Chapter Text
The fan on the ceiling grates, grinding on its last set of blades when Sonic picks up the bunch of mail slipped into his wishy-washy of a doormat.
Since it was the first week of the month, he already knew exactly what each letter would entail. Usually, it’d be either of those three: electric bills that somehow never goes down, evil landlord’s rent notice or either a stray job application rejection needling his way.
Sonic opened the first two.
Then, he immediately closed them and looked up at the piece of junk buzzing on his ceiling. He’d have to figure out a way to accidentally break it completely so the landlord would replace it.
The last one, however, struck a little differently than usual.
The letter was… unaddressed.
No sender’s name, no recipient’s name, and absolutely no indication that it belonged to Sonic — except for his apartment number, 408, scrawled in dry black marker ink on the corner.
“Must’ve delivered it to the wrong guy,” Sonic muttered.
Curious, Sonic steps out into the hallway.
He checked his next-door neighbors' mats — knowing full well the old cat lady would skin him alive if she caught him snooping again — but their mail looked perfectly normal. Same old three. Nothing strange.
Weird.
Sonic locks his door, brushing it off. Probably a prank. The kids on his block had been running wild lately, vandalizing property, scaring tenants. Miss Karen from downstairs had been absolutely livid when their soccer ball shattered her window last week.
Or maybe it was a scam, Sonic muses. Not that it mattered. He had no money to steal anyway.
He tore the flap open.
Inside were snapshots — him sprawled across his blankets, half‑naked, snug in pink polka‑dot panties.
Sonic instantly paled at the sight.
He dumped the photos straight into the trash.
—
The second time it happened, Sonic was in the middle of boiling himself a cup of instant noodles.
The night air was chilly and all he wanted to do was curl up and watch his favorite show on TV.
He hadn’t taken out the pink polka-dot panties ever since the first letter. The pictures had genuinely spooked him out. But he hadn't worn them in a whole month either, and honestly? He was getting annoyed. He liked them. Why should he have to be scared of wearing something that made him feel good?
It felt wrong to let some faceless prankster dictate his wardrobe.
So, Sonic had chalked the first time up as nothing but a bizarre, terrible coincidence. He opted to wear them for the day anyway, pulling a pair of baggy grey sweatpants over them, but letting the waistband peek out just enough — like a shark tail — to feel good.
He was just standing by the sink, draining the hot water from his noodles, when a sharp series of raps echoed through the room.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Sonic froze, the steam from the noodles hitting his face. He chose to ignore it at first. The block’s old plumbing and pipes could be incredibly loud and erratic at times, making all sorts of knocking sounds in the walls.
When he turned his gaze toward the front door, he was proven wrong. Another white envelope had been slid right through the gap under his door.
It came with the usual three again, though it was a little later than the postman’s usual schedule. The electric bill, rent, and… the other one.
Sonic walked over, a little nervous as he picked up the mail. He slid the contents out. It was today's snapshots. Specifically, a perfectly framed, crystal-clear shot of him from just a few minutes ago.
The photo captured him from behind, bending down to retrieve a bottle of soy sauce from his low kitchen cabinets. Because his sweatpants had ridden down while he reached into the cupboard, the camera had perfectly caught the pink polka-dot fabric peeking out like a shark fin, exactly as he had styled it. Worse, the angle was distinctly from the window — right through the small, unblinds-covered gap of his kitchen glass.
Sonic stared at the glossy paper, the warmth of his instant noodles completely forgotten as a chill ran down his spine. Whoever it was, they were outside right now.
The right thing would be to confront the kid and file a police report.
Sonic doesn't. He crouched again, and shoved the envelope into the trash.
It's a prank, he assures himself. A kid is messing with him.
They’ll leave him once they find him boring.
—
True to his word, Sonic was relieved he didn't panic and involved the police about the sticky situation of his panties.
Reporting stolen underwear shots sounded some shit straight out of an anime show, and he didn't wanna stomach the humiliation that comes letting in a bunch of male officers know.
Because what is he supposed to say?
That he liked wearing panties in his house and someone liked him enough to send him letters? No one would believe him. He’s just a broke regular dude getting by, and most would assume he’ll be able to protect himself with how masculine he presents.
And Sonic didn't.
But the creep — or kid — which one was worse for Sonic to imagine of — was probably banking on his flustered reactions at his weird attempts to scare him. And if there's nothing more that Sonic is scared of, is that he hates losing. Trivial matters or not.
And what else better than to treat the creep like he's losing over a challenge?
Hence, he just rolled with it.
He’d ditched his favorite panties and resorted to wearing only his biggest, loosest pajamas to sleep in. It was honestly way too hot to be sleeping in them — the apartment he’s staying in is unhelpfully in constant maintenance and renovations — but better to sweat than give some creep another show.
Strangely, his tactic worked.
He hadn't received any letters since.
Now he was in the laundry room, perched on a worn out plastic folding table, waiting for the spin cycle to finish. Monday mornings had one perk: the place was empty. The air smelled strongly of cheap lavender detergent and damp heat.
To pass the time, he texted Amy. He knew she’d be bored at her front desk job again, so he was shamelessly spamming her with pointless updates about his day, ranging from the exact shade of grey his socks had turned to a debate on whether a hot dog counted as a sandwich.
It was at times like this that Sonic realized his life was pretty... uneventful. Especially when you're unemployed.
He stared at his phone screen. Should he be getting a new job?
The savings in his bank account was hovering close to hundreds, and rent is anything but cheap. He’ll be kicked out if he doesn't come up with any solutions. Amy will nag his ear off too for slacking off, so that’ll be a hassle.
Sonic groans. “They’ll reject me anyway.”
Still, feeling restless and wanting to prove to himself that he was at least trying, he scrolled through local job listings. He bookmarked a few that he felt somewhat connected to — mostly delivery gigs or things that required being on his feet — but there really weren't that many openings in his area that didn't require a master's degree and ten years of experience.
He sighed, scrolling past another corporate listing, absorbed in his phone.
"If it ain't little Blue."
Sonic’s head snapped toward the doorways.
Scourge filled the frame, a plastic laundry basket balanced against his hip like it weighed nothing. His worn leather jacket hung loose over a wrinkled tank top, the whole look screaming smugness far too early for a Monday morning in a community laundromat.
Sonic’s face soured instantly.
He slumped back against the folding table, letting out a loud, dramatic groan. "Great. My day is ruined now."
It was easy to forget that Scourge lived in the exact same block. They had dated briefly a while back — a fast-paced disaster of a relationship that ended because this dude couldn't keep in his pants and fucked another girl behind his back — and ever since the breakup, they rarely crossed paths. Sonic had done his best scrubbing Scourge's existence from memory, but the universe loved to rub salt in old wounds, and here he was, leather and grin intact.
"Aw, come on, babe, is that any way to greet an old flame?" Scourge smirked, sauntering into the room and dropping his heavy laundry basket onto the table right next to Sonic. He leaned in a little too close, flashy grin firmly in place. “And here I was thinking you’d be thrilled to see a familiar face in this hellhole.”
“I’d rather eat shit than see your face,” Sonic muttered, arms crossing tight as he slid a few inches away. His eyes flicked to the timer below on the washing machine, praying it would magically skip the last ten minutes of the rinse cycle. “What are you even doing here, Scourge? I thought your laundry routine was just buying new clothes whenever the old ones got gross.”
Scourge drawled. “Maintenance, sure.” He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “I also heard you're one rent notice away from getting booted. Figured I’d swing by and see how pathetic you look before you get tossed out.“
Sonic rolled his eyes so hard he was surprised they didn't get stuck in the back of his head. Here Scourge go again, fabricating a false narrative about Sonic's life just because he somehow got wind of his not-so-good financial situation. During their relationship, Scourge had been the one buying him gifts — the only real perk Sonic could claim from that entire disaster. That included the very pink polka-dot panties currently sitting in the washing machine, since the asshole used to get off on feminizing him.
Not that Sonic got off on it too, of course. He just liked how they looked and felt. But it was deeply infuriating to think that Scourge, of all people, had been the one to awaken a side of him he never even knew existed.
Scourge was clearly still holding a grudge about the fact that Sonic had kept every single one of those gifts after the breakup. Sonic was a hoarder through and through; he wasn't about to give back free stuff just because the guy was a cheating bastard. They’d gotten into a brutal, screaming physical fight over it, and the green hedgehog had lost. It must've dented Scourge's fragile ego. After all, what kind of guy lets his supposedly submissive little bitch overtake them in pure strength?
Eat shit, piss and die, asshole, Sonic thought before shoving his phone into his pockets.
“You always did love a good rumor.” Sonic said flatly. “But sorry to disappoint. I’m not packing my bags yet.”
Scourge scoffed, leaning his weight against the table, crowding Sonic's space just to be a nuisance. "Keep dreaming, Blue. We both know you're one bad week away from begging for my help. I might have a few openings for you, if you learn how to behave."
"I'd rather take my chances on the street," Sonic bit back. "And the last time you tried to make me behave, you ended up flat on your back with a swollen jaw. Want to see if your chin still remembers the taste of the floor?"
Scourge’s smirk finally faltered, green quills bristling as his jaw clenched up tight. "You little—"
"Oh, for heaven's sake, watch where you're dragging that equipment, Gary!"
Both hedgehogs turned their heads toward the entrance.
What timing that Miss Karen walked in.
Marching right into the laundry room was the most intimidating person Sonic had ever known, an old lady white cat who looked permanently disgusted by everything in a five-mile radius. For only a tenant as the rest of the neighbours, Miss Karen was doing all sorts of complaining to the landlord at the slightest inconvenience… Very much in tune with her name and so.
And here she was, gripping a jug of premium bleach like a weapon, followed closely by two tired-looking maintenance guys hauling a massive toolbox and a replacement hose. They looked thoroughly exhausted, clearly having endured a lecture the entire walk down the stairs.
"I told the landlord three weeks ago that machine number six was leaking, and now look at how this turned out!" Miss Karen complained loudly, waving a manicured paw to the machine at the corner, ignoring Sonic and Scourge.
"We're on it, Miss Karen. We’ll get right to it," The first employee — whose nametag read Gary — mumbled, raising his hands in a placating gesture.
Beside him, a burly guy named Larry, grunted as he set down the heavy toolbox. He cracked it open with a loud metallic snap and immediately started pulling out wrenches and a pipe cutter, eager to look busy so the old cat wouldn't turn her laser-focus on him. Larry bent down, taking a cautious peek behind the trembling, rusted backside of machine number six.
Miss Karen’s ears twitched sharply. Her gaze cut away from the maintenance crew and landed squarely on Sonic. "And you! Young man, get your shoes off that table. People fold their clean linens there. Have you no home training?"
Sonic barked out an awkward laugh, sliding off the plastic surface in a hurry. He popped his hands into his pockets, trying to smooth over the tension with his usual easygoing grin. "Heh, hi, Miss Karen! What's up? Bad day today?"
Miss Karen eyed both hedgehogs up and down, her nose wrinkling as if she’d just smelled sour milk. "What are you two kids up to down here anyway? Looking for trouble?"
Both hedgehogs stiffened, spines straightening like soldiers caught off guard.
“Talking,” they said in perfect unison, voices flat, stripped of the venom they’d been trading seconds earlier.
Miss Karen stared them down, silence stretching until it felt unbearable. Then she sighed. “Honestly… kids these days. Nothing but loitering and making loud noise.”
"Oh, come on, cheer up, Miss Karen!" Sonic exclaims, flashing a charming, theatrical smile. "You're way too beautiful to be getting this angry over a little leakage. It'll give you wrinkles."
The blatant flattery worked like a charm. Miss Karen’s rigid posture slacked just a fraction, and she let out a faint, haughty huff, though she didn't entirely stop scowling. "Well, someone has to care about this building. I am exhausted from filing reports that go ignored. I confronted the landlord three times this week, and nothing. Utterly unacceptable.”
Scourge snorted, leaning back against the table with deliberate insolence. “Yeah, well, that geezer never fixes anything. Should’ve known better than to rely on him.”
Sonic jabbed an elbow into Scourge’s ribs, earning a sharp hiss.
“Watch your mouth, young man,” Miss Karen chastised, glaring daggers at Scourge. “And for your information, there is no old man anymore. Someone new took charge.”
Sonic blinked, his curiosity piqued. “Wait—we’ve got a new landlord?”
"Yes," Miss Karen said, adjusting her grip on the bleach jug. "I contacted the landlord line this morning because my rent has been steadily increasing. The receptionist informed me that absolutely no negotiations could be made because Sir Reginald had been replaced by a new proprietor. A Mr. S. Awfully anonymous, if you ask me. No face, no office, just a letterhead."
Scourge rubbed his ribs, glaring at Sonic, but muttered, "My rent increased too... fucking greedy bitch."
Sonic tuned them out for a second, his mind drifting back to his apartment. A new landlord? How was he supposed to get his half‑dead ceiling fan fixed if the guy in charge was a ghost who only communicated through rent increases?
"Watch your tone, young man!" Miss Karen barked at Scourge, before swiveling back to the maintenance workers. "Well? How is it going down there?"
"Turns out the main drainage seal on the drum is completely dry-rotted,” Gary explains matter of factually. “Every time the machine enters the high-speed spin cycle, water just bypasses the gasket entirely."
"Yeah," Larry added, peering out from behind the machine with a flashlight in hand. “We’ll have to pull the drum and replace the housing. But we need clearance from central before we touch it.”
Miss Karen’s tail lashed out in irritation. "Ugh! “Why on earth do you need clearance? I brought you down here to fix it, not to file paperwork!"
Gary and Larry shifted awkwardly under her intense glare, Gary nervously tapping his wrench against his palm. "It's just protocol, ma'am... Structural repairs have to clear the new management first."
Miss Karen turned back to Sonic and Scourge, throwing her paws up in the air. "This Mr. S has to be the most unreasonable, bureaucratic landlord I have ever known to date! And I am still worried if he’s doing anything at all to prevent the break-ins as of recent. I highly doubt he cares."
Sonic froze, the easygoing smile instantly dropping from his face. "Wait, what do you mean by break-ins—"
"I’ll have to go," Miss Karen interrupted flawlessly, checking a gold watch on her wrist, interjecting Sonic off. She pointed a sharp manicured nail at the two hedgehogs. “No fighting. I’m watching you.”
With a final huff, she swept out, perfume lingering in the damp air. Gary and Larry scrambled to pack up and follow. The laundry room fell into silence.
Scourge broke it first, smirk crawling back onto his face. "You heard Miss Karen, Blue. Don't go starting anything with me."
“Wouldn’t be happening if you hadn’t started it.”
The washing machine pinged, signalling the end of its cycle. Sonic pulled open the door, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
“What did she even mean by the break-ins?” he muttered. “Nobody told me anything about that…”
“Shit if I know,” Scourge grunted, dumping his wrinkled clothes into the machine with zero care. “Only heard some chick upstairs bawling her eyes out to her boyfriend. Whole hallway could hear her—screaming about how her jewelry got swiped while she was stuck at work. The guy was trying to calm her down, saying he’d handle it, but he looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole. Pathetic scene.”
He snickered, slamming the washer lid shut. “Honestly? Only a stupid bitch would stash expensive crap in a dump like this. The two of them sounded like they were about to break up but who gives a shit?”
Sonic loaded his wet clothes into his laundry hamper, his hands moving automatically while his brain tried to connect the dots. A thief stealing valuables during the day... and a creep taking stalker photos of him in his underwear at night. The two situations couldn't possibly correlate with each other. Right? A normal robber wouldn't waste time taking photography of a broke, unemployed guy sleeping.
Scourge paused, leaning against his machine and looking at Sonic's pale expression. "What? You scared or something, Blue? Don't tell me you are."
"Fuck off. As if," Sonic replied, hefting the hamper onto his hip.
Scourge’s eyes caught a flash of pink fabric among the damp socks. He whistled low. "You still keep those on? How cute."
Sonic immediately flushed red. Just his luck that the asshole caught onto that. He closed the lid of his hamper shut, glaring at Scourge with enough venom to kill a man.
"Mind your fucking business, Scourge."
Without waiting for a reply, Sonic spun on his heel and stormed out of room, leaving the green hedgehog with the hum of machines.
—
The ceiling fan finally kicked the bucket.
Sonic was sure of it.
It happened in the dead of night — 3:45 AM, to be exact, according to the bright, blinding glare of his phone screen — when a horrific, metal-on-metal screeching sound echoed right above his head. The internal gears ground together in one final, agonizing protest, throwing down a brief, pathetic puff of dust. For a few seconds, the air in the cramped bedroom grew horribly stagnant, and then, the blades slowly ground to a complete halt.
The room fell dead silent, save for Sonic’s irritated breathing.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Sonic cursed into the darkness. He blindly groped around his nightstand for the remote, aggressively mashing the power button. Nothing. He shook it, slapped it against his palm, and tried flipping the wall switch on and off. The fan didn’t budge an inch.
With a growl, he ripped the back cover off the remote, swapped out the batteries for two questionable ones he found rolling around in his desk drawer, and pointed it at the ceiling. He spammed the buttons. Still, nothing.
Ugh. If only Sir Reginald hadn’t been such a total cheapskate, maybe he actually would have tended to the appliances before leasing the place out. Sonic should have known better; dirt-cheap rent in a city like this always came with a mountain of hidden disasters waiting to explode.
He sat up, wiping a sheen of sweat from his forehead, and mulled over his options. There was no way he’d get a single wink of sleep if he stayed buried in this humid, suffocating heat. The apartment felt like a literal sauna. He was already half-naked — wearing nothing but a pair of loose gym shorts — and he was sweating bullets.
Ideally, he could figure out a way to dissect the remote altogether or wire the fan to stay on, but he wasn’t an electrician. The remote was practically garbage, meaning he’d have to make a run to the nearest hardware store tomorrow to search for a universal dupe. But right now? Every shop in a ten-mile radius was closed. That option was out.
Sonic’s eyes flitted across the dark room, landing on the glass door of his balcony.
The balcony itself was a bit exposed to the rest of the tenants in the opposite building, but he currently had a thick chunk of his early morning laundry hanging over the clothing lines out there. A fortress of damp hoodies, sweatpants, his panties and bedsheets acted as a pretty solid, accidental curtain, blocking any direct view of his bed from the outside world.
He could just slide the door open and let the night breeze ventilate the room.
The thought made him pause. That sounds risky.
He sat there in the dark. Was it really that risky, though? He thought it over, trying to weigh the logic. What were the actual chances of a break-in happening at exactly 3:45 AM on a random Tuesday? Sure, Miss Karen had been squawking about robberies down in the laundry room, and Scourge had mentioned some girl upstairs getting her jewelry stolen. But Sonic was alone, vulnerable, and it was the middle of the night. The timing of his fan breaking felt a little too convenient, like a textbook setup for a horror movie.
Eh. Maybe not, he reasoned, shaking his head to clear the paranoia.
He was overthinking things again. The stalker letters had stopped weeks ago. Why? Because he had stood up for himself, refused to get flustered, and didn't indulge the creep's whims by putting on a show in his underwear. He had won the waiting game. The creep had obviously lost interest and moved on to someone else.
Besides, even if some burglar did try to climb up to his second-story balcony, they weren't going to find anything worth the effort. The only expensive thing I have on me is my phone, Sonic mused, looking down at the cracked screen. And that thing can barely hold a charge for three hours. Good luck selling that on the black market.
Nodding to himself, Sonic swung his legs out of bed. His bare feet padded softly across the linoleum as he headed over to the balcony door. He unlocked the latch with a metallic click and slid the glass pane open.
Instantly, a wave of cool, crisp night air rushed into the sweltering apartment.
Sonic let out a long, content sigh as he walked back to his bed, collapsing face-first onto his pillows, and pulled the top sheet loosely over his waist. He had definitely made the right call here. He had absolutely nothing of value to steal. He was going to be completely fine.
As his eyes drifted shut, lulled by the gentle breeze rustling through his laundry outside, he failed to catch the faint click-whir in the dark.
—
The next morning Sonic wakes up, he’s hit with a terrifying realization.
It’s the first week of the month again.
He braced himself for the usual shuffle of envelopes sliding under the door. But nothing came. Instead, when he blinked down at his chest, his stomach went cold.
His mail was already there. Sitting right on top of him.
And tucked among the bills were a glossy photograph of him.
Heart hammering like a trapped bird, he picked it up with trembling fingers. The image was crystal clear. Sonic’s thighs spread wide on the rumpled sheets, the thin shorts hiked up just enough to reveal the pink ring of his hole peeking out from beneath.
“What the fuck…” Sonic whispered, heat flooding his face. Someone had taken these. This must be the same creep, it had to be.
He brought his thighs close, suddenly more hyper-aware of his body as his eyes frantically swept the perimeter of his bedroom. The sheer curtains fluttered lazily in the breeze, masking the utter stillness of the apartment. Everything looked exactly as he had left it. There were no muddy footprints, no overturned furniture, no signs of a struggle.
His eyes dropped back down to the photograph. In the same familiar handwriting scrawled across his own sleeping silhouette in the same marker was:
Sleep well, baby. Took something from you.
His pulse spiked. Took something? He glanced around his room, but nothing seemed disturbed. Still, the thought of someone standing over him while he slept sent a shiver crawling down his spine.
Then it hit him.
Sonic bolted out of bed, his bare feet hitting the cold floor as he sprinted toward the balcony. Yanking down the damp laundry still hanging from the line, he rifles through hoodies and sheets in a frantic search for one flimsy pink piece.
Gone.
The creep fucking stole his panties.