#sonar dispatch x reader

With a start, you turn to see Sonar leaned against the doorway, hands in his pockets as he watches you struggle with what is an attempt at tying a tie. His blank white eyes betray nothing, but the smile on his face implies he's clearly enjoying you making a fool of yourself.

Great. Exactly the one person you didn't want to see today. You hardly feel like tolerating anyone right now, but lately whenever you get close to Sonar you feel…

Well, you're not sure. Uncomfortable isn't the right word, because he's just annoying, not creepy, and you tolerate him fine. But you could say you get really aggravated around him, in that funny way that makes your face heat and pulse race, drives you to distraction and makes you think about him way too much.

You've always been able to fend off thinking about it through slinging banter at each other, but if you put it off for too long or he gets too close you start getting aggravated. That's probably the word, right?. If there's a better word for that, you'd love to hear it, but you're currently focused on getting your tie to cooperate with you to care.

Exasperatedly, you gesture to your collar; the tie moves with you, a poor excuse for a knot and a great one for a noose. 'What does it look like I'm doing?'

'Amateur shibari.' He tsks, a sharp chittering sound cut through with clear amusement. 'If you're looking for bondage tips, I wouldn't start with the neck.'

'Fuck off,' you mutter, feeling your face heat up and disentangling the wretched piece of silk from around you. 'Not everyone puts on a tie for work every day, you know. Some of us show up in normal hero uniforms and don't complain when they get soiled and have to be sent to the dry cleaner's.'

'Well, maybe some of us just have better taste,' the bat man says perfunctorily as he saunters over to you, pointing to his own tie. 'This is my lucky tie. Swear to God, I never fail a call whenever I have this on.'

'And yet I seem to recall you fell face first into a bush with your tie last week when Mrs's Stephenson's cat so much as lightly swatted at you.'

'That one was burgundy,' he says. 'This is crimson. Completely different shades of red.'

'How would you know? Don't you need to echolocate your way to the bathroom?'

'Crimson is a Harvard grad staple, of course I'm going to know the difference.'

'Of course.' You roll your eyes, resigning yourself to letting the ends of the tie fall around your neck again. Back to square one.

'You know, you could just let me handle the meeting,' Sonar says casually, though his posture in the mirror indicates clear excitement. 'Talk to Vanderstenk myself.'

'Oh, I'm sure Vanderstenk would love his number one fanboy asking him to autograph his wallet,' you retort, 'but no way. Robert gave me this call, it's a slam dunk. I just have to look the part so I can fit into their stupid dress code.'

He arches a brow. '…And… you think you're succeeding.'

'…No,' you mutter grudgingly. 'I even looked up tutorials and everything, but they're not working. Why the fuck are ties mandatory at this meeting? Can't I just show up in regular clothes?'

'It'd be a fashion crime and a social faux pas,' Sonar says, obnoxiously stressing the French accent on the phrase. 'No one's going to listen to you without a tie. They're going to judge you.'

'American Psycho-ass shit.' You push the end of the tie upwards in what you're certain is a bad move — why is this so hard for you, and why is it only harder with him watching? 'Well, I'm not going to go in there looking like this, So I either go in there naked —'

'Naked?'

'— with a naked collar,' you rephrase quickly, 'or I'm somehow going to have to snake-charm this around my neck like a — a snake charmer, or. Something.'

'Hmmm,' Sonar says, in the way that you know means he has something to contribute but doesn't want to bring it up first. His ears twitch.

'What,' you say waspishly.

'Well.' He points to his own tie, which is impeccably centered and neatly tucked underneath his gray fur. 'I could teach you.'

You snort. 'Oh, teach me. You're a teacher now?'

'I mean, I know a knot or too. And it seems like you don't.' He pauses, then slowly phrases to himself, 'You do not know about knots. All of this is for naught. Not naught. Wait, yes it is for naught, shit. You get what I mean.'

'Whatever,' you snap, and tighten the knot of the tie. 'I'm fine.'

With a huff, you look at yourself in the mirror. The tie somehow manages to look worse than it had before. Sonar says nothing from behind you, but the silence forces you to consider that he might be your only lifeline in this situation, as much as he's going to hold it over your head later.

''You're not fucking with me, right?' you say. 'You're not going to strangle me with this so you can go instead.'

'I'd never strangle you with a tie, I have more class than that.'

'Then — fine,' you reply, taking your hands off the tie to concede. 'I would appreciate your help. If I'm not taking precious time out of your day.'

'I'm on lunch break,' he says, reaching for the ends of your tie and inspecting it, pulling a face at the visible signs of struggle. 'Eesh. You really tortured the poor thing.'

'It shouldn't be so easy to torture, then.'

With an infuriating wince of pity, he lets go, reaching for the ends of his own tie and pulling it out, laying the ends around his neck before turning to face himself in the mirror. 'Alright, do what I'm doing.'

Awkwardly, you mirror him, laying your tie around your neck with the wider end on the right. Sonar clears his throat, and then begins to speak in a voice you recognize from when he's trying to convince others, like he has the moral high ground; it's smooth and slightly condescending, but spoken at a fast enough pace that you disregard commenting on it in favor of trying to keep up.

'Okay. Move the wide end over the small end, then under it, then over it again, like this.' He loops his tie around in one smooth motion how you've seen him do it a thousand times over and pushes it up; your own hands flail, clumsy in mimicking his movements. 'Then push it up, and down through the little loop you made by crossing it over.'

He swiftly completes the motion, lazily spreading out his hands. 'Ta-da. It's a four in hand knot, babyyyy.'

'Way too fast,' you say, finishing it up yourself and checking the mirror; it's still terrible, the ends wonky and much too long, a horrid duplicate of his own. 'Ta-da.'

Sonar glances over, then does a double take. 'What the hell?' Then he laughs, the bastard, his lips curling up and exposing his fangs all the way to the gums. 'What did you do?'

'Still think you can teach me?'

'Jesus,' he says, almost to himself, and then more decisively: 'Alright. Let me.'

'Let you what —'

Sonar reaches forwards. His hands brush your neck as they slide down to the knot of the tie, and whatever you say dies in your throat as you stiffen at the contact.

Something clicks into place in a distant part of your brain, and you are suddenly cognizant of the very small distance between you two, only inches apart, as his hands work the knot off of you.

Shit.

You're not going to pretend you're not thinking it, okay? Sonar isn't the most bad-looking bat, though of course you'd never say that — you don't want to give him more of an ego, and he'd constantly bring it up. But a startling number of pieces are starting to fall into place, and fast, and only now does it occur to you that there's a different feeling you can attribute to him other than aggravation.

You have the distinct impression that you're not going to have any witticisms to contribute after this.

'Okay,' Sonar says, laying the tie around your neck again, and it's like his voice is suddenly different, authoritative rather than arrogant and low in a way that seems to echo in your skull as silk goes back around your collar. 'I'm not gonna tell you this again, I have a lunch to blend and Crypto Weekly to read. Watch what I'm doing.'

Slowly this time, he reexplains the steps as he begins to tie the tie for you, but they fall on deaf ears because you suddenly find it quite hard to listen, your eyes suddenly finding everywhere to be but on the tie: the sleek, well-combed fur with the one slightly untameable tuft at the top, the white fangs jutting out from under his lips, and most of all the hands, the smooth peach of a human's (how far up does it go, you wonder?) looping and securing and making your own hands uselessly limp at your sides.

'…and finally, you tighten the knot by pulling down on the wide end here, and you slide it up,' he finishes, completing the motion for you. 'Ta-da. Again.'

As you predicted, you find yourself incapable of saying anything back. Sonar steps back, and the faint disappointment makes you come back to yourself in a rush. 'Got that?'

'Yeah,' you manage to say brilliantly, the words seeming distant to your ears. 'I — I got it.'

'No condescension, wow. Want me to tie your shoes, too?'

'Fuck off,' you mumble, a lazy remark and the words lacking heat as you glance at yourself in the mirror. The now-perfect knot is tucked snug and shining against your collar, but the color's different. And significantly less creased. 'Hey.'

'What?'

You look at Sonar, whose own collar is bare, nothing but a crisp white shirt. 'You, uh. You gave me your "lucky" tie?'

'I didn't give it to you — consider it a loan. I can't have you going to the meeting with a creased tie,' he says smoothly, waving it off as he beings to turn away. away. 'Lucky you. Try not to choke.'

'You could have loosened it a little if you didn't want me to choke,' you return, but it comes out wrong, the tone of voice too high, and the both of you can hear all too well how it sounds.

Sonar's head snaps back, nostrils flaring, and his brows lower as he stares at you for what feels like a long, long time, a silence that you find yourself unable to break. Blank as they are, his eyes show no discernible emotion, but you feel as if they pierce through you, searching for something. You feel the sudden urge to screw your eyes shut in response.

And then a slow, self-satisfied smile builds on his face, and he tilts his head, and the silent confirmation of his theory is worse than if he had said anything at all.

'Let me know if you want another demonstration sometime.'

Then he turns on his heel and strides out of the room, leaving you unable to even attempt a response.

Mute, you look into the mirror a final time. Your face is burning, your head is light, and your pulse is thundering in your ears. The tie, crimson and centered, is perfect; but, you realize, you're going to have a hard time getting through the meeting at all without thinking of him, or his hands on the tie. Or on your neck.

Or on you.

Lucky you, indeed.

Supers are, as much as the higher ups at SDN would have you believe, hierarchical in your society's nature. Of course, the blinding light of Blonde Blazer reigns high amongst the rubble of your newly appointed teams powers, abilities, criminal records - and it goes without saying a healing ability such as your own brings its own connotations.

You're well aware of the media and civilians portrayal of you; The hero healer and matyr of the SDN. Matyr, in your decision to join the Z Team as a civilian turned support hero to the reformed villians - because of course a sweet healer like you would debut to heroism by healing on the ground during the Red Ring incident.

Of course a sweet healer like you would give up a chance of a cushy seat at a high ranking hero team to support the downtrodden and needy (you didn't really get to choose, given your lack of combat skills).

You're well aware of how you're perceived. And, truth be told, it does work in your favour more often than not. It can, however, be the very bane of your existence.

Bane of your existence, when, for example, you need to get along with said team. And their first impression of you was either a sweet, innocent doe that they could prod and tease as they please - or a snobby healer supporting the team out of some self imposed charity work. Especially since, coming in post Red Ring incident in Torrance, the team was already well established with each other - something of a family.

Entering now feels almost akin to blasphemy, given how close everyone is. Being introduced to the team during the briefing almost felt like you were being scrutinised by every set of eyes in the room like a frog in a dissection - outsider, their eyes spoke.

Whatever warm welcome Robert and Blonde Blazer begun with surely didn't last very long.

Beyond that, you've learnt your new team is rowdy. Loud, abrasive, and downright perverted in some cases. And a sweet voice and innocent face like yours just doesn't seem to fit.

You seem to get along with Waterboy just fine. And it seems natural that it would be so; your patience and warmth, sweet words as you let him take his time getting his point across - it's very clearly appreciated, and you surely don't mind his company. He's sweet. A good friend. You can see why everyone's so protective of him, in their own way.

The others - well, they'll grow to like you, Robert reminds you when you worry how the team is too damn stubborn to let you even heal them.

You come to believe in Robert's words, with every day that has you wanting to rip your own hair out from its follicules a little less. That time will work through their distrust. With every life saving heal, every well meaning thoughtful action, you'll melt their hearts as you do with many.

Waterboy and Robert aside, you've had your eye on one particular member of the team. And it's certainly not the one even you expected to connect with. But as you lay in your bed, it's that damned bat hybrid that's on your mind.

It started as a giggle at the Bat headed hero's dry, sarcastic humor. An amused scoff as you wave off a passing comment at the nickname you'd made for yourself among media and civilians alike to your healing prowress. By now, it seems that the self proclaimed freak has you daydreaming. About him. Whether that spells trouble or not, you can only make an educated guess to the former.

He was so egotistical. Every other sentence is a quip about his Harvard accomplishments. His embezzlement schemes. His crypto hussle. It's almost comical, hearing him boast - is he talking to you, or to the mirror besides him? Maybe, he's hoping that mirror will reflect onto you. That you'll see the glean he's so desperately shining onto the reflective plane.

You don't want to entertain your bleeding heart just yet on that one. You just go along with the snide thought that he's a bit up himself.

But, it doesn't help the feeling of...interest. Call yourself crazy, but you've always had some sort of...twisted interest in those who talk the loudest on themselves. An interest, perhaps not even so twisted as you think. Maybe even something of attraction.

You are quite the opposites, so to speak; wotb you, being so down to earth, ironically as your healer powers would suggest. As down to earth as a maternal type, you'd wager. How ever so fitting for powers like yours. Letting others shine, all while keeping to the shadows. But...maybe, that's why it's so attractive to you. So beyond you, that it's...tantalising.

He was so egotistical. It was almost...riverting. He's got you by lock and chain, he has, every damn time he opened that big ass muzzle of his that barely seemed to know when to shut up.

And by God, you couldn't hold your thoughts in any longer. Couldn't stand the way the team would deem you as nothing but an innocent, pure soul, couldn't deal with how this infuriating man could flirt you into a fluster with trying to keep to a subtlety that matches the workplace norms.

You were at your wits end. And why not show a bit of your true self? The self outside of the uniform. If your team gets shocked, well; it's on them. They should know people aren't just 2D cut out archetypes; that's just called critical thinking. It's not like you've tried to hide who you are. You just know how to be subtle about your freakish tendencies.

Your perfect image cracks in the break room, in a day not unique to any other.

You're next to Malevola on the break table when you decide to let all hell loose (pun intended). Sonar is bragging his ass off to the poor intern about his Harvard escapades by the sink, pausing to gulp down a rat whole. You plan your moment. Oh, but it's simply perfect. And you're riding the high of another successful patrol, so you can't help yourself.

You deviate from your usual well thought out, careful spoken moments. You start by leaning into Malevola's side, covering a hand over your mouth, you begin whispering into her ear. "Hey,".

And already, she's so curious. 'The little mouse is talking? What ever will she say?' You can hear the gears in her head spinning already.

Oh, Malevola. You think. She's set the trap so perfect for you.

You prose it as a tid bit before you excuse yourself. You pull out your chair for a swift escape. You want this man reeling. You want to leave him thinking about this for hours, days, however long before you'recrossing paths with him again. You want to offer him that innocent smile like you didn't just debase yourself in front of him just for the hell of it.

The trap is set. And you can't help yourself from the Cheshire grin on your dial as you deliver it.

"The more Sonar talks, the more I wanna peg him and that slutty little waist of his," you whisper to Malevola.

Her eyes widen.

She sputters on her coffee.

A loud screech is heard from the other side of the break room.

The sink, to be specific. Sonar.

He had to have heard that. And apparently, you'd planned that perfectly.

Because as you offer a sweet, disconcerting smile to Malevola, you turn to stare Sonar down as you stand from your chair, push it back in.

You smile that Chesire grin of yours.

Then, you purse your lips. Mwah~. Blow him a kiss, all with a grin and an all too pleased glint in your eye because you know he heard that. And you wanted him too.

There's a glint in your smile. A devious, mischievous sort of glint as you turn to leave him with that.

Until you, he supposes.

You’re on your first mission together, fighting off a couple Red Ring villains, and Sonar has just recovered from transforming into his Mega Bat form, getting his clothes back on as you securely tie the villains up.

He mutters as he brushes himself off, letting out a rapid-fire, annoyed series of chitters and clicks — he knew he shouldn’t have worn his good suit today, they’re so fuckin’ expensive to dry clean — and then, from across the room, he hears you make a noise.

His noise. A little screech as you secure a knot around the villain's waist.

It's not identical to his, slightly lower-pitched on account of you having fully human physiology, but it's similar enough that he can immediately pick up that you’re imitating him. He turns his head to look and your expression is one of nonchalance, not mocking in the slightest.

‘Fuck’re you doing?’ he asks incredulously.

‘Nothing,’ you say.

Then a secret third Red Ringer comes at you and you punch them in the face, and the conversation kind of ends there on account of the fact that you’ve got to go back to base. He tables it for future discussion.

Over the next week or so, Sonar starts noticing that you do this kind of thing a lot, actually. You tend to repeat certain words or sounds over and over, humming or tapping and, more often than not, screeching to yourself around the break room as you wait to be sent out again.

It's curious that you tend to only copy his sounds more frequently whenever you’re around him.

He's not annoyed, but he turns it over in his mind. Why do it, and why copy him in particular?

Eventually, the fourth or fifth time you’re dispatched together is on a calmer mission, and he finally has the chance to ask you without distractions.

You shrug. ‘Sometimes I repeat stuff. Things that I watch or hear. Like the new Her-Os jingle that was on TV last week, you know?’

‘Why?’

‘It just helps me out,' you reply, absentmindedly scratching at your hands. ‘Repeating things buys me more time to process them, or manage when stuff gets really overwhelming. It’s like a form of expression. Is a form of expression.

‘Okay, I can get that,’ he says. ‘Why me, though?’

‘I guess I just like how you sound,’ you say, simply.

Oh.

…He’s not going to get all sappy on you, but he's pretty touched by that, actually.

After that, he finds himself actively listening for the sound of your voice mimicking his when you’re around, and lets himself be more free with his vocalizations even when he's perfectly capable of talking "human". Each time he eats a particularly juicy bug when you're around, he lets himself go so that he can hear your little chirp after his, another half of an imaginary conversation.

Sometimes he even throws in extra sounds in there for good measure or tries to vary them a little, just so he can hear more of how you try to imitate him.

If he focuses, he can even sometimes hear you screeching softly to yourself from somewhere in the building, even when he's not around, the sound echoing through his eardrums long after you've stopped.

He likes to think of it as you thinking of him, even if subconsciously.

And doesn’t that just warm his half man, half bat heart?

"don’t," you warn weakly, already knowing he won’t listen. he did hear you but he just won't listen or obey sometimes.

his fingers are shaking as he cups your face, trying so hard to ignore the sweet scent of your blood dripping from your thighs down to your leg before dripping to the floor.

what a waste sonar thought as he stare at the small red puddle on the floor with great offense. the looks in his eyes are hungry, the remaining adrenaline rush from the mission still lingering, and pumping in his blood stream making him look almost manic.

"vic... you scared me- AHH!!"

before you can protest again, he leans down and presses his mouth to the injury, head dipping to lick the open wound on your thigh making you yelp.

sonar let out a low hum, a pleased sound, reverent and filthy all at once. he laps at the blood like it’s water from an oasis, something meant only for him, tongue lingering far longer than necessary.

you groaned painfully at the texture of his rough tongue lapping over your open wound, hands trying to push him away but his grip on your opposite ankle while the other held your hip firmly mixed with sonar sucking on your blood rendering you weak.

after felt like hours passed, he finally pulls back, there’s a red smear at the corner of his mouth and the fur around it and a dopey grin he doesn’t bother hiding.

"you’re hurt," he says softly like he didn't just almost drain your blood dry, there's a hint of guilt in his voice, so small you almost missed it.

you shove at his chest hard. "that's not helping! you freak!" you tried to stand up, wincing as your knees shake, before you can stand straight sonar already pulled you down again.

he laughs breathlessly at your protest, then he’s kissing you before you can recover or even let out a single word.

the kiss is not gentle, it’s all teeth and tongue, messy and overwhelming, like he’s trying to crawl inside your mouth and stay there.

your lips ache, your breath stutters, you can taste the remnants of tangy taste of your own blood on his tongue. the taste made your head spin, and just when you think you might push him away, he already pulls back. there's a pause, just long enough to bite your cheek.

you cry out, pain sharp and immediate as his longer set of fangs dig into your skin, puncturing it until a drop of blood drips into his awaiting tongue, tears springing before you can stop them.

sonar freezes as the first drip of your tears run down your cheek making his breath shudder.

"oh," he whispers, awed.

what a bad move you make as your tears seem to make it worse. but again, everything you do will make it worse when sonar is already far gone like this. he presses his forehead to yours, hands cupping your face as if you’re fragile, as if he isn’t the one hurting you.

"i’m sorry," he murmurs with lack of guilt, and then he licks the mark his teeth left behind, slow and deliberate as an apology, it doesn't help.

when he notices you crying, his thumbs swipe under your eyes, collecting the tears like they’re something sacred as he brings his thumb to his mouth. he tastes the salt on his skin and exhales sharply, like it’s gone straight to his head.

"you’re beautiful like this," he says, voice wrecked. "did you know that?" you can't find the energy in you to answer him. but sonar presses another kiss to your cheek anyways, it's softer this time, almost careful, and wraps his arms around you like a shield, as if he didn't just almost drain your blood to death.

safe to say you will NEVER go into any missions with your boyfriend anymore.