#sonar x reader

"Haha," you said, voice muffled through your hands.

There was no sugarcoating it: you looked like shit. Your hair had given up on structure hours ago, sticking out in defiance of gravity and dignity alike. The mask covering the bottom half of your face was upside down—something you hadn’t even noticed until you’d already been in the building for fifteen minutes. The dark circles under your eyes were practically a personality trait now, and your clothes, though clean, screamed, I got dressed in the dark.

At least you’d managed deodorant. Gold star for that.

The reason behind your tragic state? You’d been stood up.

An entire evening wasted—makeup done, hair styled, nerves in overdrive as you sat in a too-fancy restaurant, fiddling with your glass of water and pretending to check the menu like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. You told yourself he was just running late. Maybe traffic. Maybe bad signal. Maybe anything other than what it really was.

He wasn’t coming.

You’d spent an hour and a half trying to convince yourself otherwise. Staring at your phone, typing messages and deleting them before they even sent. The waitress had come by three times, and you’d lied every time—Oh, I’m just waiting for someone. You even laughed when she gave you that pitying smile. That soft, Oh honey kind of look.

And then, when you finally accepted it, when you finally let the truth sink in, you walked out. Head down, pretending that your eyes weren’t burning. Pretending you didn’t feel like a total idiot.

Because crying over a guy you’ve never met? That’s pathetic, right? At least that’s what you told yourself the entire drive home. Except it wasn’t really about him. It was about what he represented—something hopeful, something warm, something you thought might be real. A step in the right direction from being an ex-villain. From clawing your way out of the wreckage you’d made of your own life and trying, for once, to just be normal.

And now you were here. In the breakroom. At eight in the morning, running on four hours of sleep and too much embarrassment.

Robert set his mug down and crossed his arms, tilting his head. His brow furrowed slightly, the kind of look that said he knew better than to poke the bear but might do it anyway.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” you snapped before he could even open his mouth. “And I’m this close to blowing up the lights. So respectfully—fuck off, okay?”

The words hung there, sharp and electric. For a split second, the overhead bulbs actually flickered, as if testing you.

Robert blinked, then raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. Message received, Sparky.”

You slumped back in your chair, exhaling through your teeth. The static under your skin buzzed like an itch you couldn’t scratch. It always did when your emotions got tangled up like this—an unholy mix of humiliation, anger, and caffeine withdrawal.

After a few moments, you decided to do something productive—like not melt the breakroom appliances. You stood, tugged your crooked mask into place, and muttered, “Bathroom. Gonna make myself look less like a dumpster fire.”

Robert just hummed in response, the kind of low, noncommittal sound that meant he’d seen worse but wasn’t about to say it out loud. You brushed past him, the faint scent of his coffee lingering in your wake.

The hallway outside was too bright, too quiet. Every fluorescent hum felt like a personal insult. You could hear your own footsteps echo against the linoleum, sharp and rhythmic. The air had that sterile chill unique to government buildings and early mornings—too clean, too empty, too still.

You were halfway to the restroom when you collided with someone—shoulder first, solid enough to make you stumble. The impact jolted a small spark through your arm, not enough to burn, but enough to sting.

“Watch it,” you snapped automatically.

Then you looked up—and of course it was him.

Sonar.

Because the universe just couldn’t resist a punchline.

He snarled at the contact—sharp and infuriating. You scowled, shoving your hands against his chest to push him out of your way. “Move it, freak.”

The lights above you snapped—a hard flicker that made the shadows jump across the walls.

You just brushed past him, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. You could feel the static crackling faintly around your fingertips.

Behind you, the coffee machine in the breakroom sputtered violently, hissing like it was about to boil over.

“Who pissed in her cereal?” he muttered, stepping into the breakroom.

After you fixed yourself from being a hot mess, you walked to the entrance of the building and sank onto the cold metal bench beneath the overhang, the shade wrapping around you like a sigh. The air outside was thick with humidity, that faint electric tang that always lingered after a storm—or after you. You tipped your head back against the wall, feeling the faint hum of the circuitry within it respond to your pulse. Everything buzzed a little louder when you were upset.

You couldn’t afford to break anything else in the office. Not after last week’s incident with the copier.

“This is what I get for being a hopeless romantic,” you muttered, the words dragging out on a breath that trembled somewhere between exhaustion and irony. Above you, the morning light splintered off the glass tower across the street, stabbing through the air in shards of gold and white. Too bright. Too clean. Too much like the day everything went wrong.

You could still smell it sometimes—the scorched metal, the ozone, the scream of voltage crawling through your veins like a living thing. That moment, trapped between death and rebirth, when the world went white and your body became a conduit. People called it an accident. You called it the reason you never looked down from high places anymore.

A small spark jumped from your fingertip to your thigh, harmless but persistent. You drew lazy circles against your jeans, watching the faint blue static dance beneath your skin. Across the street, the power lines hummed back—a low, thrumming reply that made the corners of your mouth twitch. The city was loud in a way most people couldn’t hear, but you could. It was always talking to you, whispering in wires and current.

“Maybe I should stick to books,” you said softly, half a laugh, half a confession. Books didn’t flicker when you touched them. Didn’t hum when you got emotional. They were quiet, safe—paper and ink instead of chaos and charge.

Then again, your smut collection did have great source material for stress relief.

"Did you have to break the coffee machine?" Coupé’s voice sliced through your thoughts as she twirled one of her knives between her fingers, the blade catching the light with a faint metallic hiss.

Punch Up followed close behind, posture perfectly upright as always, broad shoulders and beefy arms flexing like they usually do.

"That was an accident," you mumbled, crossing your arms. "Blame Sonar."

"Ah don’t get it," Punch Up grumbled, running a hand through his mustache. "Two o' the smartest people on the team an’ they fuckin’ hate each other."

"You know why I despise him."

Coupé rolled her eyes. "Here we go."

"He put dead mice in my lunch," you pressed, voice rising slightly. "Multiple times!"

Coupé twirled her knife with a little more flair, glancing between you and Punch Up. "Anyway," she said, cutting through the tension, "what happened with that date last night? You looked like someone shoved a lightning bolt up your ass this morning."

You groaned, leaning back against the bench, eyes squinting at the sky like it might offer some answers. "Guy was a no-show."

"Big shock there," Punch Up snickered, shoulders shaking slightly with amusement.

You shot him a soft glare. "Thanks for the sympathy, Punch Up. Really. Top-notch," sarcasm dripping in your tone, deadpanned.

Coupé smirked, flicking her knife lazily. "Ooooh, a no-show, huh? That’s rough. Bet you looked adorable sitting there, all dressed up and ready to swoon."

"Shut uuup," you exhaled, shoving your face into your hands.

Punch Up leaned against the railing, arms crossed, a grin stretching across his face. "Ah, come on. You’ve survived worse. Besides," he added, voice low but teasing, "the guy clearly didn’t deserve you. Not worth your sparks."

You peeked through your fingers, squinting at him. "Sparks? That’s the best you’ve got?"

Coupé laughed, spinning her knife one last time before tucking it away.

Punch Up tilted his head, eyebrows raised, grin widening. "So… why don’t ye just hook up with someone who actually shows up, eh?"

"No," you said firmly, voice steady. "Absolutely not. I am not doing that."

"Ah, fair enough," He shrugged. "Didn’t think ye’d go for the easy fix."

"Easy fixes are boring," you muttered, a small smirk tugging at your lips.

"I don’t know about thaaat," Coupé said, sending a knowing glance to Punch Up. "Knuckles."

"Knives," Punch Up, his voice dropping an octave, and an uncomfortable rumble surged in your stomach.

"Please spare me the details about your guy’s first encounter slash sex story to Swan Lake," you said, standing abruptly. "I might puke."

Victor's life was, well, going to shit lately. He had an addiction, almost got fired, and everybody at SDN kinda hated him, other than Malevola. He was unwell, to say the least. He was missing a partner... or something like that.

So, he did the easiest thing he knew, he called an escort company. That's when you came into the picture. He was assigned a date, with Y/N, at 9 p.m. So he got ready, suit and tie, cologne and everything and got going. He rented a room for the night, because his apartment, let's just say, wasn't in good shape.

At 9:00 p.m., three soft knocks echoed through the hotel suite.

He looked up from the glass of whiskey sitting untouched on the coffee table. His gaze lingered on the digital clock for a second before he exhaled through his nose.

Right on time.

He stood, smoothing the wrinkles from his charcoal suit jacket. He'd spent nearly an hour getting ready, not because he cared about making a good impression, but because it gave him something to do besides think.

Thinking had gotten him here in the first place.

He crossed the room, resting his hand on the doorknob for a brief moment before finally opening it.

Standing in the hallway was Y/N.

You looked nothing as he'd imagined.

Instead of someone trying too hard to be glamorous, you looked effortlessly elegant. A simple black dress, silver jewelry that caught the warm hallway lights, and heels that clicked softly against the polished floor as you shifted your weight.

You smiled.

It wasn't overly flirtatious or forced. It was... kind.

"Good evening," you greeted, your voice calm and smooth. "I'm Y/N."

He blinked for a second before remembering to answer. "Yeah." A beat passed. Then he cleared his throat. "I mean... yeah. Come in."

You stepped inside, your perfume subtle enough that it wasn't overwhelming—just enough to leave a trace as you walked past him.

The suite suddenly felt much smaller.

He quietly shut the door. Neither of you spoke.

It wasn't an uncomfortable silence exactly... Just unfamiliar.

You glanced around the room before setting your purse neatly beside one of the armchairs.

"Nice place." You said, still looking around.

He shrugged. "It's temporary."

"You travel a lot?" You asked, genuinely interested.

"For work." He sighed.

"What do you do?" You asked again.

He hesitated. "I'd rather not say."

You nodded without missing a beat. "Fair enough."

There wasn't even a hint of disappointment in your voice. No pressure. No judgment. Just acceptance.

It caught him off guard.

Most people kept asking questions when he refused to answer. You simply... moved on.

"I don't bite, you know, unless you want me to..." you said with a playful smile.

He looked at you, confused.

"You've been standing by the door for almost a full minute." You said, lifting an eyebrow.

He glanced down, realizing you were right. "I guess I have."

"You can relax." You gave him a reassuring smile.

A quiet laugh escaped him. "Easier said than done."

"I've heard that before." You chuckled.

He loosened his tie slightly, finally walking farther into the room.

"You always this nervous?"

"No."

"So I'm special?"

That earned another laugh.

"No."

"Liar."

"I just..." His sentence trailed off.

You tilted your head. "Just what?"

He stared out the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city.

The skyline glittered beneath the night sky, headlights flowing through the streets like rivers of light. "I almost canceled."

You didn't interrupt. Didn't rush him. Didn't fill the silence.

"I've never..." He searched for the words. "Done anything like this."

"I figured." You shrugged.

"What gave it away?"

"The expensive suit."

He frowned. "My suit?"

"You look like you're about to give a presentation to shareholders."

He looked down at himself. Suit. Polished shoes. Watch. Perfectly knotted tie.

"Your tie is tied the best I've ever seen, I'll give you that.

"I thought I was supposed to dress nicely."

"You are." You smiled. "But you look like you're attending a funeral."

That one actually made him laugh. A real laugh. The first one he'd had in weeks.

"There it is," you said quietly.

"What?"

"You."

He looked confused.

"You smiled."

He hadn't even realized he had. The room felt lighter somehow. Less transactional. More... Human, well more like hybrid.

You wandered toward the minibar.

"Can I make us a drink?"

"I've already got one."

You glanced at the untouched whiskey on the table. "...That you've barely touched."

He looked away. "You notice everything?"

"It's part of my job." There wasn't any pride in the statement. Just honesty. You poured yourself sparkling water instead.

"No alcohol?"

"I like remembering my conversations."

He watched as you settled onto the couch, crossing one leg over the other.

"So..." You rested your chin lightly against your hand. Tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"What made tonight feel like the answer?"

He opened his mouth. Then closed it again. The question lingered in the air. It wasn't accusing. It wasn't invasive. It was simply curious. He walked over to the window again.

"I've been alone for a long time." He answered, shoulders slumped.

You waited.

"I convinced myself I liked it that way."

"And now?"

He let out a quiet breath. "Now I'm not so sure."

You studied him for a moment before offering a small, understanding smile. "You know," you said softly, "people think my job is about pretending."

He turned toward you.

"But most nights?" You shrugged. "It's just listening."

The city lights shimmered beyond the glass. Neither of you spoke for a while. Strangely, the silence no longer felt awkward.

For the first time that evening, he stopped thinking about the money, the arrangement, and the expectations that came with the night.

Instead, he found himself wondering who Y/N really was once the evening ended, who she became when she wasn't playing a role for someone else.

He let out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "You've got a way of reading people."

You smiled, tilting your head. "Occupational hazard."

"I was hoping you'd tell me I was mysterious."

"Oh, you're mysterious." You took another sip of her drink. "Just not in the cool, brooding way you think."

He raised an eyebrow. So how, then?"

"You overthink."

"I do not."

"You absolutely do."

"I don't."

"You've mentally replayed this evening at least twenty times since you opened the door."

He stared at you for a second before shaking his head with a reluctant smile "...Maybe."

"I'd bet money on it."

"You'd win."

You laughed, a genuine, warm laugh that filled the room without demanding attention. "I knew it."

He found himself smiling again.

It was strange. The night had started with a knot in his stomach, convinced he'd made a mistake. Now, the tension had dissolved into something lighter.

"You know," he said, "you're not what I expected."

"Oh?"

"I thought you'd be..." He searched for the right word. "...more scripted."

"Like I'd have a list of compliments ready?"

He nodded.

"'You're so handsome,'" you recited dramatically, placing the back of your hand against your forehead. "'I've never met anyone quite like you.'"

He laughed. "Exactly."

You grinned.

"I retired those lines years ago."

"So what do you use now?"

"The truth."

He looked at you curiously. "And what's the truth?"

You studied him for a moment, almost as though deciding how honest you wanted to be. "The truth is..." You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbows on her knees. "...you've been trying to act composed ever since I got here."

He opened his mouth to protest.

"But every time I smile," you continued, "you look away for half a second."

His face betrayed him before he could stop it.

You noticed. "There it is again."

"I wasn't—"

"You were."

A faint flush crept across his face. "I don't usually get called out like this."

"I'm sure you don't."

"You enjoy this, don't you?"

"A little."

He narrowed his eyes playfully.

"You're teasing me."

"I'm observing."

"Those aren't the same thing?"

"Not always."

He stepped a little closer, folding his arms. "And what else have you observed?"

Your gaze traveled up to meet his. "You're taller than I expected."

"You expected something?"

"I get a name and a few details before I meet someone. That's about it."

"So you had expectations."

"I was curious."

"Were you disappointed?"

A slow smile spread across your face. "No."

The single word lingered between them.

He couldn't tell whether it was your confidence or how effortlessly you held eye contact, but he suddenly became very aware of the small distance separating them.

"You know," you said, "you're smiling a lot more now."

"I guess I am."

"I like it."

He chuckled. "You say you don't use rehearsed compliments."

"I don't."

"So that wasn't one?"

"No." You held his gaze without wavering. "It suits you."

For a brief moment, neither of you spoke.

The city lights reflected in the windows behind you, wrapping the room in a soft golden glow.

He cleared his throat. "I should probably compliment you back."

"You don't have to."

"I want to."

Your eyebrows lifted with amused curiosity. "Go ahead."

He looked at her for a second longer than he intended.

"I think..." he began, "...the first thing I noticed wasn't your dress."

"No?"

"It was how comfortable you seemed."

You blinked. "Comfortable?"

"You walked into a stranger's hotel room like you already knew how to make it feel less empty."

The teasing smile on your face softened. "...That's a better compliment than you probably realize."

"I meant it."

"I know." You looked at him for another beat before smiling again, a little shorter this time.

"Careful," you said lightly.

"Why?"

"If you keep looking at me like that..."

"Like what?"

"...I might start forgetting this is supposed to be just another appointment."

His smile widened. "And would that be such a bad thing?"

Instead of answering immediately, you met his eyes with a playful grin.

"I suppose," you said, "that depends on what happens next."

"And that depends on what you let me do..." He smirked, looking over you slowly.

"I'd let you do whatever you want, under the condition that you do it nicely." You matched his smirk.

"God... alright, you don't know what you're asking for." He said, stepping even closer and mustering his courage to grab your waist and pull you into him.

"Trust me, I do." You looked up at him.

Then, he leaned in. Slowly, like he had all the time in the world, he kissed you.

It just escalated from there. He backed you into the bed, gently laying you down. You reached up to loosen his tie.

When he had that off, the blazer came off, then the shirt. He remained only in his dress pants. He slowly started taking your dress off, caressing your skin while he was at it. Kissing up your neck, then jaw, all the way to your lips, capturing them in a way hungrier kiss than the one before...