Sonar wouldn't call himself gay. He wouldn't call himself straight either, he doesn't care for labels, he just leaned heavily towards women. They had boobs, at least, and men didn't. Men can be attractive, sure, but most of the time they didn't. He understood why people liked men, it's just not for him.

It wasn't for him, until he met you.

Another dreg of the society, forced into Z-Team by Blonde Blazer's kindness and relentless enthusiasm about making you into a proper hero.

The way the air in the room shifted every time you walked in? The way you drawled his stupid 'batboy' nickname? And that perfect, jaw-dropping, gorgeous ass?

Fuck yes. Sonar wanted that cookie.

One day you texted him about wanting to see him in the HQ's gym after the shift is over. You didn't specify why, but it's obvious where Sonar's mind went. He was on pins and needles waiting for the evening, and it has gotten so bad that Robert had to remind him to focus several times.

Sonar didn't care. He rushed into the gym as soon as the time was right, slamming the door open with too much determination. There you were, standing idly by the punching bag, weighing your half-empty water bottle in your hand. In that loose tank top, sweaty and all.

"Wow. Shit, I mean— wow." Sonar stood in the doorway, fixing the collar of his suit with both hands like an especially confident conman about to offer you the deal of your life. Except he was disgustingly distracted by the way you looked, the white of his eyes somehow looking even more vacant than usual. He didn't know what to offer — him being your next target? Him being your shower? Him being your chair??

"You want it right now? Right here? They usually give heads-up for that sort of thing, man. Just saying." Sonar didn't need to be asked twice (or asked at all), his hands already working on the buttons of his pants. He was so ready for it, he didn't even think of asking if that's even your intention first.