i should really finish what i start… but that’s where you beautiful people will help me.
the reason why i haven’t posted anything is this: i just write something and an idea comes and i start another one and just forget to finish the first one.
so i really need your help this time. which one would you like first? i will be posting them in order (the one with the most votes first, and so on)
btw some of these have evolved and may have a different summary than what’s displayed, as mentioned before i just tend to jump between them and change things 😅
Turned my laptop to show my colleague the code I was working on but accidentally shifted to another window and they saw art of the two guys from my new book making out with tongue
pairing: OPLA!Roronoa Zoro × reader
genre: romance, hurt/comfort, emotional confession
summary: Miss Goldenweek’s paint exposes Zoro’s buried love, forcing confession, heartbreak, and a long-awaited kiss aboard.
word count: ~4.0k
c/w: intense kissing, suggestive dialogue, emotional distress, panic
a/n: Hiii! SORRY FOR NOT POSTING!! This fanfic was requested by @j1c1c666 . I originally thought about them being at the start of their relationship, so enjoy!!!
➤ opla masterlist
𑣲 taglist
The "Paint-Colored Erosion Incident," as Nami had dramatically dubbed it, was over. Baroque Works officer Mr. 3, a man whose Devil Fruit ability was as infuriatingly whimsical as it was deadly, had been defeated. His power to create and manipulate a wax-like substance that hardened to be stronger than steel had been a nightmare to deal with. But it was his partner, Miss Goldenweek, and her "Colors Trap" that had left the most lingering, bizarre mark on the crew.
Her paints didn't just color; they manipulated emotions. Painting a flag with a certain color could induce a specific state—tears, rage, or, in your case, a state of dreamy, helpless infatuation. You remembered the feeling with a cringe. One moment you were fighting for your life, the next you were staring at Dorry, one of the giant warriors, with a googly-eyed sigh, convinced he was the most handsome being you'd ever laid eyes on. The effect had worn off, but the memory was mortifying.
Now, back on the Going Merry, the crew was scattered, tending to wounds and exhaustion. Sanji was in the galley, no doubt preparing a feast to celebrate their survival. Usopp was probably regaling a captive Vivi with exaggerated tales of his bravery. Nami was counting her new treasure, her mood significantly improved. Luffy was… well, Luffy was likely trying to provoke the sleeping giants again.
You needed to find Zoro. He'd been separated from you during the final confrontation, and a knot of anxiety hadn't loosened in your stomach since.
You found him on the deck, near the figurehead, but the sight of him stopped you in your tracks. He was sitting on the grassy deck, legs crossed, his three swords resting neatly beside him. But he wasn't cleaning them. He wasn't napping. He wasn't training. He was just… staring at the horizon, a small, ridiculously content smile on his face.
And he was humming.
It was a low, tuneless sound, but it was definitely humming. Roronoa Zoro. Humming. It was so out of character it felt like you'd stepped into an alternate dimension. You approached cautiously, your boots soft on the wooden deck.
"Zoro?" you called out gently.
He turned his head, and the smile that bloomed on his face was not his usual smirk or rare, soft grin. This was something else entirely. It was bright, unguarded, and utterly, devastatingly beautiful. His eyes, normally sharp and focused, were soft, hazy, and fixed on you with an expression of pure, unadulterated adoration that made your heart do a painful little flip.
"There you are," he said, his voice a low, melodic purr that sent an involuntary shiver down your spine. "I was just thinking about you. Isn't that funny? I was thinking about you, and then poof, there you are. It's like magic."
You stared at him, your mind racing. This was… wrong. This was the same look you'd given Dorry under the influence of Miss Goldenweek's paint. A quick glance at his green haramaki confirmed your suspicion. A small, almost invisible splotch of bright pink paint was smeared near the buckle. The color for infatuation.
"Zoro," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. "Are you feeling alright?"
"I've never felt better," he declared, pushing himself to his feet with an easy grace. He closed the distance between you in two long strides, invading your personal space in a way that was both familiar and completely alien. He reached out, not to steady himself or to gesture, but to gently cup your cheek in his calloused hand. His thumb stroked your skin with a tenderness that made your knees weak. "How could I not be alright when you're here? You're… you're like the sun coming out after a hundred years of rain."
You swallowed hard. This was a nightmare. A wonderful, terrible, confusing nightmare. The man you loved, the gruff, emotionally constipated swordsman who could barely manage a "you're not annoying" on a good day, was now spouting poetry. And it was all because of a stupid, magical paint.
"Zoro, you have some paint on you," you said, trying to be direct.
He glanced down at his haramaki and then back at you, his smile unwavering. "Oh, this? Just a little souvenir. It reminds me of you."
"How does pink paint remind you of me?" you asked, a genuine, bewildered question.
"Because it's the color of your cheeks when you get flustered," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear. "And it's the color I imagine your lips would be after I've kissed them for a very, very long time."
A full-body blush erupted across your skin. This was beyond anything you had ever prepared for. Zoro's normal compliments were things like "you're not useless" or "your cooking is edible." This was… this was an assault on your senses.
"Okay, that's enough of that," you said, your voice squeaking slightly as you gently pushed him back. "We need to get that paint off you."
"Get it off?" he looked genuinely stricken. "But why? It makes everything so much clearer. It's like a fog has been lifted from my eyes. All this time, I've been walking around, thinking about swords, and training, and navigation, and my stupid captain… but it was all just noise. All that matters," he said, his gaze intense and unwavering, "is you."
He took your hand in his, his grip firm but gentle. He brought your knuckles to his lips and pressed a soft, lingering kiss there. "Do you have any idea how beautiful you are? Not just… you know, aesthetically. Though you are. You're devastatingly beautiful. It's distracting. I should be training, but all I want to do is look at you. But it's more than that. It's the way your brow furrows when you're concentrating on a map. The way you bite your lip when you're worried. The way you laugh, even when I say something that isn't even a joke, just because you're kind."
He was rambling. Zoro was rambling. It was the single most surreal experience of your life.
"Zoro, you're not yourself right now," you insisted, trying to pull your hand away, but he held it fast.
"I'm more myself than I've ever been," he countered, his grin turning mischievous. "You know what I was just thinking about? Our future. After I become the World's Greatest Swordsman, we should buy a house. A quiet one. Maybe on a small, out-of-the-way island. We can have a dojo. I'll teach, and you can… I don't know, you can do whatever you want. You can fill the house with flowers. I hate flowers, but I'd let you fill our house with them if it made you happy."
Your heart was hammering against your ribs. This was everything you had ever, secretly wanted to hear from him, but it was all wrong. It wasn't real. It was the paint.
"Zoro, please," you begged softly. "This isn't real. It's the paint."
"Real? What's real?" he mused, his eyes glazing over slightly. "Is this real?" He tapped the hilt of Wado Ichimonji. "Is this real?" He tapped the Going Merry's deck. "Is the Grand Line real? Or is it all just a dream we're having? The only thing I know for sure is real," he said, his gaze snapping back to yours with dizzying intensity, "is this. This feeling. Right here, right now. You and me."
He leaned in again, and for a terrifying second, you thought he was going to kiss you. You wanted him to, and you didn't. It was a torturous paradox. Instead, he rested his forehead against yours, closing his eyes and letting out a contented sigh.
"I love you," he whispered, the words so soft you almost thought you imagined them. "There, I said it. It feels… good. Like taking a breath after being underwater for way too long. I love you. I've probably loved you for a long time and was just too stubborn and stupid to realize it. Or maybe I did realize it and was just scared. But I'm not scared now. How could I be scared of anything when I have you?"
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. This was cruel. It was the cruelest trick the Grand Line had ever played on you. To hear the words you longed for, spoken with a sincerity that was utterly convincing, knowing they weren't truly his. Not yet, anyway.
"Okay," you said, your voice thick with emotion. "Okay, Zoro. I believe you. But we still need to get the paint off. For me. Please?"
He pulled back, his expression softening at the sight of your unshed tears. "Oh, hey, no. Don't cry. I hate it when you cry." He gently wiped at your
cheek with his thumb. "Fine. For you. Anything. If it'll make you smile a real smile, not one of those sad ones, I'll let you scrub me with a deck brush and Sanji's soap."
A watery, genuine laugh escaped you. "I don't think it'll come to that. Let's just get you to the washroom."
He let you take his hand, lacing his fingers through yours with a familiarity that usually took him weeks of casual proximity to initiate. He followed you like a devoted puppy, his earlier predatory energy replaced by a placid, adoring compliance. As you led him towards the men's quarters, he swung your joined hands between you, humming that same tuneless, happy song.
"You know," he began, his voice thoughtful, "I never really noticed the way the light hits the wood on this ship. It's nice. It's warm. Like you."
"Zoro, the ship is made of wood."
"I know," he said, grinning at you as if you'd just shared a profound secret. "But it's happy wood. Because it gets to carry you."
You decided arguing with his logic was a losing battle and focused on the task at hand. Inside the men's quarters, you sat him down on his hammock and grabbed a clean cloth and a basin of water. You knelt in front of him, your heart still thumping a frantic rhythm against your ribs. As you dampened the cloth, you became acutely aware of your position. You were on your knees before him, about to touch his hips. The sheer intimacy of it, under these bizarre circumstances, was overwhelming.
"Alright, let's see this paint," you murmured, reaching for the edge of his green haramaki.
His hand shot out, covering yours. His touch was gentle, but his grip was firm. You looked up, startled, and met his gaze. The adoration was still there, but now it was mixed with a heat, a smoldering intensity that was pure, unadulterated Zoro, even through the paint-induced haze.
"Careful," he whispered, his voice husky. "That's a dangerous move."
"It's just your sash, Zoro."
"Is it?" he leaned forward, his face inches from yours. "Or is it the last barrier between me and telling you every single thing I've ever wanted to do to you?"
Your breath hitched. "Zoro…"
"Tell me to stop," he breathed, his eyes searching yours. "Tell me you don't want to hear it, and I'll shut up forever. I'll go back to being the grumpy bastard you're so used to, and I'll never bother you with this again."
You couldn't speak. You couldn't form the words. Because the traitorous part of you, the part that had been waiting for months, maybe years, for a crack in his emotional armor, desperately wanted to hear it. So you said nothing.
He took your silence as permission.
"I think about you when I'm training," he confessed, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through you. "I think about your voice telling me to get up when I'm on the ground, exhausted. I think about your hands patching up my wounds. I think about the way you look at me, like you see something more than just a guy with three swords and a death wish. It makes me stronger."
He released your hand and slowly, deliberately, you untied the knot of his haramaki. The pink splotch was right there, a garish reminder of the spell he was under. You dabbed at it with the wet cloth, your fingers brushing against the warm skin of his stomach. He hissed, but not in pain.
"Your hands are so soft," he murmured, his eyes following your movements. "It's a miracle. You work just as hard as the rest of us, but your hands… they're for holding, not for fighting. I like that. I like imagining my hands holding yours."
You scrubbed a little harder, the pink paint beginning to smear. "Zoro, stop it."
"Why?" he asked, genuinely confused. "Don't you like hearing this? Don't you want to know that when I'm swinging a thousand-pound sword, I'm thinking about how much lighter it would feel if it was your hand I was holding? Don't you want to know that when I'm lost, I'm not really looking for North, I'm just looking for you?"
The paint was coming off, streaks of pink mingling with the water on the cloth. But his words weren't stopping. If anything, they were becoming more focused, more intense.
"I watch you," he continued, his voice dropping even lower. "I watch the way you walk, the way you stretch in the morning, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you're concentrating. I've memorized the cadence of your footsteps on the deck so I always know when you're coming. I've cataloged every expression you make. My favorite is the one you're making right now. Flustered. Annoyed. A little bit turned on. It's a good look on you."
"Zoro!" you exclaimed, your face burning.
"What? It's true," he said, a lazy, triumphant smirk on his lips. It was the first glimpse of his usual self, and it was both a relief and a terrifying omen. "I want to kiss you. Right now. I want to see if you taste as sweet as you look. I want to find out if your laugh sounds the same when I'm the one making it happen. I want to wake up next to you and know what your hair looks like in the morning, all messy and spread out on the pillow. I want to protect you, not just because you're my crewmate, but because the thought of anything happening to you… it's the only thing that truly scares me in this world."
You scrubbed furiously at the last of the paint, your movements frantic. It was gone. The pink was completely washed away. You sat back on your heels, breathing heavily, waiting.
For a moment, he was silent. The hazy, dreamy look in his eyes began to clear. The intense, romantic focus started to waver. He blinked slowly, once, then twice. He looked down at his now-clean haramaki, then at the wet cloth in your hand, then at your tear-streaked, flushed face.
A slow, creeping horror dawned in his eyes.
"What… what did I just say?" he asked, his voice raspy, his usual gruffness returning with a vengeance.
"You… you said a lot of things," you managed to say, your voice trembling.
He stared at you, his expression a mask of utter panic and disbelief. He looked like a man who had just woken up naked in the middle of a town square with no memory of how he got there. He scrambled back from you, putting as much distance as the small room would allow.
"No," he shook his head, his eyes wide. "No. No, I didn't."
"You did," you confirmed softly.
He buried his face in his hands, a groan of pure mortification escaping his lips. "Oh, god. Kill me now. Just take one of my swords and run me through. I said… I said I loved you?"
"And the house on the quiet island," you added, unable to resist a small, watery smile. "And the flowers. And the part about my lips."
He peeked through his fingers at you, his face a spectacular shade of crimson that rivaled your own. "I am going to murder that clown with the paint. Slowly."
The silence that followed was thick with unspoken words. You watched him, your heart aching. He was back. Your Zoro was back. And he was completely and utterly humiliated. You stood up, wringing out the cloth and setting the basin aside. You didn't know what to say. How do you walk back from something like that?
Finally, he lowered his hands, his expression grim. He wouldn't meet your eyes. He was staring at a spot on the floor, his jaw clenched so tightly you could see the muscle twitching.
"Look," he began, his voice rough and strained. "Forget it. Just… forget all of it. It was the paint. It was a lie."
You flinched at the word "lie." It felt like a physical blow.
"Zoro…"
"It was nothing," he insisted, finally forcing himself to look at you, but his eyes were hard, defensive. "It was just… nonsense. The stupid Grand Line messing with my head. It doesn't mean anything."
You stood there for a long moment, the weight of his words settling heavily in the room. The paint was gone, but its echo remained, hanging between you like a ghost. You saw the panic in his eyes, the desperate need to retreat back into the safety of his emotional fortress. You could let him. You could nod and agree and pretend the last ten minutes never happened, letting the words he spoke dissolve into the salty sea air.
Or you could be brave.
You took a step towards him. He flinched, but didn't move away.
"Was it all a lie, Zoro?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper. "The part about wanting to hold my hand? The part about me making you stronger? The part about being scared of losing me?"
He stared at you, his defenses crumbling under the directness of your question. The hard facade cracked, and you saw it again—the vulnerability, the fear, the truth that had been hiding underneath all along.
He didn't answer. He couldn't. But you didn't need him to. You saw the answer in the way his shoulders slumped in defeat, in the way his gaze dropped from yours, unable to hold the weight of your question. The silence was his confession.
So you took another step, closing the final inch of space between you. You reached up, your fingers gently tilting his chin, forcing him to look at you. His eyes were a storm of emotions—shame, fear, and a desperate, fragile hope that broke your heart.
"It wasn't all a lie, was it?" you asked again, your voice softer this time.
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. He still said nothing, but his eyes flickered down to your lips for a fraction of a second before darting back up to meet your gaze. It was all the invitation you needed.
You leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn't a frantic, passionate kiss. It was gentle, firm, and full of unspoken understanding. It was a kiss that said, "I see you. I hear you. And it's okay." For a moment, he was frozen, his body rigid with shock. Then, with a ragged sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul, he melted into it. His arms came around you, pulling you flush against his chest with a desperate, almost bruising force. One hand tangled in your hair, cradling the back of your head, while the other pressed firmly against the small of your back, anchoring you to him.
The kiss deepened, transforming from reassurance into something raw and hungry. It was a kiss that had been waiting for months, a release of all the pent-up words and emotions he could never bring himself to say. He kissed you like he was drowning and you were his only source of air. He kissed you like he was a starving man and you were his first meal in a year. The sheer intensity of it stole your breath away.
When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged and uneven. He kept his eyes closed, as if he was afraid to open them and find that you were gone.
"You're still here," he breathed, the words a statement of pure, unadulterated awe.
"I'm not going anywhere," you promised, your hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the frantic, steady beat of his heart beneath your palms.
He finally opened his eyes, and the vulnerability you saw there took your breath away. It was Zoro, completely unguarded, his soul laid bare. "I meant it," he whispered, the words rough with emotion. "All of it. I just… I don't know how to be this person. The person who says things like that."
"You don't have to be," you said softly, stroking his chest. "You just have to be you. The person who trains until his muscles scream, the person who would die for his friends, the person who gets hopelessly lost but always finds his way back. That's the person I fell in love with."
A slow, shy smile touched his lips. It was his smile, not the paint's. A small, rare, beautiful thing that made your heart ache. "So… the house on the quiet island?"
You laughed, a real, genuine laugh that felt like cleansing the last of the paint from your own soul. "We can start with you not hogging the hammock every night."
He let out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. "Deal." He leaned in and kissed you again, a softer, more confident kiss this time. A kiss that wasn't desperate for reassurance, but one that settled, a promise of things to come.
When he pulled away, his gaze was serious again. "But I'm still going to kill that clown with the paint."
"I'll help you," you said with a grin. "But first, I think Nami owes us a fee for emotional damages. And Sanji probably owes you a lifetime supply of food for making you say all those sappy things."
A genuine, full-throated laugh escaped him, a sound so rare and precious it made you stop and just stare. It was the first time you'd ever heard him truly laugh, not just a huff of amusement or a dry chuckle, but a real, uninhibited laugh of pure joy.
"What?" he asked, noticing your stare.
"Nothing," you said, shaking your head in wonder. "I just… I really like your laugh."
His smile softened, and he reached up to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a tenderness that was now entirely his own. "I'll try to do it more often, then. For you."
You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes and letting the reality of the moment wash over you. The Grand Line was chaotic and dangerous, full of giants, dinosaurs, and psychotic pirates with magical paint. But here, in the cramped quarters of the Going Merry, held in the arms of the man you loved, you felt a peace you hadn't known was possible.
"Hey," he said quietly.
"Hmm?"
"You know that part about your lips?"
You opened your eyes and looked at him. He was grinning, a mischievous, familiar glint in his eye.
"I still want to find out if they taste as sweet as you look."
You smiled, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Well, what are you waiting for, World's Greatest Swordsman?"
He didn't need to be told twice. As his lips met yours again, you knew that the paint hadn't created anything. It hadn't invented his feelings or fabricated his desires. All it had done was unlock the door. And now that it was open, you had a feeling you and Roronoa Zoro were going to have a very long, very adventurous, and very loving journey ahead of you. And you wouldn't have it any other way.
As someone with an English degree, I cannot overstate just HOW strong of a weapon literacy is against fascism. Engaging with literature from a myriad of diverse perspectives only strengthens empathy AND intelligence. Some book recs I have are listed below!!
anti-fascist classics: Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler, Animal Farm by George Orwell, The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood
fiction by and about Hispanic voices: I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican-American Daughter by Erika L. Sanchez, The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros, Cemetery Boys by Aiden Thomas
fiction by and about Native voices: Bad Cree by Jessica Johns, Ceremony by Leslie Marmon Silko, the Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie
fiction by and about black voices: Erasure by Percival Everett, God Help the Child by Toni Morrison, Model Home by Rivers Solomon
fiction by and about Asian voices: Chlorine by Jade Song, The Vegetarian by Han Kang, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong
fiction by and about queer voices: Loveless by Alice Oseman, Open Throat by Henry Hoke, Rainbow Black by Maggie Thrash
and ofc there are several communities I missed and a lot of these overlap, so if you ever want book recs pls let me know!! I want to share amazing books by marginalized writers as much as I can. ART AND EDUCATION ARE PARAMOUNT💛🔥
how do i become a person who has a clean room and eats healthy and goes to the gym and works 42 hours a week and also writes a novel and reads for fun and goes on vacations
Do u do requests? I’d love one of sonar, flambae, and at least Malenova (and others if u wanna add them!) where reader is a dispatcher and they just like her so much and the z-team teases them and reader is oblivious. OR (/and separately) where reader is a classic superhero like blonde blazer and they have a secret friends with benefits with the z team member and they can’t talk about it but they want to tell their friends. I love your fics!!!! I’m literally going through your whole masterlist rn for dispatch stuff
hi love!! thank you sm i'm so glad you enjoy my writing! i decided to write some blurbs for your first prompt, thank you for the request <3
Flambae denies, denies, denies. He does not get softer when you're around, he does not follow your instructions better than anyone else who tries to give him instructions, and he does not like you. He does. He's head over heels, actually, but he can't let the rest of Z-team know. Even though they already know, he refuses to confirm it because they'd rat him out and he doesn't think he can handle rejection. Sarcastic facade out of the way, he takes things to heart. Right now, you're completely oblivious. Honestly? He's fine with it like that. Your attention is enough, regardless of the context.
Sonar also denies it. Not as vehemently as Flambae, but it's honestly just annoying how nosy the Z-team can get. Yes, he's also nosy, but it's only okay when he does it. In the break room, whenever it's only you two on the comms --- basically any situation where it's just you two, he flirts, hard. The fact that you haven't caught on yet is as impressive as it is frustrating. Whenever you're dispatching and you say "If anyone's available" he's already on it. He always wants to get the job done, mainly to impress you. Unless you tell him to back off, he won't stop until he woos you.
Malevola is straightforward, but she's still calm. A pat on the back here, a compliment that warrants an HR write-up there, and some flirting in between. The thing about Malevola is that she does all these things with such nonchalance and confidence that it doesn't even register to you. She gets frustrated, but it's no biggie, it'll work out. She doesn't deny anything, but she ignores the teasing from Z-team because there are more important things to worry about, you. Sometimes, the teasing does get to her, but it's a good thing that no one can tell when she blushes. She's persistent, flirtatious or not. She wants your attention, so she'll do things to make sure she gets it.
Note: I haven’t written stuff in a long time and I’m doing this on my phone between work, so spare me.
It starts when Robert is called for jury duty
AKA he knows ahead of time that he’s going to not be in for about a week and helps to prepare
Blonde Blazer is too busy dealing with everything else so she has another dispatcher fill in for him
You
Robert’s met you a couple of times in the break room just in passing, but hasn’t had a full conversation with you before him and Chase gave you the rundown on the Z-Team
Man has no actual opinion of you other than ‘co-worker’ prior to this
But MAN do you study those files on the teams to make sure you get things right
Chase even gives you access to some of the shift recordings of Robert with the Z-team to see how he does things and generally the team
It shocks you how they speak to Robert, but you prepare to have fun
Robert gives the team a heads up on Friday that he’s gonna be gone Monday
Prism: “Oh what? Little bitch boy too good for us?”
“Guys I have jury duty”
Flambe: “What the fuck is that?”
…
Sonar: “So are they hot or..?”
Visi: “Perv”
Z-Team is fully prepared to be on their worst behavior
Until they actually have their first shift with you
“Hey guys, I’m gonna be your dispatcher this week while Robert’s gone”
Visi: “You’re the dispatcher for THIS shift”
Mal: “I’ll bet they lasts the day, too panicked to put in a resignation till the end of the day”
That is- until the shift actually starts and they get to see you in action
It begins to make sense why you were asked to fill in
Cuz holy shit
“Visi I’m sending you to the break in at the factory, but if you have issues Golem is around the corner finishing a smaller job and is ready to help out if needed”
“Coupe, I’m sending you over to the helicopter crashing, but if you’re gonna try to land it in the river then say something when you know so I can send Waterboy for support”
You be making backup plans and support on top of that
At first it was met with some apprehension-
Punch Up: “the fuck you mean I’m MAY BE being sent am I going or not?”
But once they see the reassurance and support in action, about half (Mal, Golem, Punch Up and Water Boy) are fully on board by the end of the first shift
Visi is SO against the difference in methods
You have a Z-Team intro meeting between the first two shifts where she very publicly says this talk
It kinda stuns her (and the rest of the team) that you understand where she’s coming from
Major difference in her not following your orders versus Robert’s
“I get it, my methods are different than yours or Robert’s. I’m not trying to adjust or change the good you have, I just want to make it better.”
What hits her is the
“I trust you guys, you have a better understanding of the situation on the field. But a priority of mine is also your safety. I only make the call to send someone else if you need it. A big of this is me trusting you and you being aware of your own capabilities.”
“It’s fine if you don’t want to do it this way. Just let me know and I won’t include you as a secondary if someone needs it, but that also means you won’t get help if you something happens halfway into a mission.”
By the second shift everyone is on board, except for Visi who opted out (but changed her mind on the second day)
Z-Team loves that you aren’t trying to flatter them or coddle them.
Giving them feedback on what they can do better but also letting they know that they are doing a good job (when they ACTUALLY do a good job)
By the third day (MINIMUM) they love you
Because even tho they love Robert, you’ve treated them just as people/superheroes from day 1!
And not looking at them as villains (and definitely not because you hop in on their teasing)
100% at least one member of the Z-team had a crush on you, whether you know it or not
They’re all INCREDIBLY disappointed when Robert comes back a day early
“Aw come on man!”
“What happened to the new guy huh?”
“BOOO!”
“Damn I thought you guys would be happy to have me back”
“Nah bitch we were having a great time”
This gives him a chance to actually talk to you
“What did you do to them?”
“Man I did nothing, I was just enjoying being your sub while you were away”
Z-team 100% invites you to future outings whenever they got them
You become permanent sub for Robert
((Blonde Blazer has to not tell the Z-Team that if Robert didn’t work out as a dispatcher they would have had you))
No offense but why is there so much Robert fanfic for dispatch x reader. Yall I hate to say this but he’s the most normal guy. Give me blonde blazer, give me sonar, give me flambae and for the LOVE OF GOD PLEASE MALEVOLA
SUMMARY: Sonar has been obsessed with you since you started at SDN. Unfortunately, every attempt to talk to you ends in disaster.
WARNINGS: sonar has no game, brief mentions of drugs and alcohol
WORD COUNT: 5.6k
READ ON AO3
Victor knows his weaknesses, just as any enhanced individual should.
He's shit at writing, which he supposes is only fair considering he can run quantitative risk assessments and arbitrage calculations in his head faster than most people can boot up Excel. The universe couldn't make him completely perfect—though it got pretty damn close.
On occasion, Victor is also willing to admit he has issues with moderation, if the logged hours in his Steam library are anything to go off of. A lack of self-control, maybe. Though he prefers to think of it as commitment to mastery.
He also talks faster than he thinks sometimes—a fascinating flaw, really, considering his processing speed is roughly 40% faster than the average human's, and his IQ sits comfortably at 140, even compared to his fellow Harvard graduates.
He's reminded of this particular weakness whenever he's banned from voice or text chats in his games, where one too many creative insults about the opposing team's mothers slip out before his brain catches up to his mouth.
And there's also the whole cocaine thing. But that's not important. He's working on it. Malevola makes sure of that.
His greatest weakness, though, walked into his life a month ago.
Specifically, when you began working at SDN.
It was love at first sight. At least for him, because you hadn't even looked at him as you walked by, following Blonde Blazer as she animatedly introduced you to the dispatchers you'd be shadowing.
A few seconds was all Victor needed to know he was fucked.
He paid more attention in the weeks that followed. He gathered intelligence: not only were you hot—like, objectively, scientifically attractive—but you were funny. More than funny. Hilarious, actually. At times, he found himself coughing to cover up his laugh after he'd eavesdrop on your conversations. Not entirely creepy, because he only did it when you were in the break room or the conference room, and he considered those public spaces. Natural ground. It wasn't his fault he had exceptional hearing.
His crush has only grown since then, metastasizing into something he can't quite control.
There are times he's convinced you're secretly enhanced, some kind of undercover operative. It's the only explanation, really—maybe you're a temptress, a succubus, some lust manipulator with pheromone control. Because without fail, you turn him to putty. He has to readjust himself in his dress pants whenever you walk past, because your perfume wraps itself around his veins and tugs the flow of his blood straight to his dick like a leash.
Malevola had laughed herself sick one evening when she'd noticed, telling him he was "down catastrophic" for someone he didn't even have the guts to talk to. She'd shared the observation with Z-team too, and when Prism caught him adjusting himself during a mission briefing, they'd called him a perv loud enough for half the room to hear.
You'd earned the nickname Medusa after that, because Malevola found it hilarious that you managed to turn him rock-hard just by existing in his line of sight.
Victor had thrown a pen at her head. She'd caught it without looking and threw it back five times as hard.
Standing in the hallway, Victor rises to attention as you walk toward him, following the usual path to your desk. He adjusts his tie, tuning out Malevola's conversation, and steels himself mentally.
"I'm gonna go talk to her."
Malevola glances up. "Oh yeah? What are you gonna say?"
"Something good. Get her interested. Leave her thinking."
Malevola scowls. "Please don't mention your crypto portfolio."
"Why would I mention my crypto portfolio?"
"Because you mentioned it to the last three people you tried to talk to."
"I was networking!"
"You were being insufferable."
Victor sneers at her, half annoyed, half embarrassed. "Whatever. Watch and learn."
He tightens his tie and steps in front of you, halting you in place.
"Oh," you say, blinking. "Hi, Sonar."
You offer him a smile—polite, gentle. Good sign.
"Hey," he grins. "How's it going?"
"It's... going good, I guess. Just a regular Monday."
He nods. "Right. Cool. So, uh, I noticed you take like three sugars in your coffee."
Okay, good start. Observational. Shows he pays attention.
"...Okay?"
"That's cool. I mean, that's a lot of sugar but like, you do you. I usually go for two max." Wait, that sounds judgmental. "Not that three is bad! Three is good. Sweet tooth, that's chill."
Your smile is getting tighter. "Thanks?"
"Yeah, no problem." He shoves his hands into his pants pockets. "So hey, I've been looking at the mission numbers. You're doing pretty well. Like, way above average. If you ever want any tips on dispatch strategies or whatever, I could totally help you out."
"I... you're not a dispatcher. I am."
"Right, yeah, I know that. I just meant like, general efficiency stuff. I'm really good at that kind of thing. Optimization, time management, all that." He's nailing this. "Actually, I used to run this whole investment operation and—"
"The fraud thing?"
"—it was very successful. Financially. Before the legal issues." Okay, maybe don't bring up the crimes. "But like, I learned a lot about managing systems and people and—"
"That's great, Sonar, but I really should get back to work."
"Oh yeah, totally. I get it, you're busy. Respect the grind." He nods. "But hey, if you ever want to grab coffee and talk shop or whatever, I know this place that has really good espresso. Well, decent espresso. It's acceptable espresso but the vibe is nice."
"I'll... keep that in mind." You slip past him, the tight, nervous smile still on your face. Maybe you're nervous because you like him too. Score.
"Cool, cool. See you around!"
You give a little wave without really looking at him and speed-walk toward your desk.
Victor turns back to Malevola with a grin. "Dude, I think she's into me."
Malevola stares at him, mouth agape, the corners of her lips turned down.
"What?" he asks.
"I don't think so. She literally ran away from you."
"No she didn't. She walked. Quickly. Because she's busy and dedicated to her job. That's attractive, actually." He feels good about this. That went well. "She smiled at me."
"That wasn't a smile. It was a grimace. I felt like I was watching a hostage negotiation."
"You're being dramatic." He loosens his tie a bit, feeling accomplished. "I was smooth. I gave her an out by mentioning coffee, showed off my skills without being too much about it—"
"You told her about your fraud charges."
"I was being honest. Chicks dig honesty."
Malevola sighs. "Sonar—"
"You're wrong," he says, cutting her off. "I know what I'm doing, okay? I've got this. Tomorrow I'll try again. Maybe I'll tell her about that time I made 100k in a month. That's impressive."
"Please don't."
"Or maybe I'll ask about her interests. Show I care about her as a person."
"That one. Do that one."
"And then tell her about the 100k."
"Sonar, I'm begging you—"
But he isn't really listening anymore. He's already planning his next move, thinking about what to say, how to stand, when to catch you again.
He's got this. He's good at this.
Victor's eyes track you through the open break room door.
"What are you staring at?"
Victor flinches at Malevola's voice, straightening himself in his seat. "Huh? I'm not staring at anything."
"Uh-huh." She follows his gaze and sighs, turning back to him with a pitiful expression. "Please don't tell me this is why you wanted to take break at 2:15 instead of 3."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Malevola groans. "It is, isn't it? You figured out her schedule? Dude, that's so creepy."
"It's not creepy. It's called pattern recognition. That's a skill."
"Technically, so is stalking."
Victor glares at her but doesn't reply, his white eyes flickering to where you stand as he registers movement. You're wrapping up your conversation now, waving goodbye to another dispatcher. James, maybe. Something with a J. Victor sits up straighter without meaning to.
"Oh, she's coming in," Malevola says, grinning. "You gonna talk to her this time?"
He frowns. "What are you talking about? I talked to her last week."
"Whatever that disaster was, was not talking."
Victor's expression flattens to unamused. You're approaching the threshold of the break room now. He can already smell your perfume. "Okay. I'm doing this."
"You're doing this," Malevola echoes.
"Yup." He stands. "Gonna be casual. Relaxed. Normal."
"Three words that have never been used to describe you."
He glares at Malevola again, but she only raises a brow, the corners of her lips quirking upward. Despite her amusement, there's an encouraging gleam in her expression that Victor recognizes. He matches it with a confident nod, fixes his tie, checks his cuffs, and makes his way to where you stand at the counter.
The break room isn't large by any means, but he feels as if he's been walking for a long time. He can feel Malevola's gaze following his movements. Good. Witnesses to his success are important. This time is going to be a win. He can feel it.
You're making coffee. Perfect. He's got this.
He opens his mouth as he finally reaches you, winding up one of his practiced conversation starters, but stills as you put in headphones.
Shit.
He looks back at Malevola. She's watching with barely contained glee, making a "go on" gesture with her hands.
Okay. Okay, he can work with this. He'll just... wait until you turn around. It gives him some time to prepare, anyway. A few seconds can be priceless to a man if he knows how to use them right.
A few moments pass, but you have yet to acknowledge his presence. Or anything besides your coffee making, really. Which, now that Victor's thinking about it, is concerning. How have you not been mugged?
You're adding sugar—one, two, three packets, as usual—and he should probably say something or clear his throat or do literally anything besides hover like a creep, but his brain has completely blanked.
You're stirring now. Any second you'll turn around and he'll say something smooth and—
He's made a miscalculation.
Grabbing your mug, you step backward—and walk directly into his chest.
You gasp, spinning around. The coffee in your cup jumps, sloshing over the rim and splashing across your hand, your wrist. Drops hit your shirt, your pants. Your headphones catch and pull free from your ears.
"Shit!" you hiss, jerking your hand back. Coffee drips onto the floor between you.
Victor's frozen, staring at the spreading stain on your shirt, at your reddening hand. At least the break room coffee is never really hot. Perpetually room temperature, in fact. "I—"
"Jesus Christ, Sonar!" You set the mug down hard on the counter, shaking out your hand. "How long have you been standing there?"
"I wasn't—I just—" His mouth is moving but nothing useful is coming out. "Maybe thirty seconds? I was waiting for you to turn around because you had headphones in and I didn't want to—"
"So you just stood behind me?" You grab napkins from the dispenser, pressing them against your shirt. The coffee's already seeping through. "Silently?"
"I didn't want to startle you—"
"Well, congratulations. You failed." You're dabbing at the stain, movements sharp and frustrated. More napkins. The coffee isn't coming out. "God damn it."
"I can help—"
"It's fine."
"Let me get you paper towels, or—"
"It's fine, Sonar." You crumple the napkins in your fist and toss them in the trash. When you look at him, your expression is carefully neutral. Painfully polite. "I have an extra shirt in my locker. I need to go change."
"I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"I know." You're already moving past him, toward the door. "It's fine. Just... an accident."
But the way you say it doesn't sound like you think it's fine at all.
Victor watches you leave, your coffee-stained shirt disappearing around the corner, and something in his chest sinks.
The break room is quiet. Too quiet.
He turns slowly, meeting Malevola's gaze.
"Don't," Victor says.
"I didn't say anything."
"You're thinking it loud enough."
Victor's tried four more times since the coffee incident.
Each interaction has been uniquely catastrophic in ways he didn't think were possible. There was the time he tried to hold the elevator for you and accidentally hit the emergency stop button instead, trapping you both for twenty minutes while you made increasingly uncomfortable small talk and he sweated through his shirt.
He followed that disappointment a few days later when he brought you coffee from an overpriced cafe as an apology (three sugars, he remembered) but had accidentally grabbed another order instead—black, no sugar—and watched you take a sip and immediately wince.
Then there was the time he tried to compliment your new haircut but instead said you looked "different" in a tone that implied he meant it negatively.
And finally, there was yesterday, when he'd attempted to help you carry a box of files and had somehow managed to trip over absolutely nothing, sending papers exploding across the hallway like the world's most pathetic confetti cannon.
The Z-team has been having a field day. He's even seen money exchanging hands in the break room. Malevola claims she's been betting in his favor, but her recent vinyl purchases suggest a very different story.
By this point, Victor's half-expecting a restraining order. Or at minimum, a very awkward meeting with Robert to discuss workplace boundaries and what constitutes harassment.
He's given up. Officially. He's waving the white flag.
Which is why he's at Gracie's on a Saturday night, letting the terrible DJ and even worse drink specials wash over him in waves of aggressive mediocrity.
The music is too loud. The bass is making his head throb—enhanced hearing is a blessing until it very much isn't—and some drunk girl just spilled her vodka cranberry on his shoe.
He needs air.
Victor pushes through the crowd toward the back exit, shouldering past a group doing shots and a couple making out against the wall. Lucky them.
Reaching the door to the patio area, he shoves it open and steps outside.
And freezes instantly.
You're sitting on a picnic table that's been shoved up against the brick exterior wall, perched on the top with your feet on the actual seat, scrolling through your phone. The string lights overhead cast everything in warm amber.
Oh fuck.
Victor immediately pivots, turns on his heel, fully prepared to march right back into the bass-thumping hellscape he just escaped because this—this looks like stalking. This looks like he planned this. This looks like—
The door slams open into his face.
"Shiiiiiit, dude, my bad!"
A drunk guy stumbles past him, hand briefly patting Victor's shoulder in apology before he makes a beeline for the porta-potties in the corner of the patio.
Victor's holding his temple, white eyes squeezed shut against the sharp pain.
"Sonar?"
He opens his eyes and turns around. You're looking at him now, phone lowered, expression unreadable.
"Oh, heyy." His voice comes out pained. "Didn’t see you there. What’s up?”
He genuinely considers willing himself to transform and flying away, dignity be damned.
You lock your phone. Drop it in your lap. "Are you stalking me?"
Victor's eyes go wide. His hands come up immediately, waving emphatically. "No, no. I swear, I didn't know you'd be here—"
A smile breaks across your face within seconds, your laughter following suit. Bubbly and amused and completely unexpected. "I'm just fucking with you. Everyone and their fuckin' mom comes to Gracie's on a Saturday, apparently. Dunno what the fuck that's about."
The word 'fuck' sounds strange coming from you. Wrong, but in a way that makes his body heat with warmth he's not entirely prepared for. He's seeing you in a completely new light now as he slowly walks closer: gone is the corporate demeanor, the professional distance.
You, his Medusa, are a potty mouth.
In a way that's much more endearing than when Chase does it.
Victor realizes he's been quiet for a few seconds too long. "Yeah," he manages. "What the fuck is that about?"
The grin on your face widens as you tilt your head, examining him. Instinctively, Victor stands straighter, hoping it radiates an attractive aura of confidence rather than the barely-restrained awkwardness he's actually feeling.
"Can I join you?" He points to the space next to you.
You glance at it, then back at him. Nod. "Make yourself comfortable."
"Cool."
He climbs up, settling beside you. Not too close—that would be creepy, invasive, weird. But not too far either—that would be offensive, like he thinks you have a disease or something. Just in case. He scoots a little to the left. Then back to the right.
You don't comment on his musical chairs routine, which he takes as a win.
Now that he's closer, he can see the slight tint in your cheeks, the looseness in your posture that speaks of a few drinks in your system. Which might explain the casual swearing—and the fact that you didn't pretend not to know him entirely.
The drunk guy exits the porta-potty, stumbling slightly as he heads back inside. A few girls immediately take his place, their loud laughter cutting through the muffled bass still thumping from inside the bar. Victor grimaces at the sound of one of them vomiting into the open toilet.
Classy establishment, this.
You're looking down at your lap now, twirling your phone between your fingers. Nosily, Victor tries to peek at your lockscreen, see what hints it might give about your life outside of dispatching. But he's met with nothing. Just the black, smooth coating of a privacy screen protector.
Smart.
He's half-tempted to pull out his own phone just to give himself something to do besides aimlessly bounce his knee. But that would be rude. And you haven't unlocked your phone either, which feels like a sign. This is his chance. His shot at redemption. To make up for the elevator incident and the coffee mix-up and the box of papers and every other disaster that's led to this moment.
He sorts through the thoughts in his mind, watching dialogue options flash across his consciousness like some shitty dating sim.
"Can you—" You grimace slightly, glancing at him. "Could you stop that? Maybe?"
Victor blinks, head whipping to the side. You're pointing at his knee, your gaze bouncing between his face and the traitorous limb that's been bouncing hard enough to shake the whole bench.
"Oh, yeah. For sure. My bad."
He clears his throat, placing his palm flat on his knee. The movement slows, but he can still feel the muscles twitching under his hand, restless energy with nowhere to go. He knew those lines in the bathroom were a mistake. Victor opts for a better solution, leaning forward to brace both forearms on his thighs, using his weight to settle the spasms.
Silence settles between you again. You're humming under your breath, and without looking directly at you, he can hear the rustle of fabric as you sway subtly to the music bleeding through the walls. The vibrations meet his eardrums, bass-heavy and relentless.
He steals a few glances at you. After the third, his gaze settles on the side of your face, taking in your profile. The shape of your nose, the curve of your jaw, the way the string lights catch in your hair.
Conversation. He needs to make conversation. He's alone with you, and you haven't skittered away from his presence like every other time. This is it. Say something. Anything. Something to engage you, make you like him—
"You want some coke?"
Your eyes lock on his as you turn to look at him, brows furrowed and mouth slightly parted.
"I have some. In case you do."
You're still staring. Your mouth parts even further, but he can see the corners of your lips beginning to turn upward.
"Or not. That's totally cool. You don't have to. I just thought I'd offer because we're both here and—"
Finally, you break your silence with a laugh, your shoulders shaking with it. "You know SDN drug tests, right?"
If Victor had a human face, he's sure it would've been drained entirely of color. He sits ramrod straight, leaning further into your space without meaning to. "What? They do?"
Pressing your lips together, you give him a tight nod.
His face falls. He looks forward blankly, speedrunning the image of unemployment in his mind—fired for a failed drug test of all things, after everything he's survived, after clawing his way back from federal charges and—
Then his ears twitch, picking up another sound leaving your lips. Another fit of laughter.
He turns to face you once more.
"I'm just fucking with you again," you say, curling into yourself as your laughter settles into something softer. "Oh my god, your face."
"So not cool," Victor says, but he's fighting back a chuckle of his own. "My life just flashed before my eyes."
"Oh, I saw it." You bite back a smile. "Don't worry. If we started drug testing, I think we'd fire half the staff." You give him a pointed look. "You guys love your drugs."
You're teasing him. This is a win. He's winning. Victor clears his throat, hoping to play it cool.
"And I was still willing to share."
"Oh, how charitable of you."
You're looking at him through your lashes now, your head slightly lolled to the side. You look... so hot. He's fighting the urge to inhale your scent like a rabid dog. He's more refined than that. More dignified.
"I'm actually very charitable," he says, nodding seriously.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. Not to brag or anything."
"Seems like you're super humble, too."
He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "Totally."
His response earns him another laugh. He's racking up wins tonight, each one more improbable than the last. Finally.
You shift slightly, curling in on yourself, arms wrapping around your middle. It's not really cold outside, but he sees an opening. A chance. Every romance movie he's ever secretly watched while high has prepared him for this moment.
Victor shrugs off his suit jacket and drapes it over your shoulders in one smooth motion.
You jump slightly, startled, but then you realize what he's doing and soften into it, pulling the fabric closer around yourself.
"Oh," you say quietly. "Thank you."
And he swears—he fucking swears—you run your gaze over him. Over the white dress shirt, over the loosened tie at his collar, lingering just a second too long. You're checking him out. Holy shit, you're actually checking him out.
"No problem." He's trying not to grin too wide.
You settle back into your sitting position, his jacket wrapped around your shoulders like a claim, and Victor has to resist the urge to fist-pump right there.
"I'm—I'm sorry that I brush you off at work."
Victor raises a brow, surprised. He wasn't expecting an apology. Wasn't expecting you to acknowledge any of it.
"I have this anti-superhero policy," you continue, not quite meeting his eyes. "For flirting, or whatever. A lot of you guys are just so stuck up, you know? Full of yourselves. And I thought—" You pause, picking at your nails. "I thought you were messing with me for some weird entertainment. Because the Z-team is always laughing whenever you try to talk to me."
You guys. You consider him a proper superhero.
"They were laughing at me," Victor says quickly. "Not you. Totally not you." He runs a hand over his head, over the smooth fur there. "They were laughing because I kept messing it up. Every single time."
"I realize that now," you murmur softly.
Victor opens his mouth to say something else—something smooth—but you make a small sound of discomfort, dropping your head down as you run a hand across your temple.
"I think I should go get some water."
You're starting to move, preparing to haul yourself up from the table, but Victor stands quickly—too quickly—and nearly stumbles when his foot catches on the ledge of the bench.
"No," he says, then clears his throat, smoothing his voice into something more casual. "I mean, you stay here. I'll go."
"Are you sure?" You're looking up at him with furrowed brows, readjusting his jacket across your shoulders.
White eyes track the movement, and his heart beats faster at the image of you in his coat. It skips, unhappily, at the thought of you taking it off in favor of going back inside—at the image of losing you to a crowd.
He nods, probably too quick. "For sure. You just—you stay here. Don't move."
His hands raise to emphasize his point, and thankfully, you bite back a laugh at the motion. "Okayyy."
Victor nods again, smiling, then starts backing toward the door. He glances back once, twice, making sure you haven't moved. You wave at him, amused, and he nearly walks into the doorframe before catching himself.
Smooth. Real smooth.
He opens the door casually, steps inside—
And then he's running.
Waters acquired, he heads back, walking quickly but not running this time. Playing it cool. He's got this.
He pushes the door open with his shoulder—
And immediately registers that something is wrong.
You're standing now, backed up against the picnic table. There's a guy in front of you. Too close. Your arms are crossed, body language screaming discomfort.
"—just being friendly," the guy is saying, his words slurred. "Why you gotta be such a bitch about it?"
Victor's jaw clenches.
"Wow, I'm swooning," you say, annoyed. "Leave me alone, dick."
Victor steps forward, waters still in hand. "She’s not interested."
The guy turns, taking in Victor with bleary eyes. Scoffs. "Nobody's talking to your recalled beanie baby ass."
Victor's mouth falls open slightly. Recalled beanie baby? Now he's pissed.
"Fuck you, man."
The guy laughs, turning back to you. "What, this your boyfriend or something?"
"Don't be a cunt," you say to the guy.
Another laugh, ugly and mean. "Sure, I'll stop being one if you show me yours—"
One second, Victor's standing there, waters in hand, watching this play out.
Then the glasses in his hands shatter.
And everything goes red.
His vision tunnels. His hearing sharpens. He feels the familiar, uncontrollable surge of his body changing, growing, warping. Clothing tears. Air hits fur. His heart pounds in his chest, rapid-fire, and his breathing comes harsh and ragged through expanding lungs.
Distant thuds fill his ears: people scrambling away from the patio area, the man's heartbeat kicking into overdrive, terror-sharp.
And yours—your heart is racing too.
Victor—no, the beast now, the creature version, massive and monstrous—hunches his shoulders and bares his fangs.
He shrieks, a guttural sound of pure rage, and the guy's eyes go wide, face drained of color.
"She told you to get lost," Sonar growls, his voice distorted and deep.
The guy nods frantically, stumbling backward. "I'm—yeah, I'm going, I'm—"
He turns and runs, practically falling over himself to get back inside the bar.
Victor watches him go, head turning to track the movement. He's still breathing hard, teeth bared, arms tense and ready. The predatory satisfaction of watching a threat flee courses through him, hot and electric.
Then his gaze swings back.
And he sees you.
Wide-eyed. Mouth open. Hands tightening around his jacket.
Shit.
He transforms back in a rush, the shift happening so fast it leaves him dizzy. Fur recedes. Size shrinks. His breathing evens out.
And then he's just Victor again, standing in the middle of the patio, completely naked, glass crunched under his feet.
You're staring.
"I... kinda feel like I may have overreacted," he says.
"No—that was—" Your eyes flicker downward and widen more.
"Oh!" You turn immediately, one hand coming up to cover your eyes. "Oh my god. Your dick is out."
Victor stiffens—in multiple ways, unfortunately—and looks down.
Yup. Dick's out. He moves to cover himself with his hands.
He's not ashamed, exactly. He knows he's packing more than average. But he's also a grower in more ways than one, and this was definitely not how it went in his fantasies when you first saw him naked. He'd imagined it would be more empowering. That you'd go wide-eyed with lust and excitement, maybe bite your lip suggestively.
Not turn away and exclaim while covering your eyes. That's... not a good sign.
"Shit. Sorry. That—the clothes don't come back when I transform. Because of the whole ripping apart thing."
"Um," you say, voice muffled behind your hand. You're carefully not looking at him, which would be funny if Victor wasn't dying inside. "Here."
You take his jacket off your shoulders and hold it out blindly, arm extended.
"Thanks," Victor mutters, taking it.
He tries to figure out how to position it around his waist. The warm night breeze kisses his exposed skin.
"Can we—can we just—" He does an awkward shuffle-turn with you so his bare ass is facing the wall. "Just turn with me—yeah, like that—"
Finally, he gets the jacket positioned, holding it around himself like a towel. Roman bath-style. "Okay. Got it."
You peek through your fingers. "All good?"
He clears his throat. "Yup. Yeah. All good."
You drop your hand and turn fully to face him, holding his gaze for a long moment.
And then you're laughing, covering your face with both hands, shoulders shaking. Victor feels the tips of his ears go hot with embarrassment.
"Maybe you could not laugh in my face after seeing my penis."
You're laughing harder now, doubled over. "No, it's not that, I swear, it's—"
You press your fingers over your lips, taking a deep breath to compose yourself. "I appreciate you defending my honor."
"Anytime," Victor says, and he means it despite the circumstances.
Someone bursts through the door, yelling your name, and both of you snap your heads toward the sound.
Your friend stops in place, eyes going wide as she takes in the scene—you, Victor in nothing but a jacket-toga, broken glass everywhere.
"Uh... hello." She walks over slowly, confused but clearly intrigued. "Am I interrupting something?"
You and Victor glance at each other.
"No—uh, this is Sonar. We work together," you say quickly.
"Heyy," Victor says. He readjusts his hold on the jacket with one hand and extends the other for a handshake. "What's good?"
Your friend takes it delicately, eyebrows climbing higher. "I'm—wow. Okay." She introduces herself, then looks between you and Victor, amusement growing in her expression. She looks at you with a shit-eating grin. "Do all the hot superheroes at your job get naked for you?"
Victor sees an opening and points at her. "Only the best ones."
Your friend cackles. You cover your face again, but you're smiling.
"Well," your friend says, turning back to you, "I've been looking for you. I think we're ready to head home. That cool?"
You nod, glancing back at Victor. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good."
"'Kay, I'm calling the Uber." Your friend pulls out her phone and steps away, giving you two space.
You turn to Victor fully, and he holds your eye contact for as long as he can manage without combusting.
You walk toward him.
Victor stiffens—and embarrassingly, he can feel himself getting hard. He attributes it to the warm breeze and your smell flooding his nostrils and the softness of the jacket lining. Curse his excellent taste.
He tracks your movement with white eyes. When you're close enough, you go up on your toes and press a kiss to his cheek.
His brain flatlines.
You pull back, and there's a strand of hair stuck to your lip gloss.
"Oh, hair," you laugh softly, pulling it away from your mouth. "I'll…see you Monday?"
Victor's still stunned. Completely frozen. "Yeah. For sure. See you... see you Monday."
Your friend grabs your hand, tugging you toward the door. "Uber's here. Let's go."
She glances back at Victor as you both head inside. "Nice meeting you, Batman."
"It's—it's Sonar—" he calls after you, but you're already gone.
Victor stands there for a moment, alone on the patio, hand still pressed to the fur on his cheek where you kissed him.
He does a celebratory fist pump, his jacket falling to the ground. "Yes! This is what I'm talking about!"
Someone stumbles out of the porta-potty. They make eye contact. The guy freezes, taking in Victor's naked form with wide eyes.
"Celebrating a massive win," Victor explains.
The guy keeps staring.
Victor leans down slowly to grab his jacket, wrapping it back around his waist. "Aight. Night, man."
He lets his excitement bleed through his body, raising his heartbeat as he transforms—carefully holding his jacket this time—and takes off into the sky. Victor is too consumed in his success to register the small baggie that fell out of his jacket pocket and landed on the ground.
The guy from the porta-potty watches the giant bat fly away, then looks down at the baggie at his feet.
He picks it up, examines it, and grins.
Score.
thank you for reading and please lmk if you enjoyed <3 i operate entirely on positive reinforcement like a dog with treats :D
edit: i am being…persuaded for a part two…so maybe i’ll make a taglist 😽 THE NEXT PARTS can be read on ao3 while i work on a proper sequel!
