.

He lifts his head when he sees your silhouette above him—relief flashing in his eyes like a spark.

“P-please… help me…” he coughs out.

Your smile softens into something gentle and utterly deceptive.

You tilt your head, voice dripping sugar.

“You need help?” you coo. “Are you hurt?”

The stranger hesitates. His instincts start whispering.

Something in your tone—too calm, too warm—sets off alarms.

“…I—I’m hurt… I got—”

He winces, clutching his side.

“Stabbed…”

You hum sympathetically, letting your hands guide him back until he’s lying against the cold ground. Then you settle over him, straddling his hips with a slow, sensual ease that makes his breath hitch.

“A shame,” you murmur. “Really.”

His eyes widen.

And then it hits him.

Whatever you are… you’re not here to save him.

Your hand drifts up his chest, warm and reassuring at first—until it curls lightly at his neck, then slides into his hair, tugging just enough to make him shiver.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” you purr, leaning down until your lips brush his throat. “I’ll make you feel all better…”

You nose along his jugular, breathing him in. His pulse stutters under your mouth, and you give him the softest, barely-there nip.

He gasps, jerking faintly beneath you.

Then the begging starts.

Soft. Weak. Terrified.

“P-please… don’t… please—”

“Shhh,” you coo, stroking his cheek with your free hand. “The pain’s going to fade soon. I promise.”

Your voice melts into a soft moan against his neck—and you sink your fangs in.

The world narrows to warmth.

To the sweet rush of relief hitting your bloodstream like an electric shock.

He cries out softly, fingers twitching against the pavement.

And behind you, Sonar stands guard, jaw tight, eyes locked on your silhouette—equal parts fascinated and something far darker.

You think the best part of your abilities is how feeding flips pain into pleasure—a little biological mercy you can offer the poor soul beneath you. It’s only fair, really. He’s being so cooperative. So still. So… generous.

The scene is messy.

Not violent.

Just… intimate.

Anyone passing by and hearing only the echoes would probably assume the wrong thing entirely. The soft moans. The panting. The quiet gasps ricocheting between the damp brick walls.

You sank your fangs deep, taking what you need, every swallow sending bright, electric warmth through your cold veins. Slowly, surely, the world sharpens. Your senses brighten. Colors return. You feel alive again, blood humming beneath your skin like a symphony.

Behind you, Sonar watches with rapt attention.

Your soft little moans make his ears twitch uncontrollably. The deadpan mask slips—just a little—and something distinctly animal flashes across his expression before he forces it away. He turns his head, arms crossing as he leans back against the wall, pretending he’s guarding the alley entrance.

He is.

But he’s also listening.

To every sound you make.

A few seconds later, he hears the pleasurable sigh that signals the end—your hunger finally sated, your nerves settling. You withdraw your fangs carefully, and the stranger slumps weakly against the wall, barely alive.

You lick your lips clean in one slow sweep.

“Thank you for the meal, baby,” you coo to the boy you fed from, patting his cheek gently.

When you stand, the energy in your body changes instantly—your steps lighter, your posture relaxed, your eyes returning to normal. You saunter toward Sonar with a sway in your hips that wasn’t there five minutes ago.

Blood always puts you in a mood.

And Sonar feels it hit him like a shockwave; his eyes half lidded for just a moment before he schools his expression back into bored neutrality.

“Sonar,” you sing-song, voice warm and syrup-sweet as you reach him.

You’re close now.

Closer than you should be.

Close enough that he has to look down at you, his breath catching—barely.

He snorts, trying to play it cool, but his voice betrays him when he says:

“You done terrorizing civilians, sweetheart?”

You smile up at him, slow and bewitching, reaching out to place a single finger on his chest. You drag it down the front of his suit just enough to make his ears twitch.

“Yup,” you tease, the p popping like a kiss. “Wanna hit shopping?”

His smirk widens, sharp and smug. He straightens, dusts off an imaginary wrinkle, and offers his arm with exaggerated gentlemanly flair.

“Let’s go commit financial crimes,” he says dryly.

The rest of the day blurs into a surreal little montage of mall chaos: you, fully recharged and energized, parading through stores with a swing in your step; Sonar trailing after you like a very judgmental personal assistant.

He disappears a few times whenever his comm buzzes, muttering something about “dispatch nonsense” or “Z-Team emergency,” but he always comes back fast—sometimes still annoyed, sometimes still mid-rant about someone’s incompetence.

By the fourth time he returns, he’s visibly irritated, ears twitching sharply, tie askew.

“How the hell is it you get a free day and I don’t?” he grumbles, dramatic as hell as he steps back into your orbit.

You lift a brow over your sunglasses, a shopping bag dangling from your wrist.

“Because the universe loves me and hates you,” you shrug.

He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “fuckin’ accurate,” then rolls his eyes and steps right back beside you, shoulder brushing yours.

He doesn’t complain again.

He never does when he’s with you.

Your phone rings, buzzing sharply in your pocket. You whip it out with a sigh.

“Alas, I lied. I take back what I said,” you announce dramatically to Sonar before answering. You put the phone to your ear, voice instantly melting into sugar.

“Hi, baby,” you purr.

Sonar’s ear twitches.

“Hey, babe,” your boyfriend says. “Where are you?”

“Mall,” you drawl sweetly. “Went for a little shopping spree.”

“Yeah? Getting something cute?” he teases.

“Mayyybe…” you snicker. “What’s up?”

“Was just checking on you. I heard someone got stabbed close to your apartment.”

You hum noncommittally, eyes sliding toward Sonar with a slow, smug smirk.

“Damn, that sucks. Poor fucker…”

Sonar shakes his head, already walking ahead like he’s pretending he’s not listening.

“Yeah, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Aren’t you supposed to be at work? Y’know… saving people and shit?”

“Took the day off,” you reply with a smug grin he can’t even see.

“Damn. You get to do that?”

You snort, remembering Robert’s exhausted face. “Well… under the right circumstances, yes.”

Brad laughs. “Well then, I hope your shopping trip was worth the free day. You alone?”

You pause just a second too long, your gaze drifting to Sonar’s back.

“No,” you say breezily. “I kidnapped Sonar for a bit.”

You brace yourself.

There’s a silence.

A long, irritated silence.

Then Brad grunts, annoyance leaking straight through the speaker.

“You’re with him again?”

“Again? I’m not always with him.”

“You’re always with him.”

“Brad—”

“And you’re always mentioning his name too. Do you have to be with him all the time?”

You roll your eyes so hard the mall lights blur. “Babe, he’s literally my best friend. It’d be weird if I didn’t mention him. Stop being so paranoid and insecure. I’ve told you a thousand times—nothing is going on between us.”

“Y/N, I don’t trust him—”

“You don’t trust any man I’m friends with,” you mutter bitterly.

“That’s not true—I just don’t trust him.”

You sigh, losing your patience. “Babe, until you get it through your thick skull, I’m not having this argument again. Stop ruining my shopping spree.” You scrunch your nose. “Byeee~”

You hang up before he can respond.

“Ugh. Ridiculous,” you mutter under your breath.

When you look up, Sonar is watching you with the smallest, smuggest smirk curling at the edge of his mouth.

You roll your eyes at him. “Don’t start that shit with me.”

He snickers, smug grin plastered across his stupid bat face. “I didn’t say shit.”

“Uh-huh.”

You both wander around for a bit longer, drifting through shops, talking trash, making impulsive purchases neither of you need. Eventually, the mall loses its shine and you decide to head back to your apartment — where the real unwinding can happen.

A quick detour for a… supply run… and the evening is set.

Now you’re sprawled comfortably on your plush couch, legs draped over Sonar’s lap. A wine glass sits cold in your hand, filled with a smooth blend of red and fresh blood. The coffee table in front of you is a disaster: scattered baggies, powders, pills, wrappers, and receipts. Somewhere in the pile is an unopened candle you swore you needed.

Sonar lies back against the couch, arms stretched lazily along the backrest, eyes closed like he’s meditating or pretending to be civilized. His breathing is slow, deep, his expression loose — the picture of a man who absolutely does hard drugs and also somehow graduated from Harvard.

“Today was fun,” you snicker, swirling your drink.

One of his ears twitches. “Yeah?”

“Murder and shopping is the best R&R I’ve had in a while.”

He huffs out a laugh, low and amused, without opening his eyes.

“How you feeling?” he asks lazily, eyes still closed, voice thick and relaxed.

“Mmm… alive,” you sigh, sinking deeper into the cushions. “Fuck, I needed that earlier.”

You stretch your limbs, joints popping, the warm buzz of blood still humming under your skin.

Sonar smirks without even looking at you. “I could tell. If I hadn’t seen it myself, I’d think you were fucking the guy instead.”

You snicker. “Thought about it,” you tease, swirling your glass. “It’s been a while since I’ve fed like that.”

His pale eyes finally crack open, sliding toward you with slow amusement.

“Could have fooled me,” he drawls.

You narrow your eyes playfully. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He tilts his head, smirk widening. “You sounded like you were enjoying yourself.”

You kick his thigh lightly, but he doesn’t budge — he just lets out a soft grunt and smirks harder, clearly pleased with himself.

“You’re disgusting,” you mutter.

“And you’re predictable,” he shoots back proudly, closing his eyes again like he just won an argument you weren’t even aware you were having.

“If I’m so predictable,” you taunt, swirling your glass, “how come I’m not sinking my fangs into someone else right now?”

One of Sonar’s eyes cracks open. He raises a brow, unimpressed.

“You still fucking hungry?”

A beat.

Then, flat as a pancake:

“Fat ass.”

“I do have a fat ass,” you hum, unbothered, taking a slow sip of your wine-blood mix.

He snorts.

“I hadn’t fed in two weeks, Sonar. Two.” you groan dramatically, letting your head fall back against the couch cushion. “One body isn’t magically replacing two weeks.”

He tilts his head at you, waiting.

“I need at least three,” you continue, voice dropping into a sultry, self-indulgent sigh, “and a good fuck.”

Sonar blinks once.

Slow.

Then his ears twitch like you just whispered national secrets into them.

“…huh.”

His gaze drags down your body—your relaxed posture, the lazy sprawl of your legs across his lap, the faint flush in your cheeks still lingering from the feed.

“You’re deadass serious, aren’t you?” he mutters.

You shrug, swirling your glass again, watching the red liquid coat the sides.

“Two weeks is a long time,” you say. “My body’s playing catch-up. Hunger doesn’t just go away. It… shifts.”

Sonar raises a brow. “Shifts into what exactly?”

You meet his eyes, smile slow and dangerous.

“You’re smart,” you murmur. “Figure it out.”

Something in his expression twitches—something smug, something curious, something almost feral.

He leans back, arms stretching along the couch again, like nothing you said affected him.

But his ears are still twitching.

And he hasn’t looked away from you once.

“Don’t tell me your boyfriend is being fucking useless again.”

You hum low in your throat, swirling your glass, the deep red liquid circling lazily.

He scoffs without looking at you.

“Seriously? I don’t get why you’re still dating him. You literally told me his blood tastes like shit and he can barely keep you satisfied.”

You chuckle, taking a small sip of your wine-and-blood blend.

“He’s an easy blood bag,” you shrug. “And he’s a decent fuck…”

Your smile turns sly.

“He can definitely eat me out well.”

Sonar snorts, one ear twitching in irritation.

“So again,” he says, shaking his head against the cushion, “he’s fucking useless.”

You sigh, then take a long, indulgent swig, warmth sliding through your limbs.

“Pretty much,” you admit with a sweet little simper. “He’s just been bitching and whining nonstop lately. Such an insecure little mortal.”

Sonar lets out a laugh—dry, sharp, amused.

“Yeah,” he mutters, tapping his fingers idly on his stomach, “I fucking heard.”

You sigh, rolling your glass in your hand.

“I could probably talk him into letting me drink from him a bit,” you mutter. “But I’m not trying to deal with his jealous ass tonight.”

You purse your lips, thinking.

“Or…”

Your smile curls, slow and wicked.

“…I could find someone… willing.”

That gets him.

Sonar’s head tilts in that slow, animalistic way he does when something catches his attention too sharply to hide. His pupils narrow, ears angling toward you.

“Willing,” he echoes, voice dipping into dry amusement. “Right. Because you’re gonna go find another guy in an alley willing to get— what was the phrase? Sucked dry?”

You kick his thigh. “Shut up.”

He stretches out, unabashed, and raises a brow at you.

“I’m just saying. With your appetite? You might end up breaking your ‘willing candidate’ by accident.”

“I have control,” you snap, offended.

Sonar barks a laugh so sharp it punches the air.

“Yeah, sweetheart, I watched you almost crawl into an alley like it was a fucking Michelin tasting menu. You’re overflowing with control.”

“Tch.” You glare at him. “You’re just mad I’m not biting you.”

His smirk widens, dark and knowing.

“I mean, shit,” he says, voice turning low, “can’t a guy feel a fucking way when all he hears is you moaning from something that simple?”

Your breath catches—just a little.

You cover it with a snort.

He tilts his head again, grin sharp, eyes dragging down your body before cutting back up to yours.

“It’s tempting, sweetheart,” he mocks softly.

“The hell does it even feel like?” he mutters, sinking deeper into the couch. One of his hands drifts down lazily from the backrest until his fingers circle your ankle, thumb brushing slow, absentminded arcs against your skin. “I heard that shit hurts.”

You hum, noncommittal, swirling your drink.

“It can,” you admit. “It can also be… pleasurable.”

That word hits him like a slap.

His ears perk, his eyes snapping to you with sudden, sharp interest.

“Pleasurable?” he echoes, leaning forward just a fraction.

You roll your eyes.

“Of course that’s what catches your attention, pervert.”

“Fuck off,” he grunts, face blank but ears twitching in a way that betrays him.

“What can I say,” you sigh dramatically, “I just love choosing dumbass perverts as my best friends.”

He deadpans at you, tugging lightly at your ankle in annoyance. You snicker, pleased.

“But yes,” you continue, shifting slightly so his hand slides higher up your calf, “pleasurable.”

He’s listening now.

Really listening.

Like he’s filing away every word for later use.

“It normally hurts like a bitch when someone gets bit,” you say casually, sipping your drink. “But we can bestow grace— soften the blow, ease the pain.”

His grip on your ankle tightens ever so slightly.

“Basically,” you snicker, “we flood them with a little aphrodisiac. Show pity for the poor fuckers.”

His breathing shifts—quiet, shallow, subtle.

“It makes them crazy sensitive,” you continue, voice dropping into something a little darker. “Too high to function right if someone touches them.”

You tilt your head, eyes glinting.

“Kinda like watching someone melt from just a bite.”

His throat bobs.

Once.

Hard.

And he doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he’s imagining it.

“Shit…” he mutters, then breaks into a crooked, reckless grin.

“Fuck it. Bite me. I wanna try that shit.”

A laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it, amused and disbelieving. You look him over slowly, eyes dragging from his lidded eyes to the lazy sprawl of his limbs.

“You’re already high as fuck, Sonar,” you snicker. “I’m not trying to overdose your stupid ass.”

He groans dramatically, throwing his head back.

“Oh, come on. I can handle that shit. I’ve done some hard stuff. Can’t be worse than that.”

You settle a bit deeper into the cushions, watching him with a mixture of amusement and something darker. Your gaze sharpens as you study the eager tilt of his chin, the twitch in his ears, the way his hand on your ankle tightens like he’s already imagining the bite.

A slow, dangerous grin curls your lips.

“Sonar…” you sing, dragging out his name with that syrupy tease that always makes him tense up.

He does—instantly.

His eyes snap to you, alert despite the haze.

“This isn’t like doing drugs,” you murmur, leaning in slightly.

Your voice dips, low and warm, brushing his skin like a promise.

“This is much more intense.”

He tilts his head lazily, pupils blown and half-lidded.

“So? Isn’t that the point?”

“Mmm… yes,” you murmur, swirling what’s left in your glass. “But it’s an aphrodisiac. And a really fucking strong one at that.”

You flick your gaze up at him, letting your eyes flash red—just long enough for him to feel it in his spine.

“And you,” you purr, voice dropping into something dark and sultry, “might end up naked on my bed, begging me to let you cum.”

Sonar freezes for half a heartbeat.

Just long enough to betray that the mental image hit him like a brick.

Then that slow, wicked smirk spreads across his face.

“…I’m still not seeing the issue.”

You don’t move toward him.

You don’t lean in.

You don’t touch him.

You just smile—slow, wicked, sharp—letting the silence stretch until he leans forward without realizing it.

Then:

“Just say you wanna fuck me,” you murmur, grin widening.

“Yeah?”

The air between you crackles as the words sink in.

And Sonar’s smirk twitches into something hungrier.

He shrugs, lazy and smug all at once.

“Maybe. Or maybe I just want a hit.”

He leans his head back, lips curling.

“Y’know… get high as hell in a new way?”

You hum, considering him.

Considering his words.

Considering the way he’s looking at you like he’s already imagining how you’d taste.

Well.

Maybe your boyfriend did have a reason not to trust Sonar.

But if he had any sense, he wouldn’t trust you either.

You tip your glass back and down the rest in a single swallow, letting the warmth slide down your throat. Then you set the empty glass aside and shift your weight.

You slide your legs off his lap and crawl toward him.

Sonar’s eyes widen a fraction, surprise flickering through the haze before it shifts into something darker. Something greedy. Something he doesn’t bother to hide.

You swing a leg over and settle yourself on one of his thighs, straddling it with slow, deliberate pressure. His breath catches—just barely—and his hands snap to your waist automatically, fingers tightening like reflex.

His white eyes stare up at you, mouth slightly parted, the high sharpening into interest. Into want.

“Oh shit…” he murmurs, voice dropping. “You’re really fucking considering this.”

His grip tightens at your hips, pulling you just a little closer, as if testing whether you’re actually there.

Whether you’re actually doing this.

And you are.

Very much so.

He swallows hard, eyes flicking from your mouth to your eyes and back again.

“Damn…” he breathes, almost to himself.

“So you’re serious.”

“Would you rather I’m not?” you tease, tilting your head as your hand slides up to his shoulder. You tug at his suit jacket, dragging the fabric down his arms with lazy, deliberate care. He tenses beneath your touch for a heartbeat—

—then exhales, shoulders loosening as he lets you take full control.

“Didn’t think you’d actually take me up on my request,” he murmurs, leaning forward just enough for you to peel the suit off completely. It hits the floor with a soft thud.

He settles back against the couch, letting you touch him, letting you undress him piece by piece. Your fingertips trace the lines of his dress shirt, the faint tremble that goes through him making your pulse jump.

“You’re offering me fresh blood,” you say, eyes snapping up to his, one brow raised. “You think I’m gonna say no?”

He huffs something like a laugh.

“Maybe. Didn’t think you’d wanna fuck.”

Your smile turns wicked as you lean in, your chest brushing his just enough to make him inhale sharply.

“I need a good fuck right now,” you murmur against his jaw.

His breath stutters.

“And you,” you purr, lips brushing his fur, “can give me that.”

A soft, involuntary sound slips out of him—half gasp, half groan—and his hands tighten on your waist like he’s afraid you might pull away.

You don’t.

You press closer, the heat between your bodies flaring hot and immediate, your voice dropping into something molten as you whisper:

“Don’t make me beg for it.”

You pull back just enough to focus, your hands moving with slow precision as you finish undoing the buttons of his dress shirt. One by one, they pop open under your fingers. You part the fabric and let it fall open, revealing the lines of his chest, the firm plane of his abdomen.

You run your hand down that exposed skin, tracing the dip between his ribs, the faint twitch of muscle under your palm. His stomach clenches hard, breath catching as your hand settles there, holding him still.

Your eyes lift to his.

Red meeting white.

“Victor.”

His name lands heavy between you, and he feels it. His brows lift, the haze clearing just a bit as he waits for whatever comes next.

He doesn’t speak—but the look says go on.

Your expression shifts, a little more serious, a little less teasing.

“I’m not kidding when I say the aphrodisiac is strong as hell,” you murmur quietly. “You might lose your mind a bit. Might even drop mentally.”

His throat bobs.

You brush your thumb across his stomach—gentle, grounding.

“We’re best friends,” you continue softly. “We talk, we fight, we flirt, and we’re about to fuck—”

A small snicker slips from you, but it fades quickly.

“—but that doesn’t mean I want you getting lost completely during this.”

Sonar straightens a little, the playful haze in his eyes dimming just enough that you know he’s listening.

Really listening.

“I need you to talk to me as much as you can,” you say, sliding your hand up to his chest, keeping him steady. “Let me know you’re still there.”

Your voice dips, low and sincere.

“Let me know you’re not too overwhelmed.”

A rare moment of silence passes.

Sonar considers your words—

the seriousness in your tone,

the care beneath it,

the warning.

Then he nods once, slow but firm.

“I got it.”

His hands come up to your waist, thumbs pressing into your skin in a way that says he means it.

“I’ll stay with you,” he murmurs.

“Promise.”

And for a second—just one—the heat between you pauses, replaced by something deeper.

Before it ignites again.

“Good,” you whisper, voice brushing his skin as you settle back over him. Your hand resumes its languid path—down his chest, over the ridges of his ribs, along his arm—until you reach the cuff of his sleeve.

You undo the button with slow, practiced fingers, rolling the fabric back before lifting his wrist toward your lips. Sonar watches you with a hazy, electric focus—white eyes sharp and simmering despite the drugs in his system.

Your mouth ghosts over the inside of his wrist, right over that weak, fluttering pulse.

You drag your tongue along it.

Slow.

Warm.

Intentional.

Sonar’s breath falters. Just barely—but enough.

Your fangs lengthen, glinting under the low light as you press them lightly against that delicate vein, scraping with just enough pressure to make his muscles twitch.

You look up at him and smile, wicked and soft all at once.

“I’ll start off small, hmm?” you tease, voice dipping into something sinfully warm. “That way you don’t cum your pants like a teenager.”

He scoffs, aiming for unimpressed and hitting breathless instead.

“I have more fucking control than a teenager,” he mutters flatly. “Thanks.”

But his voice is thin at the edges—and the way he stares at you, jaw tight, chest rising too quickly—gives him away entirely.

You hum against his pulse, feeling the tremor go straight through him. Your tongue sweeps over the spot again, building the anticipation until the room feels thick with it. Then—

You close your eyes.

And your fangs sink in, slow and gentle, just enough to let the rush begin.

Sonar inhales sharply—a quiet, strangled sound torn straight from his throat—as heat floods through him in a wave.

You feel his fingers twitch against your waist.

Feel his thigh tense beneath you.

Feel his breath stutter as the first hit of your aphrodisiac spreads through his system.

And you hold him steady, tasting him slowly, letting the world melt into that warm, dizzy haze that ties the two of you together pulse by pulse.

You moan softly against his skin, the taste of Sonar’s blood blooming warm and rich across your tongue. It floods your senses, thick and intoxicating, making your head swim in that sweet dizzy haze.

Even through it, you keep your awareness trained on him—watching the shiver that rolls through his body, the way his muscles clench as your mouth coaxes more from him.

He’s shaking.

“Shit—shit—fuck—” he mutters, voice fraying at the edges. “Holy fuck…”

You breathe his name against his wrist, the sound slipping out of you in a blissful sigh.

“Sonar…”

His attention snaps to you instantly, his white eyes wrecked—half-lidded, glassy, pupils blown like he’s drunk off something far stronger than anything he’s ever snorted.

He swallows hard, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts.

“Fuck… you weren’t—”

Another shaky inhale.

“You weren’t fucking kidding… this shit is intense, holy shit…”

You gently slide your fangs out, slow and careful, your tongue sweeping over the punctures until the skin knits closed beneath your mouth. He lets out a broken sound as the last wave hits him, head tipping back against the couch.

Your own body starts to hum—warmth rippling through your limbs, your blood thick with his. The room tilts deliciously, your skin buzzing, your breath catching.

Without meaning to, you roll your hips—just slightly—grinding down against his thigh.

Pleasure shoots up your spine, sharp and heady, dragging a soft, helpless mewl from your throat. Your fingers curl against his arm as you try to steady yourself, but the high is already flooding through you both.

Sonar hears the sound you make and his breath stutters hard, pupils snapping to you like he’s watching something sacred fall apart in his lap.

His grip tightens on your waist.

“Shit…” he whispers, voice barely there.

“You feel that too?”

Your hips move again, slow and involuntary, chasing the warmth sparking through your nerves.

And the way he shudders beneath you tells you he absolutely does.

“Talk to me, Sonar…” you breathe, voice honey-soft, rolling your hips again—slow, deliberate, a grind that steals the air right out of him.

He chokes on a gasp.

“I-I…”

His fingers dig into your waist.

His thigh flexes beneath you, involuntary.

“…fuck—”

The word breaks in his throat, his head tipping back against the couch as a shiver tears down his spine.

“I feel—”

Another shaky inhale.

His chest rises too fast.

Too unsteady.

Too overwhelmed.

“I feel so— fucking… amazing,” he pants, the admission spilling out of him raw, unfiltered, dragged straight from whatever haze your bite shoved him into.

Your hips roll again, and the sound he makes is half-moan, half-curse.

He tries to keep talking—he tries—but the high hits him again, heavy and intoxicating, turning his thoughts molten and loose.

“Shit— I can’t—” His voice drops, cracking open. “I can’t even— fuck— think straight—”

The words start to tumble out after that, sloppy and desperate, like he can’t stop them.

“I just— fuck, you feel so good—”

His grip tightens, pulling you down harder.

“—you smell so good—”

His breath stutters.

“I want— I wanna—”

Whatever he was going to say dissolves into another wrecked groan as you grind down again, harder this time, chasing your own high. The pressure, the heat, the way he moves under you—it’s all too much and not enough at the same time.

You bite your lip, watching him fall apart beneath you, watching the filth and want and hunger spill out of him without filter or shame.

And gods, it makes you grind harder—slow, needy circles that drag another broken sound from his throat.

His eyes flutter open, barely focused, glazed with heat and pleasure and your aphrodisiac flooding his veins.

“Keep—” he pants, voice ragged.

“Please— keep—”

But the words fall apart again, lost to another low, shaky groan.

He’s unraveling.

And you’re the one doing it to him.

You let out a breathless laugh, running your hand down his heaving chest, feeling every twitch of muscle under your palm.

“I haven’t even touched you, Sonar,” you tease, leaning in closer, grinding down once more just to watch him break.

“Are you gonna cum in your pants just because I’m grinding on your thigh?”

Your voice comes out ragged, heat curling around every word, a grin tugging at your lips.

He groans—loud, helpless, wrecked—his whole body jerking under you. Every inch of him feels too sensitive, too alive, too wired from your bite. Everywhere your hand skates over him, he shudders like you’re setting his nerves on fire.

“F-fuck you…” he grits out, but it’s shaky, cracked, barely holding together. “You feel too good— against me— I’m… I’m really going fucking insane—”

His breath hitches again, his thigh flexing hard beneath you, sending a sharp pulse of pleasure shooting up your spine. It drags a soft noise from your throat before you can swallow it.

“I’m gonna—” he tries, voice cracking, “—I’m going to fucking lose it.”

You pull back just enough to look at him properly, your eyes scanning his face—flushed, trembling, pupils blown wide, lips parted as he struggles to breathe.

“Need a breather?” you ask, voice wavering when he flexes under you again, hitting a spot that makes your hips twitch.

“M-no— no, I—”

His breath catches violently.

“I just want you,” he groans, head falling back against the couch like he can’t hold it up anymore.

Your gaze drops immediately to his neck—the way it stretches.

The way the vein pulses just beneath the skin.

The way he’s offering himself without even knowing he’s doing it.

Your breath stutters.

Heat licks down your spine.

Your fangs ache.

“Sonar,” you hiss, voice cutting through the haze.

His head jerks slightly, white eyes snapping to yours—dragged straight back by the sharpness in your tone.

You’re hungry.

You’re high.

And he’s tempting you in all the wrong ways.

“Careful,” you grit out, voice tight with restraint, fangs pulsing at the sight of his exposed throat. “Don’t expose yourself to me like that…”

“S—sorry…” he pants, though he doesn’t sound sorry at all. His fingers clamp onto your hips and he drags you down harder against his thigh—so hard it knocks a gasp out of you.

“You smell—” he breaks off with a ragged groan, hands trembling on your waist. “Ugh—fuck, you smell amazing.”

His head dips closer to your chest, inhaling deep.

“I can smell how wet you fucking are.”

Your breath stutters.

Your thighs tighten involuntarily.

He keeps going—too high, too loose, too gone to filter himself.

“You’re gonna ruin my fucking pants,” he groans, voice dropping to something dark and reverent. “Shit— you’re dripping down there…”

He looks down between you like he can see the heat you’re smearing onto him.

“Let me—”

His grip locks on your hips again as he jerks you closer.

“Let me fucking eat you out.”

Your pulse spikes violently.

“I’ll eat you better than your boyfriend ever has,” he hisses, sincerity dripping from every hungry, filthy syllable.

You jolt at the words—sharp, hot, vulgar—your whole body tightening around the wave of arousal that hits you.

You tilt your head, breath catching, lips curling into a slow, wicked smirk.

“I dunno…” you pant, grinding down in a way that makes him choke. “He’s pretty damn good.”

The effect is instant.

His white eyes snap up to you—hard.

Fast.

Predatory.

The lazy haze is gone, replaced with something sharp, possessive, almost offended by the comparison. His jaw clenches, breath burning through his teeth as a low sound vibrates in his chest.

“Come here,” he mutters, voice dark and low, hands gripping your waist with a sudden, commanding strength. He lifts you easily, repositioning you so you’re straddling him for a heartbeat and then he slides down.

He sinks between your thighs, lowering himself until he’s seated on the floor with his back against the couch, head tipped back to look up at you from below.

White eyes blown.

Breath ragged.

Expression starving.

“Sit,” he says—no hesitation, no politeness—just hunger.

You stare down at him, breath catching at the sight of him waiting beneath you like he’s been denied something vital for far too long. Then you move your shorts aside, baring yourself to him.

His snout brushes your heat.

And he breaks.

He surges forward instantly, mouth crashing into you with wild, desperate intensity. His tongue, his lips, the heat of his breath—everything moves against you with such ferocity that your knees buckle. You grab onto the couch for balance, spine arching as pleasure tears through you like molten fire.

He’s gone—completely, head hazy, mind blank, the taste of you dragging him under.

The aphrodisiac is still in his system.

Everything is amplified.

Every sound you make.

Every twitch of your thighs.

Every drop of heat against his mouth.

A guttural noise rumbles from him as he wraps one arm around your thigh, dragging you down harder against his face, locking you in place. The other hand shoots to his own slacks, fumbling desperately to free himself, unable to stop the instinct driving him.

And you can feel it—

in his touch,

in his breath,

in the way he devours you—

He wants you.

Badly.

“Shit—shit—shit—” he mumbles against you, each frantic lick punctuated by another breathless curse. “Fuck—fuck—”

His hand finally manages to tear open his slacks, shoving inside to grip himself with a desperate, shaking palm. A raw, broken moan vibrates against you as he touches himself, the sound shooting straight up your spine.

Then his tongue pushes deeper—farther than you expect—thrusting in quick, hungry motions as if he’s trying to drag every sound you make out of you.

You gasp sharply, your hand flying to the back of his head, fingers diving into his fur. His ear twitches against your arm, and you reach up to stroke it gently—testing, teasing.

He whines.

A small, helpless noise that shoots straight through him.

The moment you hear it, he shoves himself even closer, pressing his mouth harder against you, burying himself completely underneath your heat.

His lips seal around your clit, sucking with intense, focused pressure that makes your vision blur.

“S-Sonar—” you gasp, voice breaking, your hips grinding down against his face in a helpless, uncontrolled rhythm.

He groans into you and the vibration sends your whole body arching.

His grip tightens on your thigh.

His other hand works himself even harder.

He’s losing it beneath you, and he's taking you down with him.

A shrill ring slices through the heat, cutting straight into the haze clouding your mind.

You jolt, head whipping toward your phone on the couch.

“Shit—” you gasp, breath still shaking as you see the caller ID. Your boyfriend’s name flashing across the screen.

Of all moments.

You lean over to grab it, scrambling slightly, your balance slipping as Sonar keeps working you with single-minded hunger.

Your back arches involuntarily, grinding down against his snout before you can stop yourself. A strangled sound slips from your throat. The phone nearly falls from your hand.

You look down at him, his white eyes half-lidded, mouth slick and hungry beneath you.

Your lip catches between your teeth.

For a second, you forget what you were reaching for.

Sonar lifts you suddenly—just enough to pull his mouth away and get your attention—before he growls, breath hot against your skin:

“Answer.”

Then he drags you back down onto his face, sealing his mouth against you again like he’s punishing you for even thinking of stopping.

The phone rings in your hand.

Your hips tremble.

Your breath catches.

And Sonar holds you exactly where he wants you.

You whimper, the sound catching in your throat as you try to pull yourself together. Your hand trembles on his fur.

“T-then… be quieter…” you manage to breathe out, barely above a whisper.

Sonar huffs a sharp, mocking laugh against you.

“Then stop being so wet,” he shoots back, voice gravelly and muffled between your thighs.

You curse under your breath, but he eases–shifting his tongue to slower, more controlled strokes that still make your legs shake.

You suck in a deep breath, trying to cage the sounds clawing up your spine, then swipe your thumb over the screen and lift the phone to your ear.

“…Hey babe,” you murmur, breath soft and uneven, your gaze locked on Sonar beneath you.

He stares right back, never breaking eye contact as he runs his tongue through you in deliberate, torturous slow motions.

You bite your lip hard enough to almost draw blood, your free hand gripping the couch in a white-knuckled hold.

On the other end of the line, your boyfriend’s voice crackles through, oblivious.

“Hey… you okay? You sound out of breath.”

Sonar’s hands tighten on your hips.

His mouth never stops.

And you have to fight not to gasp.

“Y-yeah…” you manage, the word catching in your throat as Sonar’s tongue moves again. “Just had a run-in with… some guys.”

There’s a pause on the other end, your boyfriend instantly concerned.

“Some guys? What happened?”

“Yeah, just…”

Your breath stutters as Sonar thrusts his tongue into you again, slow but deep enough to make your hips jolt.

“…fuckers I have to… beat up in my job.”

You’re trying to sound casual.

You are absolutely failing.

“Sometimes we run… i-into them…” you laugh weakly, fingers threading through Sonar’s fur as if that will ground you. It does the opposite.

He groans against you — low, hungry, vibrating straight into your core.

“…pissed off and all,” you add in a breathless rush, your voice thinning at the edges as your hips begin to swivel helplessly.

Your boyfriend exhales, relieved. “Jesus. Okay — I thought something actually happened. You sure you’re okay?”

Sonar’s hands slide up your thighs, gripping hard enough that your breath catches in your throat again.

His tongue works you with slow, deliberate motions, every stroke timed to the exact moment you try to speak.

And you’re the only one who knows it.

“Uhh…” you try to laugh, but it comes out thin and shaky. “Yeah, just… v-very winded… might need to check for a— aahh— athsma—”

You barely choke the sound down, disguising a moan as a wheeze. Your whole body jerks in Sonar’s grip, your core tightening hard enough to make your vision blur.

He hisses low against you, tongue dragging up through your slick in one slow, greedy stroke. The sound he makes vibrates through you—and the slick, obscene noise of his mouth starts getting louder. Too loud.

You slap a hand over the phone’s mic, silently cursing under your breath.

Your boyfriend’s voice filters through, confused.

“Are you sure you’re—”

You don’t even let him finish.

“S-shit— uh— they found m-me— gotta g-go—!” you gasp out in a rush, words tumbling together.

Then you end the call before the lie can collapse completely.

The second the line cuts off, your phone drops from your hand.

And Sonar drags you back down with both hands like he’d been waiting for the distraction to disappear—eager, hungry, relentless.

“Sonar—” you hiss, the word slipping out raw as you start riding his face in earnest, your movements abandoning all restraint. He responds instantly, tongue working faster, deeper, pushing you closer to the edge.

A rough groan vibrates against you, and his hand slides back down to his own body. He frees himself from his boxers, gripping himself hard, stroking with urgent, desperate movements that match the rhythm of your hips.

“Shit, sweetheart— all over me…” he pants beneath you, voice muffled but full of need, letting you smother him completely.

You grind down again—once, twice—each motion sharper, more frantic, the pleasure coiling fast and hot inside you. His hands keep you anchored against him as your body tightens.

Then you seize above him, back arching, a strained whine of his name breaking from your throat as your high hits hard.

Sonar groans beneath you, the sound nearly swallowed by your trembling core. His grip on himself tightens, his body tensing just before he spills across his abdomen, breath breaking as he rides out his own release under you.

You shudder through the last waves of your high, muscles twitching as you ride it out on his face. For a moment you can’t move—your body too loose, too sensitive, too overwhelmed.

Sonar doesn’t stop.

He keeps licking lazily, almost dreamlike, tasting every trace you left on him. His breaths grow shallow, but he still doesn’t attempt to come up for air, too dazed and too drunk on you to care.

It takes you a second to realize he’s actually running out of oxygen.

You try to lift yourself, legs trembling, but his arms clamp around your thighs weakly—still trying to keep you pressed down on him.

You let out a breathless laugh.

“Sonar… you’re gonna die,” you huff, amusement threaded through the exhaustion.

He drags his tongue over you again in slow defiance, making your spine jolt.

“…fucking let me…” he mutters from under you, voice muffled and stubborn.

You laugh again, softer this time, before prying his hands off and finally shifting off his face. You collapse sideways onto the couch, limbs loose and useless.

Sonar stays where he is on the floor, slumped against the couch, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. His eyes are unfocused, expression glazed with satisfaction. His shirt is all wrinkled up, and his abdomen is a mess.

He looks utterly wrecked.

And disproportionately proud of himself.

“We should totally fucking do that again,” he says, still half-gasping, voice hoarse.

You throw an arm over your eyes.

“Shut up.”

You're basically sitting on his face, your thighs trying so hard not to crush his head, and he’s acting like you’re doing him some kind of favor. His hands keep sliding up the back of your legs, trying to pull you lower every time you lift even a centimeter away.

And his tongue?

God.

It was moving slow and deliberate, like he’s tasting something he never plans on sharing, like he’s cataloging every reaction you make so he can drag them out of you again.

Your breath keept catching in these little embarrassing stutters, your fingers digging into the seat because you’re trying not to knock your entire car off its suspension.

“R-Robert—!” you hissed, your voice doing that embarrassing crack into a whisper thing as his tongue dragged through you again, way too enthusiastic for someone who should, logically, be terrified of getting caught. “P-people are looking for us! This is—ngh—this is so… so not appropriate!”

He doesn’t care.

Not one bit.

He just tightens his grip on your hips like you’re gonna bolt any second and held you down onto his mouth like you were his personal oxygen supply.

This was not what you thought he meant when he’d slurred out, “Help me sober up?”

You were thinking coffee.

Water.

Maybe walking around the parking lot until he stopped wobbling.

Not… this.

Not your thighs shaking around his ears while he devoured you like he was in the fucking olympics.

It was reckless.

Both of you could lose your jobs.

Your reputation.

Your damn sanity.

Robert doubled down, tongue working deeper, like he was genuinely trying to get the both of you fired on purpose,

“Sweetheart…” Robert's voice was a wreck against you, all hot breath and desperation as he dragged another slow stripe up your core “You taste… god, you taste so fucking good.”

You slapped a hand over your mouth, biting into your knuckles like your life depended on it. There was no universe where you were staying quiet through this, not with the way he was devouring you like he’d been starving for a week.

Your thighs trembled on either side of his head, legs clamping around him as if that would stop him.

It didn’t, the fucker just groaned.

“R-Robert…” you choked out, voice rattling, hips helplessly grinding down on his tongue like your body betrayed you.

He froze for a second before groaning deeply, the kind that said ‘you just made everything ten times worse for yourself’.

His hands shot up to your thighs, fingers digging in just enough to pin you down, keeping you from escaping even if you wanted to.

“That’s it” he muttered low and filthy, "There you go baby doll."

He nudged you closer with a firm pull of his hands.

“Use me.”

You breath stuttered, catching high in your throat.

His tongue moved again—slow, teasing, like he was savoring the first taste. Then firmer, pushing deep enough that your spine arched on instinct. each stroke went straight to your stomach, curling heat throughout your body until you were useless in his hands.

You tried.

God, you tried to keep still, to stop grinding down on him, to act like the entire team wasnt minutes from spotting your car slightly rocking.

But then Robert let out a low, needy moan against you, the sound vibrating right through your cunt, and your self control went poof.

You rolled your hips tentatively, as if testing the waters on what would happen if you lost restraint.

His whole body tensed.

“Oh” he groaned, voice cracking “yeah, sweetheart. Just like that. Just—”

Another slow thrust of your hips cut him off, and he shuddered,

“Use my fucking tongue.”

He dragged you down harder, burying his face deeper between your thighs like he was trying to solve every personal problem he’d ever had right there in your lap. His nose brushed you, his tongue pushing deeper, and his grip on your hips was downright greedy.

Outside, someone called your name again.

Inside, Robbert didn’t give a single damn.

The only thing he cared about was the way your thighs shook and the way your hips didn’t stop moving.

You risked a peek towards the window, breath catching in horror.

Of course it was Herman.

Waterboy stood there like the human embodiment of a wet puppy who got lost in a supermarket—dripling onto the pavement, goggles fogged completely, shoulders hunched like gravity had a personal vendetta against him.

He looked… confused. And stressed. And confused about being stressed.

He wrung his hands together anxiously, shrinking in on himself like even existing in the parking lot was a social risk.

“Um…H-hello?” he whispered to absolutely no one, voice so soft it barely reached the glass “Is… is anyone… here? I… I thought I saw movement… I think…”

He leaned in just an inch, squinting at the tinted window thinking he had seen movement inside, but only saw his reflection staring back at him.

You slapped a hand over your mouth, swallowing a moan that would have given you both away.

Meanwhile, Robert didn’t slow once, much to your pleasure dismay.

He wrapped both arms tighter around your hips, anchoring you exactly where he wanted you, dragging you onto his tongue with this unshakable, laser-focused purpose that made your breath catch.

“Dont let them find us, sweetheart,” he murmured into you, voice low and obscene, then he pushed deeper, relentless.

You slapped both hands over your mouth this time, spine arching as heat rushed through your body. The sounds coming from his mouth—slick, eager, messy—felt loud enough to vibrate the window.

God you hoped Herman’s anxiety riddled brain never pieces any of this together.

Outside, Waterboy frowned at his own reflection, shaking his head as he apologized to it.

“S-sorry… didn’t mean to loiter,” he whispered already retreating.

“I’ll, um… check somewhere else…”

You watched him awkwardly shuffle away—shoulders hunched, jumpsuit dripping, muttering “Why am I even out here? Should have stayed inside… just wanted to help…”

The moment Waterboy shuffled far enough to stop being a liability, your hands flew away from your mouth and latched onto the seat for balance. Every bit of restraint you’d been clinging to snapped like wet tissue.

You rolled your hips down onto Robert’s mouth, shameless and hungry, chasing your high like he was the only thing on earth capable of giving it to you.

“R-Robert… Robertt, baby…” you panted, voice wrecked.

He groaned under you, the sound vibrating straight through your core. His hands locked around your hips, fingers digging in—guiding you, helping you, urging every grind, every tremble, every desperate little roll of your hips onto his tongue. His eyes were blown wide—dark, glassy, hungry—like you were the only thing worth worshipping.

Your whole body seized, pleasure ripping through you like a hot wire, your thighs shaking helplessly around his head, mouth falling open in a silent, wrecked gasp.

You came on his tongue, hard, devastatingly hard, and Robert moaned under you at the taste of it all, like he’d been aching for it.

He followed every twitch, every spill, every last little pulse of your orgasm, licking you through it until your legs just gave out.

You slumped forward with a shaky exhale, your hips still twitching when he lazily dragged one last slow stripe through your folds.

“Robert—” you hissed, half-delirious.

He finally let you lift off him, legs barely working enough to get you out of his hold. You slumped back in the seat, chest heaving, while he sat up with the smug satisfaction of a man who absolutely knew he just altered your lifespan.

He wiped his chin with the back of his hand, then licked his lips slowly, raising a brow at you.

“Thanks for helping me,” he murmured, voice rough and smug all at once.

You glared at him.

Mostly because he was right.

Mostly because he knew he was right.

And mostly because the bastard looked like he’d go right back in if you gave him even half a second.

Yeah, there was no way you were going to keep pretending he was enough, not after Sonar made true on his promise to eat you out better than your boyfriend ever had. Once you’ve been ruined properly, it’s hard to go back to “adequate.”

You push the break room door open and beeline straight toward the fridge, rummaging around to see if you have any blood packs left tucked behind someone’s sad salad.

You’re elbow-deep in the break room fridge when the door clicks open behind you. You don’t have to look to know it’s someone with enough presence to trigger your fight-or-bite reflex.

Still, you glance back.

“Oi,” Malevola greets, strolling in like she owns the entire building. Tail sways behind her, lazy and predatory.

“Hey Mal,” you greet casually, triumphant when you finally locate a blood pack shoved behind something that used to be yogurt. You pop a straw in the pouch like it’s a Capri Sun.

Mal watches you sip for exactly two seconds before snorting.

“That for breakfast, or is this just… Tuesday for you?”

“Don’t judge me,” you warn. “I’m at ‘bite someone’ levels of hungry.”

She waves a hand. “Sweetheart, if you bite an intern I’ll give you twenty bucks and a standing ovation. Half of ‘em annoy me anyway.”

You bark a laugh, nearly choking on your blood.

Mal leans back against the counter like she’s settling in for a good show. Her eyes rake over you in that mildly threatening way she has—like she’s assessing your aura, your sins, and your credit score all at once.

“You look lively today,” she notes. “Almost radiant. I’d ask if you found religion, but… well.”

She gestures to herself. “I am the competition.”

You snort. “Please. The day I worship you is the day Robert learns to relax.”

“Hot,” she replies dryly. “But no, really— what’s put you in a good mood?”

You shrug your shoulders, totally unbothered. “Maybe it’s just a good day today?” you offer, like that isn’t the most suspicious statement you’ve made all week.

Truth is, you’re not even sure yourself why you’re in such a stupidly good mood.

You haven’t gotten laid in a while.

Your blood intake is back to pathetic little “sippy cup” portions.

And life is… life.

You pause, then snort into your straw. “Actually? It’s probably because I don’t have a fuck-ass boyfriend to take care of anymore.”

Mal grins like she’s heard the funniest confession of her immortal life.

“Oh sweetheart, hallelujah. Consider me your lord and savior for guiding you out of that nonsense.”

You snort into your straw. “You didn’t guide shit.”

“Incorrect,” she corrects smugly. “I judged it. And my judgment is law.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile doesn’t fade. She watches you a moment longer, tail curling idly behind her, eyes sharp and pleased.

“Honestly,” she adds, tapping a claw thoughtfully against her chin, “you’ve looked freer ever since you cut that man loose. Must be nice not having some insecure mortal breathing down your neck every time Sonar so much as exists.”

You pause mid-sip, eyebrow creeping up.

Mal raises one right back.

For a full two seconds the two of you stare at each other like feral raccoons in a standoff—and then you both snicker.

Of course she knows.

Everyone knows.

Every poor soul in this building has survived at least one of your rants about your ex losing his entire mind anytime Sonar breathed in your direction.

“Well, what can I say,” you drawl, lifting your blood pack like you’re toasting to your own freedom. “Good riddance.”

“Good riddance indeed,” she cackles, sounding like she’s about to consecrate the break room floor in your honor.

“…Speaking of which,” you murmur, brows knitting a little. “Have you seen Sonar lately?”

Mal flicks her gaze toward you thoughtfully, “No actually. Not since… what, last Friday? Think he’s okay? Or maybe sprawled out somewhere high as hell?”

You shrug. “Probably. Could also just be taking an impromptu vacation. Bat boy goes feral and vanishes sometimes. Part of his whole… ecosystem.”

Truthfully, you’re a little surprised you haven’t seen him.

Last time was about a week ago—the two of you sitting cross-legged in a park like delinquent pigeons, downing pizza slices the size of your head and talking shit about the team’s performance that day.

Mal hums thoughtfully. “Sonar disappearing is either normal… or concerning. Depends on the level of cocaine involved.”

“Mm.” You sip again. “I’ll check in on him later. Just in case he’s face-down in a dumpster somewhere.”

Mal laughs. “He’s your problem. I’m not designated bat wrangler.”

You flip her off casually.

Then the break room door opens.

Malevola’s smirk grows slow and wicked.

“Well,” she murmurs in that faux-holy tone she likes to use, “look who crawled out of the cave.”

You don’t even get the chance to play dumb.

“The hell are you on about,” comes a familiar, exhausted voice behind you.

You turn.

And yeah—it’s Sonar.

But not the Sonar you’re used to.

Both you and Malevola exchange a glance.

He doesn’t look different.

But he looks different.

Tiny things.

The tilt of his ears.

The sluggish blink of his white eyes.

The way his shoulders don’t sit quite right beneath his suit.

You tilt your head at him, frowning slightly.

“…You good, dude? You kinda look like shit.”

Sonar stares at you, flat and deadpan, like your concern personally offends him.

“Thanks,” he mutters, “love hearing that first thing in the morning.”

“It’s noon,” Mal supplies helpfully.

Sonar flips her off without looking.

His gaze returns to you—tired, sharp, assessing you the same way he always does, even when he’s clearly running on fumes.

You sip your blood again, slower this time.

Because now that he’s closer… something’s definitely off.

Here’s the thing.

You’re not a goddamn bat.

You’re a vampire.

People love to lump you two together—“what’s the difference?”

The difference is you’re a fucking vampire–you eat people for a living, you're prettier, you smell better, and you have actual standards.

But yeah, you’ve got overlap—like having a high sense of smell.

So when something changes in someone’s scent? You catch it.

Your nose twitches automatically, and you ignore it at first until the scent hits again.

Heavy.

Musky.

Sharp around the edges, soaked into him like it’s been there for hours, maybe days. It’s buried under his usual cocktail of caffeine sweat, old cologne, and whatever cheap-ass soap he uses—but it’s there, almost persistent.

You scrunch your face, confused, and take another pointed sniff before you can stop yourself.

Your head tilts slowly.

Expression going from casual confusion to: What the actual fuck???

Because Sonar smells… different.

Not sick.

Not drugged.

More like—

Sonar raises a brow, deadpan.

“…Why are you sniffing me like that?” he asks.

But you barely pay attebtion to him.

You’ve only ever smelled that exact scent under two circumstances:

1. Right before you feed on someone who really, really wants you.

2. Someone who has aphrodisiacs swimming in their system for whatever reasons.

And Sonar?

He smells like both.

Slowly, the realization hits.

You slide a hand into your pocket, whip out your phone, checking the date.

Ah.

Right.

It’s the first week of mating season.

You snort under your breath, shove your phone away, and lean back against the counter like you didn't suddenly connect every weird detail.

“No reason,” you reply lazily, stabbing your straw back into your blood pouch and downing the rest like it’s the most casual Tuesday morning activity.

Malevola gives you a slow, wicked smile—one that says “I know exactly what you just figured out” and also “I am absolutely going to scream about this in the group chat.”

She snickers and gives your shoulder a pat before turning toward the door.

“Robert just called for me. Try not to start a soap opera while I’m gone, yeah?”

You flip her off as she leaves.

The room goes quiet.

Your eyes slide back to Sonar—who is currently rummaging through the cabinet and grabbing a bag of dried crickets like he didn’t just walk in radiating the kind of scent that drives others wild.

He tears the bag open with his teeth and you watch him chew sluggishly. He swallows, glances at you, ears twitching again.

“…What?” he asks flatly.

You stare him down.

He stares back.

“What?” he repeats, flatter this time.

You snicker, pushing yourself up onto the table and leaning back on your hands like you’re settling in for a show. “Why on earth are you here?”

Sonar lazily follows the movement of your legs like it’s instinct before snapping his eyes back up and raising a brow. “What do you mean? I work here.”

“Mmh, yeah, no, I know that.” You wave a hand. “But why are you here. At the office. In public. Around civilians.”

He squints.

“Like I said. I work here.”

“Sonar,” you say slowly, tilting your head at him with all the subtlety of a brick. “You should be home.”

He freezes like you said something that confirmed a suspicion he didn’t want to have in the first place.

You see the exact moment the truth hits him.

His shoulders drop.

His ears twitch once in defeat.

Then he sighs—long, exhausted, and so deeply put-upon you almost feel bad.

Almost.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You beam at him sweetly. “Nope.”

He glares. “You can smell it?”

“Oh yeah.” You stretch, making no effort to hide your satisfaction. “It’s strong as hell, by the way. Like… offensively strong.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “For fu— I didn’t even think it started yet.”

“It did,” you chirp. “Congratulations. You are officially in season.”

“Don’t,” he warns, pointing at you like a tired substitute teacher at the end of his contract.

“You’re literally dripping pheromones all over the room,” you continue, thoroughly entertained. “And you’re working like everything’s normal. You should be home.”

He drags a hand down his face. “I hate this. I hate all of this.”

You shrug. “Go home.”

“No.”

“Why?”

He gestures at himself. “Because I’m fine.”

You snort.

“Sonar. Babe. Buddy. Pal.” You lean forward. “You smell like you crawled out of a heat-sponsored orgy.”

He stares at you, dead behind the eyes.

“This is the worst day of my life.”

“No it’s not,” you coo. “Last month you microwaved a fork.”

His ears flatten in offense. “It sparked, okay?”

You swing your legs idly off the table, studying him with shameless curiosity.

“So,” you hum casually, “you gonna keep pretending you’re fine… or are you gonna admit you should be locked in your apartment right now before you do something stupid?”

His eye twitches.

And for the first time today, he looks away from you.

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I feel… fine,” he mutters, which is already a lie. “Other than maybe a bit sluggish, but I’m fine enough to work and shit. Shouldn’t even hit me fully for like… a couple more days.”

A couple more days.

Oh, the poor bastard has no idea.

“Mmm,” you hum, sliding off the table with a slow, lazy stretch. You stroll right into his space, close enough that he has to tilt his chin to look down at you. “You smell… nice.”

His brow shoots up, suspicious.

You smirk and let your eyes flash red for half a second, just enough to make his breath catch.

“You know,” you purr, “it’s dangerous for you to be walking around smelling like that—”

Your head tilts, fangs peeking slightly as you breathe him in again.

“—especially for those who get affected by your pheromones.”

His ears twitch.

“Dangerous?” he repeats, deadpan.

You nod slowly, lips curving.

“Like dangling a piece of meat in front of a starving lion,” you snicker. “I’m shocked no one’s jumped you in the supply closet yet with you smelling this delicious.”

His mouth opens but nothing comes out because he knows you’re not exaggerating.

He just hoped you wouldn’t notice.

Idiot.

You step in again, closing the distance, your chest nearly brushing his.

“Sonar,” you murmur, voice dipping just enough to make his spine straighten, “you’re leaking pheromones like you’re trying to summon a mate.”

His jaw clenches.

“And you’re saying this just to annoy me?”

You grin.

“No. I’m saying this because if some thirsty little nobody wanders in here and picks up that scent before you get home…”

You lean in, lips grazing the shell of his ear as you whisper.

“…I might have to kill them.”

He shivers.

And for the first time since he walked in, you see it.

The look.

The one he had the last time he was under you, wrecked with endorphins, whining into your skin.

You straighten up, smug as hell.

“Go home,” you tell him.

He stares at you.

And the scent coming off him—heavy, hot, wrong in all the best ways—rises just a little stronger.

“Say please,” he mutters weakly.

Oh.

So that’s how today’s going to go.

Your smirk turns into something dangerous.

“I don’t think you want me to say please,” you murmur. “Not when you're like that.”

He swallows hard. He knows you’re right, knows exactly how this ends if he doesn’t walk out that door.

You watch him struggle with himself for another second—the stubbornness, the pride, the Sonar-ness of it all—before something in you softens a bit.

You let the smirk fade into something smaller, quieter, the kind of smile you don’t hand out often.

“…Go home,” you murmur.

He blinks, thrown off by the shift in your tone.

You reach into your pocket, pull out your apartment keys, and press them into his palm before he can argue, his fingers curling around them automatically.

“Crash at my place,” you tell him gently. “I’ll come after my shift ends.”

You step back, giving him space to breathe, to think, to not combust in the middle of the SDN break room.

“There’s enough room for you to shift if you need to,” you add, eyes dragging over him once more, cataloguing every tired line of his posture. “The couch, the floor, the balcony—whatever. You’re safe there.”

He swallows, looking at the keys like they’re radioactive.

You continue anyway, already slipping back into your usual rhythm.

“I’ll let Robert know you won’t be in for the next month or so,” you say simply. “I’ll tell him your season started.”

His eyes flicker. “A month?”

You raise a brow. “You're lucky if it's just a month.”

He doesn’t argue.

You adjust your jacket, back-stepping toward the door.

“Need me to bring anything?” you ask lightly.

He opens his mouth but you cut him off with a small, tired wave of your hand.

“Never mind. I’ll bring snacks.”

You slip out of the break room, leaving him standing there, holding your keys, stunned, scent-hot, and suddenly very aware that he may not be spending this mating season alone.

And honestly?

You’re not sure which one of you that’s more dangerous for.

The rest of the day was still a struggle, but not because the Z-Team suddenly forgot how to function without Sonar.

They were fine.

Chaotic as ever.

Robert’s sanity, though? In shambles.

Telling him about Sonar’s condition had been the highlight of your day. You’d said “So… Sonar’s out for mating season” and watched the light leave that man’s eyes in real time. He closed them, pinched the bridge of his nose, and went silent in that way that screams “I regret every life choice that brought me here.”

Then he sighed and said, with the patience of someone signing a death warrant:

“Fine. Tell him he can take September and October. All of it. Just... stay away from HQ.”

Two months. Paid.

Because his biology decided to throw a horny party.

You’d pouted the entire walk from his cubicle. All that time off for pheromones, huh? Meanwhile you’re out here getting maybe a long weekend if you don’t die on shift.

By the time your hours were up, you were more mentally fried than physically. Too much comms chatter, not enough blood, and way too much thinking about the bat currently haunting your apartment.

You twisted the knob of your door and stepped inside, letting it close behind you with a soft thud. Shoes off. Jacket on the rack. A long, bone-deep sigh leaking out of you as you padded toward the living room and then stopped, your senses catching everything:

Warm air.

Drawn curtains.

And Sonar’s scent, settled into the room like he’d been breathing there for hours.

Yeah.

He made it.

You hum low as you trek deeper into the living room.

Your couch never stood a chance.

Sonar, who was in his bat form, was sprawled across it like a cryptid that broke into a studio apartment. All seven-foot-five of him, limbs and wings draped everywhere, fur bristled in sleep, his stupid tie somehow still on.

You snicker.

“Sonar,” you murmur softly.

He stirs, a low rumble vibrating out of his chest as one ear twitches. He peels his eyes open slowly, unfocused at first, then zeroing on you.

“…Vespera…” he grunts, voice deeper.

Your grin widens.

“Hey, big guy.”

You head toward the kitchen, setting the grocery bags on the counter with a soft thump—blood packs, water, painkillers (because you know he’s going to pretend he doesn’t need them later), and snacks that are definitely not FDA-approved.

Behind you, the couch groans under his shifting weight.

You feel his attention track you, glowing red eyes watching your every movement with slow, hungry awareness.

You hear him move, the soft scrape of claws on wood, the low rumble of breath, the faint shift of weight as something massive stalks up behind you.

Then his hands slide around your waist, clawed fingers curling lightly against your hips, sharp, yet gentle enough to remind you he’s him.

He leans in, snout pressing into the crook of your neck, breath ghosting across your skin. He inhales deeply, long and slow, dragging your scent into his lungs like he’s been craving it.

The exhale that follows is pure contentment. A warm, heavy purr that vibrates against your shoulder.

You lift a hand and rest it on the back of his neck. His fur is thicker in this form, plush and warm, and when your fingers rake through it, he lets out a series of small, involuntary clicking noises.

Cute.

If he wasn’t a seven-foot-five nightmare creature, it might even be adorable.

“How fucking domestic of us,” you snicker.

He huffs in amusement against your neck, a breathy half-laugh, half-growl.

“How are you feeling?” you ask, tone light, your hand still moving through his fur in slow, grounding strokes.

He hums low and deep, almost considering, like he’s actually trying to translate instinct into words. His claws trace along your hips in absent little circles, careful not to break skin, his body pressed close. Another rumble vibrates out of him.

Then finally, rough and low:

“…Weird.”

You keep your hand at his nape, thumb stroking a small patch of fur to keep him steady.

“Weird good or weird bad?” you murmur.

Glowing red eyes blink, slow and uneven.

“…Both.”

You hum at his words, slow and thoughtful, fingers still brushing over the warm fur at his nape.

“Yeah… sounds like everything’s gonna hit you hard by tomorrow.”

You tilt your head slightly, inhaling again, the scent rolling off him thick, simmering just under the surface.

“Smells like it too,” you add, voice dry.

His grip tightens on your hips for a split second before you gently push him back.

“Alright, Scooby-Doo, personal space. Move.”

He lets out a reluctant grumble but steps back enough for you to reach the counter. You pull out a plate and dump the dead mice you bought earlier onto it. He eyes them, ears angling forward with interest.

“Here,” you say, sliding the plate toward him. “Eat something.”

He hesitates for half a second, then he’s on the plate like he's never fed before. You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you.

“Get some energy, big guy. You’re gonna be too focused on wanting to breed something to eat later.”

He freezes mid-chew, ears flattening just slightly, a low offended chuff rising from his chest.

You ignore it, humming to yourself as you start packing away your blood supply and the rest of your groceries, settling into your routine.

You head into your room, peeling off your clothes with a tired little groan, tossing your jacket onto the bed. Faintly, you hear the low scrape and crack of bones rearranging, the familiar sound of him shifting back into his humanoid hybrid form.

At least he’ll fit in the damn clothes.

You rummage through your dresser, digging past your own sweats until you find one of the oversized pairs he left behind months ago. You hold them up, give them a quick sniff (clean enough), then pad back out into the living room.

He’s hunched over the now-empty plate, finishing off the last mouse like it’s a snack pack.

You drop the sweats on the arm of the couch.

“Clothes,” you announce.

He grunts his acknowledgment around a mouthful, already pulling them on with that eerie speed he has when he’s not pretending to be civilized.

You flop onto the couch, grab the remote, and start flipping channels. Eventually you settle on some mindless reality show where everyone is shouting and somehow still boring. Good enough for background noise.

You lean back, stretch your legs, and glance over at him.

He’s sitting on the floor beside the couch now, half-dressed, eyes lidded. His chest rises and falls steadily.

“…Feel better?” you murmur.

He wipes a smear of blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and looks up at you.

And he does actually look better.

“Let me eat you out.”

Just like that.

No buildup. No context. No shame—not even a dramatic pause.

You blink at him once.

“...The fuck, Sonar,” you snicker, lips twitching.

He shrugs, absolutely unbothered. “Been a while. Wanna eat you out.”

Like it’s part of his biological needs. Water. Sleep. Food. Your pussy.

A laugh spills out of you before you can stop it, “Okay, okay—down, boy.” You point a finger at him teasingly. “No biting you this time, though. Not trying to send you into another spiral.”

He snorts, settling between your knees already like he was just waiting for you to say yes.

“Yeah, whatever,” he mutters, hands sliding up your thighs. “Didn’t ask for teeth. I asked for a meal.”

“Yet,” you say, tone dripping with smug amusement, “you haven’t asked me for teeth yet. You’re gonna get pussy-drunk and then beg me to bite you, and that’s when everything goes straight to hell.”

You’re laughing under your breath as you lift your hips, letting him slide your shorts down your legs in slow inches. His fingers tease your skin on the way, deliberate enough to make you shiver.

He settles between your thighs like he’s been waiting there for days. His palms bracket your hips, thumbs stroking once, twice, claiming their spot. Those pale white eyes lift to yours, already a little hazy.

“I might be going into mating season,” he mutters, “but give me some fucking credit. I’m not bat-brained right now.”

You tilt your head, gaze drifting downward slowly, deliberately.

Down to his shoulders nestled between your legs, to the way he’s breathing through his mouth like he’s trying not to salivate, to the subtle twitch of his nose as he inhales your scent and pretends he isn’t doing exactly that.

Then you lift your eyes again and your smile is wicked.

“…Really?” you murmur, voice soft and loaded.

He tries to scoff, pretend you’re not seeing him unravel in real time.

“Don’t,” he mutters, staring pointedly at your face. “Don’t give me that look.”

You blink innocently. “What look?”

“The one where you pretend you’re not doing this on purpose.”

You grin.

“Sonar,” you whisper, brushing your fingers through his fur, “you’re literally kneeling between my legs looking desperate as fuck.”

He rolls his eyes at your sarcasm, a tired little flick that says yeah, yeah, keep talking, before he pointedly drops his attention to something far more important.

You don’t even get a full second to smirk before his head dips, the bridge of his snout brushing the edge of your cunt—light enough to tease, intentional enough to steal your breath. His inhale is slow, indulgent, dragging your scent deep into his lungs like he’s been starving for it.

He may have been drunk off your bite last time, blissed-out and incoherent, but this is different. This is him sober. Fully aware, fully present, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t get a taste of you like this.

His tongue slips out—pink, warm—giving you one slow, deliberate drag from the bottom of your wet pussy up to the top, collecting everything you're giving him.

You feel the breath leave him in a shuddering sigh against your skin, too pleased for someone who swore he had “control.”

He noses your inner thigh once, almost nuzzling, then goes back in with another slow lick, like he’s reacquainting himself with a favorite flavor he hasn’t had in months.

“I swear…” he mutters against you, voice low and rough around the edges, “you taste even better when I’m not high.”

You shiver in his hold, instinctively lifting and adjusting your legs until you’ve framed his face exactly how you know he likes, your thighs snug against the sides of his jaw, his ears brushing your skin every time he moves.

“Is that a compliment?” you breathe, voice shaky, “I’ll take it as one.”

He huffs a soft, dismissive snort before his tongue pushes in deeper.

That first slow thrust has you sucking in a gasp through your teeth. The second one is firmer, more focused, and then he’s properly eating you out, mouth greedy and practiced like he’s been replaying the memory for months and now that he finally has you again, he’s going to make absolutely sure you feel it.

Your moans spill out in soft, breathy pulses, slipping free no matter how hard you try to bite them back. You tilt your head back against the couch, eyes fluttering closed as pleasure rolls through you.

His tongue drags up between your folds, savoring every bit of your taste, then dips, thrusting inside you in a maddening rhythm. Every wiggle, every push, every subtle grind of his snout sends a spark of pleasure ricocheting through your cunt.

You breathe out his name again, softer this time, almost slurred.

“Sonar…”

Your fingers drift into his fur, raking through the soft strands at the back of his head. He makes a sound somewhere between a grunt and a purr, his breath fanning hot against your inner thigh.

Then he seals his mouth around your clit, sucking harshly before flicking it with his tongue.

You jolt so hard your hand slips in his fur. He doesn’t stop—doesn’t even pause. He just does it again, working you with an obscene focus that makes your chest tighten and your breath break into little stuttering gasps.

“Fuck…” you whimper, hips twitching despite yourself. His hands tighten around your thighs immediately, holding you steady like he knew you were going to start squirming.

He repeats that same combo—suck, flick, drag of his tongue down the length of your folds—like he’s studying every reaction you give him, memorizing the way you tremble.

“Doing so good for me,” you sigh, voice syrupy, dazed. “Eating me out so well… fuck, baby…”

The second you praise him, he groans into you. A deep, rough sound that vibrates right against your clit before rolling through your whole core. You feel it in your spine, feel it in your toes, feel it in the way heat blooms in your belly.

He responds to praise like it’s another aphrodisiac.

His grip tightens again.

His tongue moves deeper.

Hungrier.

“You like that, huh…” you murmur breathlessly, sliding your fingers through his fur and scratching lightly at his scalp. “You like hearing how good you are for me?”

His whole body shudders.

He drags his tongue between your folds again and thrusts it inside you with a needy groan that makes your hips buck against his face.

He holds you there, pinned and trembling, completely at his mercy as he tongues you slow and deep, savoring every bit of you like he’s starving.

You can barely keep your eyes open.

Pleasure is curling tight and low, winding you up with each desperate lap of his tongue.

“Sonar…” you breathe, voice cracking just a little. “Shit… you’re gonna—”

He growls, the sound rough and possessive and vibrating right through your core, and you swear your brain blanks out for a second.

He’s savoring you, tasting you, letting every little praise and moan you give him pull him deeper under.

And the worst part?

He’s not even close to done.

Your whimpers start coming quicker—little broken sounds that slip out every time his tongue pushes deeper, every time his mouth seals around you like he’s trying to devour you whole. His name tumbles off your lips without restraint, tangled with gasps and soft curses you can’t hold back.

His grip tightens and hauls you harder against his face, practically burying himself under you. His tongue thrusts deeper, needy and desperate, the angle forcing your back to arch, your breath to stutter, and the rising heat to snap hard through your body.

Your orgasm hits with a sharp, trembling surge.

“Sonar…” you moan, voice shaking as your hips roll over his face. Slick spills down his snout, coating him completely, and he groans into it like he’s been waiting for it. “Such a good boy for me…”

He shudders at the praise.

His tongue licks you through your high, slow and greedy.

Your breathing stutters, sensitivity sparking across your skin, the overstimulation buzzing under every nerves—warm, dizzying, almost too much—before you lean back and pant down at him.

“You can give me another one, right?”

You didn’t even finish the sentence before his hands drag you back down, mouth already sealing around your clit.

You gasp, another moan ripping out of you.

“Be a good boy for me…” you whine, thighs trembling around his head. “Make me cum again.”

He growls and dives back in with a hunger that tells you one very dangerous thing:

He's going to pull more than one out of you.

He coaxes two more orgasms out of you with an obscene level of patience, working you through every shiver, every twitch, every shaky gasp until your thighs feel like they’re buzzing with static.

You barely get a breath in before his hands slide under you, lifting you effortlessly. Your voice cracks in a soft noise of surprise as he scoops you up like you weigh nothing.

He doesn’t give you time to question it.

He carries you to your bedroom in a few brisk steps, drops onto the mattress, and immediately places you on top of him, guiding you up his body until you’re straddling his chest, then his shoulders, and ultimately his face.

He pulls you down like he’s starving.

You yelp, the sudden spike of overstimulation hitting you like a shock. Your whole body shudders, thighs trembling uncontrollably as his mouth seals around you again. His tongue meets you with the same hunger as before, but sharper this time—more urgent, more primal.

“Sonar—” you gasp, voice breaking.

His arms snake around you, looping under your thighs and sliding up over your hips, locking you in place. You’re held down completely as he drags you back onto his mouth.

You tremble, instinct fighting to pull away from the intensity, but his hold is steady, grounding—pleading, almost.

The overstimulation hits harder now, a deep electric pressure curling low in your belly. Every slow drag of his tongue makes your hips jolt, every soft suck forces another noise out of your mouth.

He’s devouring you like he’s making up for every second he didn’t get to have you.

You relent, grinding down onto his face, letting him take control, letting the pleasure crash over the overstimulation until the two blur into something raw and dizzying.

His grip tightens around your hips.

He groans beneath you—deep, wanting, satisfied.

And you swear you feel the sound vibrate through you all the way to your spine.

“Need you to give me one more,” he rasps, voice roughened into something deep and primal. His breath is hot against you, his grip firm on your hips. “Just one more baby…”

Before you can respond, he drags his tongue through your folds with quick, hungry strokes that snap your breath right out of your chest. Your thighs tense instinctively, but he forces your hips to roll down against his face, pushing your clit against the bridge of his snout with deliberate pressure.

You choke out a whimper, fingers digging into the fur at the back of his head.

“T-think… I’m gonna—” your voice cracks, dissolving into a slurred moan as your body pulses with warning heat, “Sonar… baby boy, you’re gonna make me—”

He groans loud beneath you, the sound vibrating against your core, and it nearly knocks the air out of your lungs. He tightens his hold, dragging your hips in harsher, more relentless motions, guiding you exactly where he wants you.

His tongue thrusts inside you lazily again contrasting the rough grind he keeps forcing against your clit. The combination sends sparks shooting up your spine, your breath breaking into sharp, helpless sounds.

Your whole body spasms as the pleasure slams into you—sharp, overwhelming, white-hot. Your head tips back, mouth falling open on a ragged moan as your hips jerk helplessly against his face.

“S-Sonar—!”

His name rips out of you, breathless and broken, fingers locking so tight in his fur your knuckles ache.

The orgasm tears through you hard—your muscles clench, your thighs tremble violently, and little droplets gush out in quick, uncontrollable bursts. It hits his mouth first, then his chin, then down the line of his throat and onto his chest, dripping onto the sheets beneath him.

He groans eagerly and drenched, the sound only making your release pulse harder.

Your hips stutter wildly, rhythm lost, body shivering through the aftershocks. Only when you’re shaking too hard to stay upright does he finally let up.

He pulls back with a wet gasp, chest heaving, mouth and snout slick. And before you can breathe, before you can even blink, he flips you onto your back.

Your world tilts, sheets rustling under you, and then he’s above you—hovering, crowding in close, kissing up your stomach in slow, claiming presses of his mouth. His hands roam your hips, your waist, your ribcage with irresistible focus.

By the time he reaches your chest, you’re already grabbing at him, pulling, needing him close.

He pushes his sweats down just enough—just far enough—to free the heavy length straining beneath them.

He drags the tip through your still-twitching folds, letting the slick noise cut through the quiet room.

Slow. Teasing.

Dragging up…

Then down…

Then up again…

Your breath hitches.

He groans against your throat, voice low and gravelly from need.

He presses in slowly, deep and unhurried, pushing inch by inch into the heat he’s been starving for. Your back arches as his grip tightens on your waist. The moment he’s fully sheathed inside you, you both stopped breathing.

“Tight… so fucking tight,” he grunts, the words punched out of him as he pulls back an inch and sinks back in again.

He starts slow, like he’s deliberately savoring how you clench and flutter around him, how your body reacts to every single thrust. Each movement drags a new sound from your lips, each push has your back arching off the sheets.

His breath grows uneven, chest rising and falling against yours. The slow rhythm only makes it worse for him—every time he pulls out, the tightness around him makes him shudder, jaw flexing as he fights not to lose it instantly.

He watches the way he disappears into you, watches the slick drag along his length when he draws back, watches your thighs tremble.

“Fuck me…” he mumbles, voice cracking with something rawer than desperation. His brows furrow like he’s genuinely overwhelmed, like he can’t believe you feel like this.

He keeps staring—lost in the sight, lost in the heat, lost in the way your body tightens around him like it’s pulling him deeper.

And he doesn’t notice.

He doesn’t notice the way your breath changes, soft gasps sharpening into something low and hungry.

He doesn’t notice your pupils shrinking, your eyes darkening then flashing red.

He doesn’t notice the way your lips part, the corner of your mouth twitching as your fangs slowly begin to lengthen.

He’s so focused on your body swallowing him, too engrossed in the pull of your heat, that he doesn’t notice until it’s too late—your nails biting into his shoulder, your fangs glinting in the moonlight, and the hunger hitting you hard.

“Victor…” you purr, voice thick with hunger and something darker. The sound rolls off your tongue like a warning and a promise all at once.

His head snaps up at you.

His hips stutter mid-thrust the second he sees your fangs out—long, sharp, gleaming under the dim light. His pupils blow wide, chest heaving.

“Shit. Fuck. Bite me,” he blurts out instantly, like the urge hits him harder than reason ever could. He knows better. He absolutely knows better.

But he still says it—voice rough, hips pushing into you in a slow, shaky rhythm he’s barely hanging onto.

Your hand drifts up his abdomen, feeling the way goosebumps rise under your touch. You trace the hard lines of muscle, move up his chest, then higher—where skin gives way to fur along his collarbone. His body shivers under your palm.

Your eyes drag over him hungrily.

Your eyes drag over him hungrily, mind very much focused on one thing. Before he can say another word, you lean in fast and precise, sinking your fangs deep into his bicep.

A sharp gasp tears from his throat, hips bucking into you with pure instinct as your teeth pierce his skin. The moment his blood hits your tongue you feel your eyes flutter closed. Satisfaction floods your senses, deep and immediate, clouding the edges of your thoughts.

His hand shoots to your waist, gripping tight.

A ragged groan leaves him—half pain, mostly pleasure, melting into something helpless and obscene.

You drink deeply, savoring him, while he thrusts into you slow and trembling, trying to keep control and losing it just a little more with every pulse of his blood on your tongue.

You drink from him like you’ve been starved for months.

Every pulse of his blood against your tongue pulls you deeper, blurs your mind further, loosens the delicate restraint you thought you had. Satisfaction rolls heavy through your chest, then thicker, denser, until your body hums with it.

You don’t even realize how much you’re pumping into his system.

Not until his hips slam forward with a sharp, involuntary jerk that rips his rhythm to shreds.

“Ah—”

His entire body seizes under you and then absolutely collapses into the pleasure flooding him. His eyes roll back hard as his sweaty hands clamp around your waist, hips taking over completely.

He starts thrusting into you fast, sloppy and erratic, like he’s chasing a high that just keeps surging higher and higher. Each movement punches another helpless little sound out of him, nothing like his normal controlled self.

The whimper he lets out when he slams into you again is almost broken.

Your fangs are still embedded in him, still pumping dose after dose of your aphrodisiac while drinking him in, not exactly in the right state of mind to realize what you’re doing exactly.

He can’t handle it.

Not like this.

Not this dose, not this intensity, not with your body wrapped around him.

His cock twitches violently inside you.

Then again.

Then a third time, harder.

“Fuck—” he gasps, voice cracking sharply as he spills inside you, hot and sudden, like the pleasure ripped it out of him without warning. His hips jolt, trembling with overstimulation, but he doesn’t stop.

He can’t stop.

“Hah—hah—fuuuck—” he stutters, forehead knocking into your shoulder, breath shuddering against your skin. “Sweetheart… ngh—too much—too much—”

But his hips keep driving up into you, chasing a rhythm he can’t maintain.

He reeks of desperation, pleasure so strong it borders on pain.

“Already—already—” His voice cracks, high and shaky, like he’s hanging onto the world by a thread. “Already c-cumming in you—shit—shit—”

His thighs spasm beneath you.

He thrusts again, harder than he means to, burying himself deep as another wave hits him without mercy. His body trembles, muscles quivering as he tries to breathe through the intensity.

You pull your fangs from his arm slowly.

He whines, eyes blown wide when he looks at you, glazed and frantic, his breath coming in fast, shattered bursts. He’s still thrusting—gentle, trembling motions that he can’t stop, like his body is acting on pure instinct.

“Gonna— g’nna— ngh— gonna cum again—” he babbles, hips stuttering into you. “You’re s-so tight— so hot— god— I can’t— I can’t think—”

He gasps against your throat, voice climbing higher with every thrust.

“You feel—fuck— you feel too good— too good— losing— I’m losing my fucking mind—”

Your walls flutter around him and he nearly folds.

“Sweetheart—please— I—”

Another broken thrust.

Another helpless whine.

A full-body shiver.

“Too warm… too wet…” he gasps, feverish. “I can’t— can’t stop— god, I can’t—”

Your vision pulses with red as your body tightens around him again, that instinctive hunger mixing with the aftershocks of your release. His blood still clings to your tongue, thick and warm, and the taste of him only amps the heat curling through your core.

He’s not doing any better.

Every thrust shoves him deeper into the haze he’s drowning in. His senses are turned up past max, his brain unable to process anything except the feel of your body gripping him. It’s too much for him, unbearably so—every squeeze, every slick drag, every pulse of your walls has him unraveling further.

“Sonar…” you gasp, your voice breaking as your orgasm wrings through you. Your nails rake down his back, your thighs clenching tight around his hips. The moment you tighten around him he whimpers—a raw, involuntary sound ripped straight out of his chest.

He spills inside you again.

His hips give a violent jerk, his voice cracking as he pushes through his climax without slowing. His rhythm collapses, but the need driving him doesn’t—his body keeps thrusting into you, rough enough to shake the bed beneath you.

“I— I can’t— ngh—” he whines, the sound high and desperate. He drags you closer, as if he’s scared you might pull away before he finishes. His hips snap up again, sloppy and hard.

“Breed…”

His whole body tenses like he’s on the edge of something overwhelming.

“Need to… need to— need it to…” His words slur together, barely there. “Need it to stick…”

A sharp warning flickers at the back of your mind—your instincts pricking at the edges. You force your gaze up, and the sight of him hits you hard.

He’s gone.

His eyes are barely open, heavy with exhaustion and overstimulation, completely unfocused.

His mouth is slack, murmuring fragmented phrases that don’t fully form, just broken noises and half-words slipping out between labored breaths.

Drool gathers at the corner of his mouth, dripping down his chin.

Sweat mats down his fur, sticking it to his neck and chest. His abdomen is tight, spasming with every pulse of pleasure still ripping through him. His thighs shake under you, trembling with each thrust.

And he’s still moving.

Still pounding into you.

Still gripping your hips like he needs the contact to stay conscious.

Your slick is smeared down his length, mixing with the thick, milky ring at the base—evidence of how many times he’s already lost himself inside you. He’s flushed, panting, his entire body trembling with overstimulation as he ruts into you like he can’t stop.

“Need… need you…” he pants, head falling forward until his forehead presses clumsily against your shoulder. “Too warm… too tight…” His hips thrust sharply, a helpless reflex. “I can’t— I can’t think— just— need to—”

Another thrust.

Another cracked moan.

He’s barely holding onto himself, everything starting to override whatever thin thread of control he has left.

You notice it before he does.

The way his shoulders twitch.

The way his breath deepens.

The way the muscles under your hands shift from something instinctual clawing its way up.

Alarm shoots through you.

His fingers—no, his claws—dig into your hips suddenly, sharper than before, the tips piercing just enough to sting. His back arches, chest expanding, fur thickening as the first tremors of transformation ripple down his spine.

“S-Sonar…!” you yelp, grabbing at his shoulders as his body lurches. His thrusts falter for a moment from his changing size.

He lifts his head and looks at you.

And that’s when you realize he’s gone.

Completely gone.

His eyes are fully red now, half-lidded, glazed and feral. His breath drags out of him in deep, animalistic pulls, panting through his teeth as his body grows beneath you.

“…Victor!” you cry, voice cracking when another surge of pleasure bolts through you. You cling to him, trying to anchor him—or yourself—but the shift only accelerates.

He snarls.

A deep, guttural, vibrating sound from somewhere low in his chest, rolling up his throat as his hybrid form takes over. His frame expands, shoulders widening beneath your thighs, fur spreading thick over his body. His grip becomes stronger, almost bruising.

“Fill you…” he growls, voice warped into something deeper and rougher than human. “Gotta f-fill you up…”

You feel it as he changes.

His cock—which was already thick inside you—swells further, pulsing as it grows. More girth, more pressure, more heat stretching you open around him. The change forces a gasp out of you, your nails digging into his furred shoulders for balance.

He thrusts again—harder, heavier with a new animalistic power behind each movement.

Your breath stutters.

His head lowers until his snout presses right against your neck, inhaling deeply. A shudder runs through him, hips grinding upward with a possessive desperation that rattles through your whole body.

“Smells… good…” he rasps, voice nearly unrecognizable. “Mate…”

The word vibrates down your skin.

“Gonna fill you good…”

Another thrust, deep and unyielding.

“Make you feel… full…”

And then you feel it.

A swell at the base of him, pressing harder, bigger, stretching you further as it begins to form.

A knot.

You choke on a gasp, body tightening instinctively as his hips drive forward again, the swelling base grinding against you as if his body is determined to lock him inside you.

His thrusts get rougher, needier, more desperate by the second.

He’s not thinking anymore. He’s acting on pure instinct and every part of him is focused on one thing:

To knot you.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders so hard you feel the texture of his fur give under your nails. He snarls at the pain but instead of pulling back, he drives into you harder, like your desperation feeds his own.

His hips slam into yours with force that knocks the breath from your lungs. Every thrust sends a sharp jolt through you as his tip crashes against your cervix over and over, with no hesitation and no mercy.

Your back bows off the mattress, head thrown back, lips parted on a cry you can’t hold in. Your body is caught between unbearable intensity and addictive pleasure, every nerve lit and trembling.

Sonar bends over you, breath ragged, eyes blazing red and half-lidded.

“Gonna fuck you so well…” he murmurs against your cheek, voice shaking with the effort to speak. “So deep you won’t be able to think about anything but me.”

He punctuates it with another brutal thrust that forces a gasp out of you.

His tone drops lower, rougher, instinct tugging at every word.

“Everyone’s gonna know you’re mine,” he snarls, hips snapping into you again. “This pussy is mine. Gonna fill you up so good— you’ll be dripping for days.”

His breath breaks around the last word, turning into a pant. His fur is damp with sweat, chest pressed to yours, muscles quivering from overexertion and overwhelming pleasure.

Then there’s the knot.

You feel it swelling against you—thick, hard, pulsing with his heartbeat. Every thrust grinds the expanding base against your entrance, pushing, stretching, testing your body as though he’s trying to claim you completely.

He tries again, harder, forcing the knot forward.

You cry out, body tightening around him.

He groans at the sensation, head falling forward for a moment before he forces himself upright. He shifts onto his knees, gripping your hips and dragging you up with him, angling you so he can drive deeper.

Your lower belly ripples with every impact.

He watches the bulge in your abdomen rise and fall as he thrust, his length outlined beneath your skin each time he slams forward. His mouth falls open, a long, broken moan spilling out.

“G’nna— ngh— gonna get you pregnant…” he whines, voice dissolving into raw instinct. He thrusts again, hips trembling, knot swelling larger with every pulse. “G’nna make it stick… need it to stick…”

He’s panting like he can’t get enough air, eyes barely open with instinct and need as he tries—again, and again—to push the knot inside you.

“Please…” he gasps, hips faltering before surging forward again. “So close— just— just need—”

The knot presses harder, stretching you around the widest part of him.

His entire body is trembling with the effort of holding himself back, hovering on the thin edge between instinct and collapse.

The moment it happens, your body reacts before your mind can.

With a rough, instinct-driven thrust, his knot forces its way inside you, stretching you wide, locking him in place with a thick, undeniable snap of pressure that jolts through your entire core.

Your body jerks violently at the intrusion, a garbled whine ripping out of your throat as your back arches against the mattress. The fullness is overwhelming and it steals the breath right out of your lungs.

Sonar’s reaction is immediate.

“Yes… yes…” he hisses through clenched teeth, voice torn between relief and raw instinct. His claws tighten around your hips in a bruising grip as he grinds his length deeper into you. “Fuck—fuck—breed well…” His breath shudders. “G'nna— g'nna breed this cunt…”

His words melt into panting, desperate noise.

You twitch beneath him, overstimulation crackling through you, his body pressing you down into the sheets with unrelenting weight. The knot pulses inside you, every push grinding against your walls, forcing another wave of heat up your spine.

Then your climax hits.

Hard.

Your body seizes around him, clenching tight enough to pull a strangled groan out of his chest. Your vision blurs as you cum one last time, your legs shaking uncontrollably beneath his hold.

He whines at the way your body grips him.

“So… good…” he manages, voice wrecked and shaking. His head drops to your shoulder, breath hot against your skin. His tip twitches inside you, pressed right up against your cervix, sending a shiver through both of you.

“So good for me…” he moans, hips locked tight. “Don’t— don’t worry… gonna fill you up… n-nicely… promise…”

His words crumble into another shaky whine as he grinds into you a few more times, each movement slow and desperate, the knot keeping him welded to your body.

Then he breaks.

His release floods into you in heavy pulses—thick, hot and unrestrained. His entire body trembles with every spurt, breath hitching, whining softly in your ear as he empties himself completely. His claws loosen, but only barely, still holding you flush against him as if afraid you’ll pull away.

“B-be… a good little mate…” he whimpers, voice slurring with instinct and exhaustion. “Keep it… all inside…”

His hips give one last shallow grind, sealing the knot even tighter.

He’s fully locked to you, body pressed flush, breath shuddering as he rides out the last throbbing pulses inside you.

By the time his mind claws its way back into his body, he’s still pulsing inside you, weak spurts leaking from his overstimulated length, each twitch making your walls flutter around him.

“V-Vic…” you slur, voice trembling, “baby… I’m f-full. Please. I c-can’t take… more…”

You’re delirious, shaking, stuffed to the point of ache.

He lets out a broken whimper at your plea, pressing his forehead against your shoulder, breath shuddering over your skin.

“Just a bit more…” he whispers, almost pleading, “please… I’m not done…”

His body shudders again, balls drawing tight as he forces out the last thick pulses he has left, spilling everything into you until he’s practically dry. Your legs give out entirely, trembling uncontrollably under him as the last wave finally hits.

When he settles, you feel impossibly full, almost painfully so, every drop of him held inside by the swollen knot still locking you together.

You groan weakly, head rolling back against the mattress.

“I feel like I’m gonna… fucking puke your cum out…” you complain, breath broken and shaking.

A soft, ruined chuckle rattles out of him.

“…Don’t do that…” he murmurs, still hazy, “Or I’ll just… fill you up again…”

A violent shiver runs through you at the threat, your tired body clenching around him in reflex.

You try to steady your breathing, relaxing as much as your overstimulated muscles allow.

“How long are we stuck like this…?” you whisper, voice rough.

He shakes his head slowly, eyes half-closed, still panting a bit.

“Couple minutes… I don’t… fucking know…”

You groan again, throwing an arm over your face like you’re ready to file a complaint with HR.

“Next time I’m putting wax on my fangs…” you mumble, exhausted. “Fuck… I think I jumpstarted your cycle…”

Right on cue, his cock twitches inside you eagerly, betraying him instantly.

The knot hasn’t even fully deflated yet and he’s already responding to you again.

He snickers weakly, the sound warm and wrecked.

“Yeah…” he breathes, giving your hip a squeeze, “Yeah you fucking did.”

Tomás Vrbada

✧ Tomás casually walks into the room expecting literally nothing unusual

✧ Only to freeze in place when he sees you wearing his clothes

✧ Or well… your version of his clothes

✧ His top had been cropped and fitted to your body, belts and straps adjusted to hug your waist and thighs properly

✧ You even recreated the little details in his outfit almost perfectly

✧ The smoke gray and silver tones on you?

✧ He is respectfully staring disrespectfully

✧ “Holy shit…”

✧ You immediately start giggling because his brain genuinely stopped functioning for a second

✧ He slowly walks around you like he’s inspecting artwork

✧ “No, because why do you look better in my clothes than I do?”

✧ Dramatic offense

✧ Keeps touching the modified pieces because he’s genuinely impressed you made them yourself

✧ “You even kept the stitching pattern? Babe…”

✧ The second you put on his mask?

✧ He’s DONE

✧ Literally grabs his chest like he’s been shot

✧ “Okay no, that’s actually unfair.”

✧ Wants matching outfits immediately

✧ Absolutely becomes unbearable afterward

✧ “That’s my girl wearing my clothes by the way.”

✧ “Tomas we KNOW.”

✧ “Just making sure.”

✧ Lowkey takes fifty pictures of you

✧ Highkey makes one his lockscreen

✧ If you ask to permanently keep the outfit he immediately says yes

✧ “Keep it? Baby, I’m giving you the whole closet.”

Kuai Liang

✧ Kuai walks in and just stops

✧ Doesn’t say a word

✧Doesn’t even give a hint of what he’s feeling or thinking

✧ You start getting nervous because he hasn’t said anything for like two whole minutes

✧ Meanwhile his brain is trying to process why seeing you in a modified version of his attire is affecting him this badly

✧ You took his robes and armor pieces and tailored them softer to fit your body while still keeping the integrity of the design

✧ Somehow it still looks elegant and intimidating at the same time

✧ Yet there’s a taste of sinful seduction that you manage to bring out as well

✧ He notices every detail

✧ The adjusted wraps around your arms

✧ The way you altered the waist piece

✧ The small flame motifs you added into the stitching

✧ Bro is in LOVE

✧ “You made this?”

✧ You get all shy and nod

✧ His expression softens instantly

✧ He walks toward you slowly before gently fixing part of the outfit on your shoulder

✧ “You look beautiful.”

✧ Says it in the softest tone

✧ Just fully staring at you like you hung the stars yourself

✧ Until you spin around jokingly asking if you look “Shirai Ryu enough”

✧ “…You look like you belong beside me.”

✧ And now YOU’RE the one malfunctioning

✧ He secretly loves seeing you in his colors

✧ It scratches something deeply domestic and possessive in his brain

✧ Would absolutely make you custom pieces afterward

✧ Starts mentally designing outfits for you without even realizing it

✧ Tomás later catches him sketching outfit concepts

✧ “AWWWW YOU’RE MAKING HER ARMOR—”

✧ “Leave.”

Bi-Han

✧ Bi-Han walks in already irritated about something, fully prepared to bitch and whine to you

✧ Then he sees you wearing modified versions of his attire

✧ Silence

✧ Complete utter silence

✧ The reason why?

✧ You took his aesthetic and made it look sinful

✧ Dark navy fitted fabrics hugging your body

✧ Fur lining around your shoulders to show a bit of your own taste

✧ His belts and armor pieces reworked around your waist and thighs

✧ He immediately narrows his eyes

✧ “What exactly are you wearing.”

✧ Meanwhile he eyes cannot stop running up and down your figure in a hungry manner

✧ You proudly explaining how you altered the outfit to suit yourself better, wanting to match him

✧ He’s barely paying attention to a word you’re saying

✧ If anything, he’s slowly creeping up closer and closer to you

✧ You look absolutely divine in his clothing

✧ And it’s irritating him how much composure he seems to be losing at that fact

✧ “You stole my clothing.”

✧ “Borrowed.”

✧ “Ruined.”

✧ “Improved.”

✧ That earns you a disapproving glare

✧ Yet you catch how the corner of his mouth twitches faintly

✧ “You like it.”

✧ “...I tolerate it.”

✧ He circles around you slowly, inspecting every modification, that predatory expression still on his face

✧ Then his hand reaches out to grip your waist firmly

✧ “This stays in our chambers.”

✧ “Why?”

✧ “Because the Lin Kuei do not need to see such childishness.”

✧ In other words

✧ He does not want anyone else seeing you in his clothing looking like THAT

✧ It’s safe to say you do not leave your shared room that day