#x soft!reader

[bryan-writes]

Within Hearshot— Sonar x fem!soft!reader

Summary: a gentle dispatcher (in training) lets herself have fun for once, and Victor realizes just how far he’s fallen for her.

CW: alcohol use/tipsiness, drug mention, unwanted advances/creepy flirting, protective Victor, lots of cute fluff :)!

Guys. I just love him so much! If you guys have any dispatch requests pls send them over, my brain is ROTTED😭🫶

Dividers by @strangergraphics <3

The club thrums like a living creature.

Every surface sweats neon— purple smearing into blues smearing into hot pink streaks across the walls. Bass rattles the bones of the place, drowning out the city outside. It’s the kind of night Victor usually slips into like a second skin, dancing until the lines of his body blur into pure motion and the drugs smooth his mind into bliss.

But tonight, for the first time in forever, he’s aware. Sharply aware.

Because you’re here.

He spots you the moment the rest of the z-team funnels through the entrance— Prism shimmering in something holographic, Malevola dressed like she hexed the dress code, and in between them… you. Their newest trainee dispatcher. Calm, quiet, soft-handed you— who normally spends her hours with a headset on and a strange, steady patience like you’re holding the whole city together with kindness alone.

Now you’re stepping into a club of full heat and noise, and the contrast is so unfairly beautiful it sucker-punches him.

You’re in something simple but pretty— something that brushes your thighs when you walk and catches the light every time you move. Your hair’s a little messy from dancing on the way over. You laugh at something Prism whispers, and Victor feels the sound like an electric filament unspooling itself down his spine.

He leans back against a pillar, drink in hand, trying very hard not to stare.

He fails immediately.

You’re already swaying on the dance floor, letting Prism and Malevola pull you into their orbit. And you’re good— loose in that tipsy, unbothered way that people who don’t dance often tend to be once they give in. You toss your head back during the chorus, hair catching neon ribbons of light, and Victor’s chest tightens.

He tells himself it’s the drugs. That’s usually a safe bet.

But even he knows better.

You do this thing with your hands— gesturing dramatically at Prism, teasing her— and Malevola howls with laughter. You lean into it, cheeks flushed, eyes soft with warmth. You’re always sweet at work, gentle in a way the rest of them aren’t built for. But here, you’re something else. Unbuttoned. Playful. Still soft, yes— but more alive. Like color running outside the lines in the best possible way.

Victor takes a long sip from his drink, settling deeper against the pillar. He should join you. He wants to. His pulse is begging him to. His muscles twitch with the beat like they might drag him forward on their own.

But he hesitates.

Because he’s watching you.

Because you’re too fun to interrupt.

Because his heart is doing something stupid and spark-like that has nothing to do with chemistry and everything to do with your smile.

You turn in a loose spin— half grace, half tipsy enthusiasm— and Prism has to catch your waist. You burst into laughter, clutching her arms for balance. Victor’s hand twitches like he wants to be the one holding you.

He presses the heel of his palm to his eye.

Get it together, man.

Still, he can’t look away.

You dance without restraint. Without fear of looking ridiculous. Without shame. It’s like you trust the room to hold your joy. Like you trust your team to keep you safe. And the softness in that almost hurts.

And when you laugh again— full, warm, unselfconscious— he realizes he’s probably doomed.

And you’re dancing now. Really dancing.

Hands in the air, body rolling to the beat, eyes bright and half-lidded. You joke with Malevola about something, miming a dramatic gasp. You wiggle your eyebrows at Prism. You keep accidentally bumping into people and apologizing with a smile that’s so sincere Victor watches them forgive you on the spot.

You’re the kind of person people make room for.

The kind he wants to protect even if you’re perfectly capable of holding your own.

He’s drifting toward the dance floor before he realizes it.

Not close enough to crowd you— just in orbit. Just to make sure you’re okay. You laugh at something Malevola shouts, throwing your head back, and his knees nearly buckle.

You’re not subtle, he tells himself.

He doesn’t care.

When the song shifts, you breathe out, hands on your chest. “Water. I need water. I’m ninety percent glitter and sweat at this point.”

Prism throws an arm around you. “Then go, little hydration fairy. Bring us liquid salvation.”

You do a little salute, giggling. “Three waters! I’m on it.”

You start toward the bar.

Victor follows at a distance so natural nobody notices.

He’ll dance later.

Right now, he’s looking out for you.

Whether he admits why or not.

The club air tastes like citrus and heat and something faintly sweet— like the remnants of champagne spilled hours ago. The bar counter is a kaleidoscope of reflections. You lean with your elbow on the cool metal surface, catching your breath with a smile you can’t shake.

You’re having a good night.

Like— shockingly good. You don’t usually do clubs. You’re a “quiet dinner with friends” person. A “movie night with hot cocoa” kind of girl. But tonight? Prism and Malevola swept you up like a pair of glittery hurricanes, and you let yourself get carried.

And you’re… proud of yourself.

You danced. You laughed. You let go.

The music still thrums in your bones.

“You okay there?” The bartender asks kindly.

You grin. “I’m perfect. I need water, actually. Three of them, please.”

“Coming right up.”

While he fetches bottles, you swat absentmindedly to the beat. Your hips can’t help it; your body’s still warm and fizzy with movement. You’re already imagining going back to the girls— Prism will cheer, Malevola will pretend she hates water and drink it anyways.

You’re happy. Soft around the edges. Untethered in the nicest way.

Which is why the voice behind you makes you jump.

“You dance pretty good for someone who looks like they’re reading a book in the corner.”

You blink and turn. A man. Older than you by at least a decade. Close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath.

You step back politely. “Oh— thanks? I think? Just having fun.”

“Come dance with me.”

You shake your head with a strained smile. “I’m with friends right now.”

He leans closer. Too close. “You can come back to them later.”

“No, really,” you say with that firm softness you’ve perfected. “I’m good.”

He reaches out— two fingers hooking your wrist.

Not hard, but insistent.

Something cold flickers under your ribs.

“I said come here—“

“And she said she’s not interested.”

The voice slips in behind you, smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous.

You don’t have to look to know who it is. The sense of safety that blooms in your chest is instantaneous.

Victor steps between you and the man, posture lazy, smile dreamily calm— the way people smile right before they ruin someone’s whole evening.

“She’s good,” Victor says lightly. “You can go.”

The man scoffs. “Mind your business.”

Victor’s smile widens, slow and soft. Too soft.

“My guy,” he says, “her heart rate just jumped like thirty beats in three seconds. The only time it does that is when she’s scared or when I make her laugh. And trust me— you aren’t funny.”

Your face warms.

Even tipsy, you glare at him for that.

Victor’s eyes flick to you. His smile softens in a completely different way.

Then he turns back to the man, voice a breath colder. “Last chance.”

The man mutters something and disappears.

You sag against the bar, breath leaving your lungs in a rush.

Victor turns to you immediately, brows knitting.

“You okay?” He murmurs. “He didn’t hurt you?”

“No,” you say softly. “He just… grabbed my wrist.”

You lift your hand.

Victor gently takes it, checking the skin like he’s memorizing it.

“Does it hurt?”

“No,” you say again. “Just startled me.”

His jaw flexes.

Then— very quietly— “Your heart’s still fast.”

You make a small noise. “Victor…”

He leans closer, lips brushing your temple. “I’m just saying. I can hear everything.”

You hide your face with one hand. “You’re embarrassing me.”

“That’s okay. You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”

You nearly perish.

He steadies you with a warm hand at the small of your back after paying the bartender, guiding you gently through the crowd like you’re something precious he’s holding onto.

You don’t mind his touch.

You lean into it, actually.

Somewhere between the bar and your friends, you realize your smile hasn’t left once.

Prism cries out: “Hydration goddess returns!”

Malevola steals her bottle instantly.

But Victor doesn’t let go of your waist.

He doesn’t even pretend to.

The next song swells— something slower, sweeter, warm as honey over the speakers. You finish sipping your water, and Victor steps in front of you.

“Dance with me,” he says quietly.

You open your mouth automatically to deflect— but then close it. Because you want to. Because the adrenaline hasn’t faded yet. Because you feel good. Loose. Brave.

So you smile— one of your real ones, brought and soft and a little mischievous.

“Only if you promise not to make fun of my moves.”

Victor nearly stops breathing. “Sweetheart, I’ve been watching you dance all night. I’m trying not to propose.”

Your laugh is light and breathless. “Oh my god, Victor—“

He pulls you closer.

And then closer still.

The beat vibrates through your ribs as you settle your hands behind his neck, burying them into the fur there. You fit against him so naturally it’s almost unfair. His palms drift to your hips, thumbs brushing skin.

“You scared me earlier,” he murmurs into your hair.

You sway with him, voice gentle. “I’m alright now.”

“Yeah,” he hums. “I can hear that too.”

You roll your eyes. “You and the heartbeat thing.”

“What?” He teases. “It’s convenient. Like having a built-in lie detector for flirting.”

“I’m not flirting,” you say.

“Liar.” He leans down. “Your heart just jumped again.”

You groan. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” he whispers. “You like me. A lot.”

You lift your head, meeting his eyes. “And if I do?”

He stares at you.

Something shifts in his face— something unguarded, warm, and a little awed.

“Then,” he says softly, “I’m the luckiest idiot in this place.”

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t kiss you.

But he rests his forehead against yours, swaying you gently while lights paint your skin in stripes of blue and pink.

“Do me a favor?” He murmurs.

“What?”

“Don’t wander off alone again. Please.”

You place a hand on his cheek, thumb brushing the fur just under his eye.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I won’t.”

Something in him unspools at that.

You feel it in the way he exhales— long, quiet, relieved. His arms slide around your waist, pulling you close like the promise matters more to him than the air in his lungs.

And for the rest of the song, you dance slow— his heartbeat, your heartbeat, and the club’s heartbeat weaving into something soft and bright and real.