#dispatch oneshot x reader

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.

The hallway leading to their apartment felt like stepping into the warm exhale of a tired city. It smelled faintly of cinnamon, vanilla creamer, and something like the ghost of late-night coffee grounds— comforting, lived-in, domestic in a way that made your bones soften. The hum of passing cars filtered through the thin stairwell window, gentle and distant, like waves smoothing out the edges of a long week.

You knocked once. The sound barely settled before the door cracked open— and Mal filled the frame like she’d been carved to fit it.

Her hair was down, a dark spill over one shoulder, catching the hallway light like ink poured over satin. Her grin started crooked and only grew more wicked the longer she looked at you. But underneath that— beneath the demon confidence and that not-so-subtle “I could eat you alive if I wanted to”— there was something softer. Almost startled.

Because you were standing there in sweats and a tank top, hair loose and a little messy from the wind, eyes tired but bright. Comfortable. Real. And beautiful in the kind of way that made people forget what they wanted to say.

“… Well,” she drawled, leaning one hand against the doorframe. “If I knew you’d show up looking like an absolute dream, I would’ve actually brushed my hair.”

Behind her, Victor hovered with the stiff, guilty posture of someone who’d spent the last ten minutes rehearsing how casual he’d be and then immediately forgot the lines. His white eyes flicked to you, widened slightly, then darted away like you were the sun and he’d forgotten his sunglasses.

“You, uh…” He cleared his throat. “You look… good.”

A beat.

“Not that you don’t always look good. I just— this is… I’m— I’ll shut up.”

You stepped inside, letting your shoulder skim Mal’s arm as you passed. A barely-there touch. Soft. Intentional. Enough to make her breath catch.

“Long week,” you murmured, tousling your hair once more for emphasis. “I wanted to be comfy. Hope that’s not too scandalous.”

Mal’s grin sharpened, but her voice dipped into something low, warm, almost reverent.

“Scandalous? No. Dangerous? Absolutely.”

Victor made a small, strangled sound behind her. “Yeah, no— yep. Very dangerous. Lethal, even. A hazard. Should come with signage.”

You laughed, the sound curling into the apartment like a bright ribbon of warmth. The space greeted you back with soft lamplight and the faint citrus-clean scent of a place someone had hurriedly straightened up. Pillows fluffed. A blanket draped just so. A mug forgotten near the sink with a pretty lipstick stain.

You set your bag down on the couch, the tiny clink of glass inside catching their attention immediately.

“What’d you bring?” Mal asked, leaning closer— not enough to crowd you, just enough to keep the air charged.

“Treats,” you said lightly, pulling our jars and bottles. “Face masks for us, and a hair mask for Victor.” You tilted the jar toward him. “This is my favorite one. The one you said you thought smelled nice.”

His entire posture crumpled into flustered disbelief.

“You— I mean, you remembered? I mentioned that once. In passing. Barely.” He rubbed the back of his neck, tail twitching behind him like a static-buzzed cable.

“God, you’re gonna kill me.”

Mal nudged him with her elbow. “She’s being nice Vic. Don’t die over it.”

He whispered, “No promises,” under his breath.

You moved to the couch, legs tucked comfortably beneath you. When you opened the first jar of cool, soothing lavender, the scent blossomed into the air— soft, floral, calming. You dipped your fingers in and gestured for Mal to lean closer.

The demon woman tried— really tried— to play it cool. But the moment your fingertips touched her cheekbones, when your thumb swept along the smooth angle of her jaw, she inhaled sharply. Almost silently. Almost.

Her eyes fluttered, then locked onto yours. Dark. Curious. Unsteady in a way she tried so desperately to hide.

“Gentle hands,” she murmured, voice husky. “Didn’t expect that.”

“Why?” You teased, smoothing the mask across her forehead. “You think I go around slapping spa products onto people?”

She huffed a laugh, low and warm. “Wouldn’t put it past you.”

You laughed, then turned to Victor.

He froze, sitting with his back straight, shoulders tights, hands balled into fists on his knees. Like if he moved, he’d ruin whatever fragile luck delivered you into their living room.

“This might be a little cold,” you warned, gesturing for him to move closer.

“Oh, yeah, cool— cold is good— cold is great—“ he muttered, then flinched the moment your fingers touched the fur along his jaw.

The sound that escaped him was microscopic.

Soft.

Half-swallowed.

Something between a laugh and a prayer.

“Relax,” you said gently, combing the product through the silky tufts with slow, methodical care. “I won’t hurt you.”

“You could,” he whispered.

Then louder, clearing his throat: “I mean— not physically. Physically I’m… mostly sturdy. I think. Probably.”

Mal snorted.

You tried, and failed, to bite back a smile.

By the time all three masks were on, the room smelled like coconut, lavender, and something gently earthy from Victor’s hoodie. The low lamplight turned everything gold. You reached back into your bag and pulled out a tiny bottle of shimmery pink polish.

Mal’s eyes sharpened instantly. “That’s the color we picked out for you the other day.”

Victor leaned closer. “…Wait. That’s the exact one?”

You lifted your hand, fingers splayed, nails already painted in the soft pink glow.

Their breath caught at the same time.

“I thought we could match,” you said simply.

Mal blinked once. Twice. Her voice softened, unexpectedly unguarded: “I— we’d like that.”

You took Mal’s hand first, warmth blooming in your chest. Her skin was warm under your fingertips, her thumb brushing the inside of your wrist in a way she pretended was accidental. She watched you like you were making art of her, each stroke of the brush an invitation she didn’t know how to handle.

When you took Victor’s hand next, he held it so still it was almost comical— shoulders squared, toes curled, entire body clenched like he was preparing for impact.

“Breathe,” you whispered.

“Oh. Right. Forgot that part.”

You painted in slow strokes, your fingers brushing his knuckles. He made a tiny, helpless sound, immediately pretending he didn’t.

After the polish dried and the masks were washed off, the three of you curled into the couch like you’d been doing it for years. A blanket draped over the three of you, limbs overlapping in lazy, drifting touches.

Your head rested on Mal’s shoulder.

Victor’s arm brushed your thigh.

Your fingers found both of theirs somewhere in the middle.

The movie flickered softly in front of you, but conversation rose and faded around it— quiet musings, teasing comments, soft confessions disguised as jokes. Nothing and everything all at once.

The room was warm, it smelled like home, and as your eyes slipped shut, Mal and Victor shared a look. They watched you with something tender, fierce, and quietly aching. Something they tried to hide, but couldn’t.

You slept softly between them.

And they made a vow in the hush of their shared breath.

You were theirs.

They’d make sure you knew it, make sure you felt it.