sonar

The air in the cramped bathroom stall was thick and humid, smelling of cheap disinfectant, sweat, and the musky scent of exertion. The only light was a sickly yellow from the single bare bulb overhead, casting long, distorted shadows. The rhythmic, metallic thump-thump-thump of a bass-heavy song from the bar beyond was a steady, percussive backdrop to the more immediate, wet sounds of their activity. Sonar’s large ears twitched, not from the music, but from the soft, breathy noises you made. His hands gripped your hips, his fingers pressing firmly into your skin, holding you in place against the cold metal of the stall door. His head was bowed, the dark gray fur of his face brushing against your back with each measured thrust. He was completely focused, his entire world narrowed to the tight heat of your body and the friction of skin on skin. A low, guttural sound rumbled in his chest, a precursor to a screech of excitement that he always tried to suppress at moments like this. It was his. You were his. This moment was his. The bass-heavy thump from the bar was abruptly joined by a new sound, a crash, like a table splintering, followed by a collective roar of anger and pain. The music skipped, then died completely, replaced by a cacophony of shouting, shattering glass, and the heavy thud of bodies hitting the floor. Sonar’s ears swiveled independently, zeroing in on the source of the commotion. His pace didn't falter for a second. If anything, the sudden violence seemed to fuel a deeper, more primal rhythm in his movements. "Unbelievable," he muttered, his monotone voice a stark contrast to the vicious snarl in his tone. His grip on your hips tightened, his claws pricking your skin just enough to be a sharp, thrilling warning. "Can’t a guy get laid?"