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HARVARD GRADUATES CARRIED A DIFFERENT AIR. It was something you had heard from your dad way back when about some coworker he used to have that was an alumni. He said there was this certain difference in the way they spoke and carried themselves, some underlying smartassness about them that gave away just how much more clever they were than you. Which, to give them credit, was usually true. Getting into an Ivy League college (Harvard of all colleges) was one feat, and getting out of it with a diploma no less was far more impressive. In a way, they earned the right to be a bit obnoxious about it. Harvard grads were smart, witty, clever.
Then there was Sonar.
Now, you admit, your plan seemed a bit… desperate. Pathetic, really. It’s definitely how you would’ve described it if you saw someone else play it out in front of you. It’s definitely how you would describe yourself right now.
“Nooo! I missed it again…”
Sonar chuckles at your disappointed tone, falling into your trap hook, line and sinker. “Thought you’d be better than this, sweetheart.”
There’s the distinct, sharp crack of resin against resin as he easily shoots the cue ball against another, knocking it straight into the far left pocket. He huffs in amusement from his shot, the air of smugness thick around him as he lines his cue stick with chalk.
“I am!” You make a show of pouting, your voice whiny and bratty. The way his ear twitches at the sound doesn’t go unnoticed. “That one was a fluke… I promise!”
He chuckles again, eyeing the table, counting how many balls he has left. You want to engrave the sound into your skull. “Sure, sweetheart. And I’m sure the last five shots were flukes too.”
You weren’t good at pool. That wasn’t to say you were necessarily bad at it. You were alright, could play better than most if you really wanted to, even picked up a few tricks from those nights in college you were assigned designated driver and resolved yourself to playing alongside the cigarette scented men at the pool table. But the way you played tonight was outright embarrassing. And honestly? It was kind of obvious; the way you’d always make sure to hit the cue ball a bit too hard that it rolls into a pocket, the way you’d intentionally aim a bit lower to bounce it off the table, the way you’d somehow miss your shot and have the cue ball knock one of his balls instead? It’s too calculated. Anyone who has ever played pool would’ve seen right away that you obviously knew how to play properly.
Unless you were Sonar.
Because the moment the idea of a bet left your lips, he was locked in; the casualness he had previously carried in the game he had played before you walked your slightly tipsy self over to him was thrown out the window. Maybe the alcohol in his system contributed to it, the buzz frying his poor half-bat brain into mush the moment you turned to him with a confident smile and a mischievous glint in your eye. Then again, if he were sober, he’d be acting the same way.
If you try to recall how you got in this position, you’d cringe at yourself for being so lame (you’d definitely wince at the memory of it tomorrow, no matter how good your memory of what might come after is). But every time you remember the weight of his chest against your back as he leaned against you, the warmth of his hand over yours as he guided it to line up the shot better, you remember exactly why you’ve put yourself up to this.
“Three more for me plus the eight ball,” Sonar says with a wince as he bends over to take another shot. His tone is light, teasing and just a little bit smug— exactly where you want him. “Things are not looking too good for you, sweetheart.”
“It’s not fair…” You mutter as you crank your neck to peer behind him, watching the way the tight fabric of his slacks hugs his ass. “God, if I had known you’d be so good, I’d never have suggested this…”
He chuckles again, you could almost see his smirk. “Too late to back out now.” He knocks the cue ball to two balls against the cushion, sending both rolling down the pockets at the opposite ends of the table. “You gotta be a man of your word.”
“Bullshit,” you say in faux annoyance, crossing your arms.
Honestly, you're kind of impressed with your little display. More than that, you’re surprised you haven’t been caught. You must be somewhat good at acting to lead Sonar on like this, goad him into right where you want him before you eat him up. Plus you were certain that after the third miss, Sonar would’ve called you out on messing up intentionally. But then again…
“Hm… If you beat me at pool, I’ll have sex with you.”
Even if he knew (which, given that it’s Sonar, was a bit hard to tell if he did), you doubt he would’ve brought it up. Not when it was this easy for him, like luring a dog into its crate with a line of treats, only he doesn’t mind the crate because crate in this specific scenario is having you under him.
You try not to giggle as he shoots his last ball into the farthest pocket— which, by the way, you’ve noticed he’s been deliberately choosing the most difficult shots to take for each turn and definitely using more tricks than necessary to do so. Fucking showoff —leaving only the eight ball left, which unfortunately was pressed behind two of your balls and against the cushion. He resigns the round by simply breaking the cluster, picking up the cue ball and placing it into your palm, dropping it so that its weight catches you off guard.
Sonar leans down into your ear. “Better hold your end of the bargain, baby.”
You huff, but the shakiness of it makes it obvious you’ve become a bit flustered from that, the huskiness of his voice sending shivers straight down your spine. “Not if I beat you, dumbass.”
He turns back to the table and you want to kiss that smug grin off his stupid face. “Yeah, good luck with that.”
Sonar crosses his arms as he watches you decide where to place the cue ball, you feel his stare at you, feel the weight of his growing ego push against your back. It’s kind of hot, if you’re being honest.
Now, with what happened next, you swear this time was unintentional. Maybe pressure got to you, being so aware of the way Sonar seemed to study your movements throwing you off. Maybe your hand genuinely slipped against the cue stick, the chalk on your palm having gradually dissipated with how much your hands seemed to have sweat. Or maybe, subconsciously, you wanted to cut to the chase.
Because as you push against the cue stick, the cue ball knocks into the ten ball, rolls it hard enough it slams against another, then that one slides smoothly on the felt, gently knocking into the eight ball and toppling it into the pocket it was next to.
Your jaw drops at the sheer ridiculousness of the loss, some Looney Tunes bullshit of a play, it's got Sonar standing straight now, arms dropped to his sides, his expression mirroring yours. You feel the vibrations in your throat build up a complain, the first genuine one of the night, about how that was definitely and genuinely a fluke and how you deserve another shot at least because— Jesus —how the hell do you even fuck up that bad?
But the words die before they’re even formed as you feel Sonar’s chest press against your back once more, the fur of his cheek grazing yours as he leans over your shoulder, grinning in amusement at the aftermath of the game.
“So,” he starts, drawing out the syllable in a way that’s dripping with smugness. “Your place or mine?”
You should be happy. In the end, you got what you wanted, right?
There’s a certain harshness with the way you pull him by his loose tie into a sloppy kiss, catching him midway to shrugging off his jacket. Your lips press against his, his snout awkwardly smushed against your nose, tongue prodding against his, in a kiss that’s hungry and rough and pissed.
“Sore loser, huh?” He teases as he gently pushes you off him, a lopsided grin on his face. It only pisses you off more.
You click your tongue, turning away, embarrassed and annoyed. You try to think of some clever response, maybe if you lost the way you wanted to, you might’ve even said something flirty. “Fuck off.” Is all you can muster.
He laughs at you, cupping your cheek with a gentleness that completely juxtaposes your roughness. His thumb caresses the plumpness of it for a second. Another time you might’ve found the gesture sweet, but when you meet his eyes, you feel like mush. The glare you didn’t realize you were holding falters and your stomach does flips. He’s looking at you like he’s gonna eat you, like he’s gonna ruin you; pondering which parts of you he should toy with first. It’s laced with this annoying smugness thanks to how much you’ve stroked his ego tonight and how genuinely upset you are still about the game.
The look almost melts away your frustration.
Sonar pulls you in for another kiss, one more calculated this time. His tongue presses against your mouth, pushes against yours and runs along the edges of your teeth in a way that makes you whimper against him. It’s sloppy and slow, something you didn’t really expect from the man who just won a bet to have sex.
When he pulls away, there’s spit all over your faces, smeared across the corners of your lips and sticking to the edges of his fur.
“Think of it this way,” he starts, “getting me to fuck you is kind of a consolation. I see this as a win-win for both of us, really.”
Oh, you were gonna kill him. How the hell did you find him hot earlier?
You open your mouth to retort. And Sonar is smart enough to know you wouldn’t stop cussing him out once you start, so he pulls you into another kiss. It’s chaste. Really it’s a series of kisses as he slowly strips you of your clothes, taking off each layer in between gasps of air and tossing them around haphazardly in his apartment. He peppers your face with wet, sloppy kisses, kissing along your jaw and dragging his fangs across your skin, nipping at your neck before pressing another kiss against your lips. Sonar’s good at distracting people, something you’ve learned from that time you watched him blabber bullshit to Robert before slipping away for another break scott free. He tests his skills on you first hand because the next thing you know you’re tossed onto his bed, the heavy scent of him instantly surrounding you and flooding your senses. His mattress and pillows are softer than you thought they’d be, the sheets are cool against your skin. Sonar sits above you, well-manicured scar stained hands caresses your hips, grazing against the garter of your underwear.
He’s stripped you almost naked somehow, leaving you in just your underwear. Milky white eyes are focused on your bare body, and even with his lack of pupils, you can see the way they trace your figure. You see his tongue peek out to moisten his lips and on instinct, your thigh twitches in anticipation. His head snaps to the movement, some sort of predatory instinct that makes your stomach churn with want.
His fingers slide down your hip to your thigh, almost as if trying to coax the reaction out of you again. There’s something about it that’s soft in a way you didn’t think you’d be getting tonight, let alone from Sonar. You figured after all that praise from earlier and— well… It's Sonar. You expected teeth and spit and the sound of fabric tearing. But so far, he’s been everything gentle, tender; from the way he’s looking down at you with an insane amount of fondness to the way he had held your hand on the Uber ride over here.
Sonar’s ear twitches as he hooks his fingers on the garter of your underwear. He seems shy, maybe a bit nervous. It’s cute and it ignites this fire in your chest that you can’t properly express in any way other than you want to bite as hard as you can into his arm and pinch his furry cheeks.
“What? Getting cold feet?” You spare him the awkwardness of the silence by teasing him, lifting a bit of the weight from his shoulders. “Don’t wanna claim your prize, big guy?”
His head turns to you like he’s only just realized this wasn’t a dream. You see his jaw clench at the “Can’t let a man take things slow? This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, y’know? Lemme savor it, sweetheart.”
You laugh, it comes out a giggle. God, you’re a mess tonight. You blame the alcohol, and Sonar who is actually more responsible for your behavior than the few drinks you had. Your brain feels like mush, a mix of giddiness, want and lingering frustration making your heart race with every movement Sonar makes.
He tugs down your underwear, slow and shaky, like even now he’s still wrapping his head around the fact you’re real and naked in his bed. It’s only then you notice he’s also naked save his underwear, there’s a wet patch that stains his boxers, just where his cock strains against the fabric. The sight makes you draw in a shaky breath. Once he discards your underwear, tossing it to the side, he pushes your thighs up, lifting them and letting your knees fall onto his shoulders.
“Could smell you from here…” He mutters, mostly to himself. He’s staring intently.
The sourness inside you (residue from your bitterness from losing) bubbles up inside you and translates to embarrassment. You kick his chest lightly, glaring up at him. “Don’t be weird.” You scold, but there’s barely any seriousness behind it.
He chuckles, and once more it resonates deep in your ribcage. “I’m not.” Sonar says simply, hands moving to free himself from his boxers. “If anything, you’re weird for thinking it’s weird.”
“Because it is.” You say as your frustration builds up again.
“It is?”
“It is.”
“Nah, I don’t think so.”
“Sonar—”
You feel his tip press against you and once more you’re met with how good he is at distracting people. You feel yourself salivate at the contact, squirming on the bed as you take deeper breaths. Your thigh twitches in anticipation again and Sonar lets out an amused exhale.
“What—” you breathe out shakily, “What happened to taking things slow?”
“Dunno if you know this, but I’m not exactly the most patient guy,” he says, licking his lips again as he nudges against you, seemingly testing the waters. “Besides, you seem pretty eager about this too. Doing both of us a favor here if you think about it.”
You huff, eyes watching the way he’s got a hand wrapped around his cock, watching the way precum leaks from the tip. “Wow, how heroic.”
Sonar shrugs. “That’s sort of an entry level requirement to being a superhero.” He does an experimental thrust, pushing past your entrance by just about an inch. He shudders and groans, throwing his head back. “Fuck, baby.”
You whimper in response, fists balling the comforter beneath you. The sudden motion leaves you gasping for air. “Shit! Easy, dude. Jesus Christ.”
“Dude?” He almost sounds offended, but there’s a lopsided grin on his face as he stares wildly at where you two now meet. “I’m about to fuck your brains out, sweetheart, and all I get is dude? Really? What happened to ‘big guy’? I liked ‘big guy’.”
“You don’t get ‘big guy’ anymore,” you scowl at him, but the words come out garbled, mixed with what is half a squeal and a groan.
It’s because he pushes his hips forward as you speak, driving himself deeper inside you. He hisses when he’s got himself all the way in, a shaky breath drawing from his lips as you pulse around his cock.
“Do I get ‘big guy’ privileges now?”
God, you want to strangle him. You want to shove at his fur covered chest and yell as many insults as you can come up with in a minute. You want to tear out tuffs of fur from his face. But you can’t, too focused on the delicious way he fills you up, the way his cock twitches deep inside you when you let out a soft whimper and involuntarily buck your hips against his.
He’s got his hands on your hips, pushing you forward so your knees just barely touch your chest. You feel him in the deepest parts of you and you’re so very conscious of the weight of him inside you. It takes a bit to get used to, and you’re pleasantly surprised Sonar doesn’t need to be told to wait before trying anything else. You pant softly, chest heaving as you adjust yourself around him, the thought of what’s inside you (especially after seeing it) makes your mouth water a bit more.
Only when you sigh softly does Sonar attempt to move, a slow and steady pull of his hips, which you’re certain is to ease you into things but is only making you feel every inch of him, before an equally slow and steady push; it’s a gentle thrust that pulls himself halfway out before easing himself back it. It has you seeing stars.
He picks up the pace at the sight of your arched back and the sound of your moans, his manicured nails digging crescents into your skin as he holds you a little tighter. Sonar’s pace is steady, the same easy push and pull set at a higher tempo this time, somehow you can tell he’s holding back.
You whine, a squeaky little sound nearly drowned out by the wet smack of your saliva. “S— Fuck.”
Oh, that sets him off. He grunts, jaw clenched as his hips snap forward. Sonar huffs as he stills, cock still buried deep inside you. He leans forward, essentially folding you in half in the process, your knees finally pressing against your chest. His mouth is by your ear, his breath hot and loud against the shell of it. It makes you pulse around him, earning you a husky groan.
“Jesus…” his voice is hoarse already, breathing ragged as he catches his breath.
You’re not quite sure what he’s doing or what he’s up to, but you’re certain you’re upset about the loss of friction, even if Sonar hadn’t pulled out.
You swallow your spit. “S… Sonar…” You call softly, hands finally letting go of the now wrinkled sheets, moving to find purchase in the thick scruff of fur on his nape. Fingers bury themselves in the grey, tugging lightly. He inhales sharply.
You roll your hips against his, something that surprises the both of you, because your body seems to have grown a mind of its own, moving as it pleases against your better judgement. Sonar groans next to your ear, cock twitching inside you. But still, he doesn’t move.
You huff, tugging a bit harder on his fur. “Sonar…” You cry out, pitchy and bratty, something whiny, the same voice you used while pretending to lose at pool because you had a hunch it would rile him up.
He mutters something, it barely registers in your head before he’s pumping his cock in and out of you at the exact roughness you had been expecting since the bar. Guess your hunch was right.
You moan, throwing your head back against his pillow. You’re scrambling to grab him, fingers pulling at his fur, digits digging into his back. It must drive him crazy because his hands on your hips pull you closer, until your ass is resting on his lap. There’s a growl by your ear before you feel his breath around your neck, then feel his lips suck on the skin there. You squeal at the feel of his cold fangs against your hot skin as he kisses you, yelp at the feel of them finally sinking into your neck as he bites you.
The bed creaks, a disharmonious plea for help as Sonar pounds into you, thrusting wildly as he continues to bite and kiss at your neck. You feel yourself getting closer, feel that tingly feeling on the tips of your toes shooting up your spine as it travels through your nerves. He’s close too, you hear it in the way he groans and pants between kisses and bites and sucks. There’s this small part of your brain that’s surprised he’s so quiet, you expected him to talk your ear off throughout the whole ordeal. Half of you is thankful he’s too focused on fucking you to annoy you (plus the sounds falling from his lips are a delicious bonus), the other half, regrettably, misses how he was cooing and teasing by the pool table.
“Shit.”
Hearing his voice again pulls you from your thoughts. He’s on his elbows now, either resting by the sides of your head, which is drooped enough the tips of the furs on his forehead stick to the sweat of yours.
You open your mouth to speak, but what comes out is a breathy whimper. His eyes snap towards yours at the sound of it. Sonar grins, fondly, a big smile that pairs nicely with the way he’s looking at you so softly.
“Feel so good, sweetheart,” he mutters between pants before he leans down to kiss you.
The kiss is tender, contrasting the way his hips push towards yours. You whimper again, muffled by his mouth. His fingers grip onto the meat by your waist, a bruising hold on you as he gradually loses his rhythm. Sonar pulls away from the kiss with a fucked out look on his face, bushy brows twitching, milky eyes half-lidded, mouth agape with a mix of your spit glistening against his lips. You want to tease him, but you’re certain you don’t look much better.
But your mouth was already open to speak. And as you try to find what words to say, he cuts you off, a throaty moan as he throws his head back. It takes a second for you to realize, but the syllables sound exactly like your name. That’s because it is.
You come undone. Thighs tense on his shoulders, heels digging into his back. You stutter out a moan, try to breathe out his name in return. It’s ecstasy, blinding you for a split-second as you clench your walls around him in an addicting grip. You feel his body go rigid above you, a shudder that runs through his system.
Sonar doesn’t last long after that, a few clumsy thrusts and he’s shooting sticky white ropes of cum all over the skin of your stomach. You’d grimace at the way it sticks to your skin, mingles with your sweat, but seeing his cock twitch as it spurts out cum is hot— very hot. You whimper at the sight alone.
Above you, Sonar’s panting goes soft, his breathing is steadying. He unceremoniously rolls onto the space of the bed next to you, chest rising and falling as he stares blankly at the ceiling with a lazy grin on his face. Your head is turned to watch him, studying the way his fur clings onto the sweat of his skin, watching the way his teeth glint against the light of his room. You’re taken aback when he turns to face you, his eyes have the same softness as earlier, his smile doesn’t falter.
“You should lose bets more often, sweetheart,” he teases, pulling his arms to rest behind his head. You smack his torso weakly.
He laughs at that, an airy sound that sounds so pure, just a genuine laugh free of sarcasm. It causes warmth to bloom in your chest. You click your tongue, but it’s lighthearted as a smile slowly grows on your face. There’s a comfortable silence between you two, just the soft unsynchronized breathing as you two catch your breaths.
“You know,” Sonar breaks the silence after about five minutes of it, “I’d offer to teach you how to properly play next time,” he turns and pulls a box of cigarettes from his bedside drawer. But he takes one look at the furrow on your brows before slowly slipping it back into the drawer. “But that’ll make it harder for me to beat you next time.”
You sigh. You’re too tired to tell him you let him win at pool, so instead you press yourself against his side, to which he instantly wraps an arm around you. Just for tonight, you’ll let him win twice.