#dust monitoring system | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sirxaibs · 3 months ago

Text

Dick Grayson | Nightwing X Reader

ᨒ ོ ☼ Voice on the Line ᨒ ོ ☼

I feel hes a munch. I feel hes a woman lover. He loves women. Him when women. Also did i think about Garcia and Morgan when writing this? yeah…. and what about it?

masterlist

You’re the newest addition to the Batsquad. Cant help if you’re basically forced to talk to eye candy all night. Though what if the eye candy wants you back.

ᨒ ོ ☼ The hum of servers filled the air like a lullaby, soft and steady behind the clack of your manicured fingers dancing across the keyboard. Multiple monitors cast a warm glow against your skin as codes flickered by, surveillance cams blinked into motion, and the Gotham skyline lit up under your careful watch. You chewed on a pink pen cap thoughtfully, then leaned into the mic on your headset.

“Alright, Bat Team, eyes up. Cameras just caught movement on the east perimeter. Looks like our guy’s not late to his own robbery party.” Static.

“Copy that,” came a deep voice laced with just enough sarcasm to make your lips twitch. “And here I was hoping for a quiet night.”

The soft glow of neon lights from Gotham’s skyline bled into the Watchtower’s tech room, giving everything a purple blue hue. The glow reflected off your screens, lighting up your face as your fingers flew across the keyboard. Surveillance cams, thermal feeds, encrypted audio all of it filtered through your custom built comms system. You leaned back in your chair, twirling said pink pen through your fingers. Your voice came through sweet as sugar, laced with a barely hidden smirk.

“Watch yourself Nightwing, I hope you’re wearing something cute under all that kevlar. You’re live on all my cams tonight.”

A low chuckle filtered through your headset, rough around the edges in the way that always made your stomach flip.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite guardian angel,” Nightwing drawled, voice dipped in charm he wore like a second skin. “What would I do without your voice whispering sweet nothings into my ear?”

“You’d probably walk into a wall,” you said sweetly. “Or into that very large man standing behind the dumpster on 5th and Main.”

There was a beat of silence, then a soft thwack through the mic.

“You mean that wasn’t a trash can?” he teased, slightly breathless. “How dare you underestimate my night vision, sugar.”

You grinned, propping your cheek in your palm as you tracked his movement across the rooftops. “Sugar now, huh? Is that your new nickname for me?”

“Unless you prefer ‘Sweetheart.’ Or ‘Hot Stuff.’ I’m flexible.”

You let out a melodic laugh, not even trying to hide it. “Wow, your flirting game is tragic tonight. You okay out there, Nightwing? Hit your head on a chimney?”

“I’m just warming up,” he said, voice low and smooth. “Wait ‘til I meet you in person. Then I’m turning the charm up to eleven.”

You opened your mouth to volley back but Barbara’s voice cut in like a whip.

“Alright, you two cut it.”

You both froze.

“Lock in,” Barbara said, her voice firm and dry as dust. “This isn’t a late night radio show. We’ve got multiple armed targets on the ground and a hostage situation developing five blocks south. Thermal (your hero name), patch the thermal overlay to Nightwing’s HUD.”

You straightened in your chair, fingers flying. “Yes, ma’am. Thermal incoming.”

“Nightwing,” Barbara added with the tone of a fed up older sister, “try keeping your tongue in your mouth for five minutes. You’re on mission, not a date.”

“Harsh, Babs,” he muttered.

“I’m just saying,” she continued, “if I had a dollar for every time I had to listen to the two of you flirt in the middle of a crisis, I could afford a better coffee maker.”

You bit your lip to hold back a laugh, then cleared your throat. “Aww, c’mon, Babs. Can’t a girl multitask? I can route power to Nightwings grappling line and boost morale at the same time.”

“I don’t need morale,” Nightwing interjected. “I need a distraction. Preferably wearing those glasses you mentioned last week.”

“You remember that?” you teased.

“I remember everything you say, Sweetheart.”

Barbara groaned audibly. “I’m leaving this room before I’m forced to bleach my ears.”

“I mean,” you added sweetly, “he’s just mad he can’t picture me behind this desk, legs crossed, looking very professional while saving his butt.”

Nightwing whistled. “If I didn’t have to stop a robbery, I’d be scaling that tower right now.”

Barbara’s voice snapped back over the channel like a rubber band. “Focus, both of you.”

“Copy that,” you said, suddenly all business again as you leaned forward and zoomed in on the warehouse entrance. “Three guards posted up. One pacing, one smoking, one with a submachine gun. Interior layout uploaded to your HUD. Entry through the southeast vent is clear. You’re greenlit, Nightwing.”

“See? She flirts, but she gets it done,” he muttered fondly.

You grinned. “I always stand on business, baby.”

“Then I better bring my A game. Wouldn’t want to disappoint my favorite tech goddess.”

You laughed quietly, adjusting your headset as you pulled up the emergency response grid. “Just don’t get shot, Nightwing.”

Barbara let out one final sigh before muttering, “I swear, I should’ve let Batman take this shift.”

But despite her grumbling, you swore you saw a smile tug at the corners of her lips as she turned away.

He grunted, and you could tell it was the kind of laugh he didn’t want you to hear.

“Let’s make a deal,” he said suddenly. “You keep me alive tonight, and I’ll finally let you buy me a coffee.”

You blinked. That was new. “You mean you buy me a coffee? Bold of you to assume you’re that charming.”

“You do call me every night.”

“Because it’s my job, Nightwing.”

Your own heart beat just a little faster as Nightwing’s icon approached the rendezvous point. It was almost always like this. Take the next day where you were thrown completely out of your own loop You were sprawled comfortably in the comms chair, pink converse kicked up on the desk, a bag of sour candy at your side, and at least three drinks within reach because hydration and caffeination were essential for optimal management.

Tonight’s mission? Barely a blip on the Bat Radar. A stakeout near the docks. Zero hostiles so far. Minimal risk. Maximal boredom.

“Nightwing,” you poured into your mic, stretching dramatically, “how’s the air up there on your boring little rooftop? You see anything exciting? UFOs? Pirates? A raccoon that looks like Bruce?”

“Negative on the Bruce raccoon,” Nightwing said through the comms, voice thick with amusement. “But thanks for the nightmare fuel, Sweetheart.”

“I try,” you chirped, popping another piece of candy into your mouth. “Gotta keep you on your toes.”

“You keep me somewhere, alright,” he murmured, just low enough to think you wouldn’t catch it.

You did. You always did. Before you could respond with another flirty jab, a new voice crackled in gruffer, sharper. Dry as sandpaper and twice as moody.

“Are you always like this?” Jason Todd’s voice cut in like a knife through silk. “I’ve been listening for ten minutes and I already want to uninstall my ears.”

You beamed, leaning closer to the mic like he could see your grin. “Red Hood! My favorite grump. Took you long enough to say hi.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he deadpanned.

“Oh, please. You love it,” you teased, swiveling in your chair like it helped transmit your energy. “I’m your emotional support chatterbox. You’d cry without me.”

“Unlikely.”

“Then why are you still listening?” you asked sweetly, tapping into his drone cam and watching as he crouched in the shadows near an old shipping container. “I see you didn’t even mute me. That’s gotta mean something.”

Jason sighed. The tiniest sigh. A truce in breath form.

“…You’re ridiculous.”

“And adorable, don’t forget that part.”

“Why does she talk to you like that?” Nightwing asked suddenly, cutting in with playful suspicion. “She doesn’t call me ‘adorable.’”

“I like to flirt with people who pretend to hate it,” you replied easily. “Keeps ‘em humble.”

Jason made a quiet scoffing noise. “You think I’m humble?”

“No,” you said, smirking. “But I do think you blush when I call you sweetheart.”

There was a long pause.

“…I’m turning off my comm.”

“You won’t,” you sang.

Before Jason could craft a dry comeback or fake a signal cut out, Nightwing returned this time with a tone that could only be described as smug older brother meets possessive flirt.

“Alright, alright,” Dick said, and you could hear his smirk. “Let’s not get carried away, Sweetheart. You do have a date coming up. With me, remember?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Oh yeah,” he continued smoothly, “you promised me coffee after our last op. Pretty sure that counts.”

“That was a tactical bribe to keep you alive,” you said quickly, cheeks burning despite your best effort. “Totally not binding.”

Jason actually chuckled at that chuckled. A small miracle.

“Well,” Dick said, clearly enjoying himself, “binding or not, I’ll be at that new café on 7th tomorrow at ten. You’re welcome to back out, but I do know where your candy stash is hidden in the Watchtower fridge.”

Your jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“You absolute menace.”

“See you then, Sweetheart.”

Jason exhaled like he was regretting all of his life choices.

“God, you’re both exhausting.”

You smiled, sweet and unbothered. “Don’t be jealous, Jay. I can pencil you in for brunch on Sunday.”

He groaned but didn’t mute you. Which, in your book, meant you weren’t the loser here .

𖤓˖⁺‧₊☽𓅨☾₊‧⁺˖𖤓

The room was quiet now.

The static from the comms had faded, the mics had all gone cold, and the buzz of conversation that had filled the Watchtower’s tech room just minutes ago had slipped into silence. You were alone, save for the hum of machines and the low, rhythmic click of a monitor blinking back to standby.

You leaned back in your chair slowly, arms folding over your chest as you stared blankly at the screens. Your bubbly persona so easy to slip into when surrounded by voices, teasing banter, and fast flying intel started to crack beneath the weight of the quiet.

It always did, when the room emptied.

He wanted coffee. Dick Grayson wanted to meet you. A date.

The thought hit you again, more real now than when he first said it in that casual, cocky tone of his. You’d brushed it off, played along, tossed flirtation back like you always did but now? Sitting alone, no distraction, no one listening?

You felt it. That creeping, slow turning anxiety curling in your stomach.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t thought about what he looked like before. Sure, you’d heard his voice, shared late night chatter across missions, and even made him laugh more than once. But imagining him? That was easy. Everyone in the Bat Family was objectively hot. Like, annoyingly so.

And you? You swallowed hard, curling your knees up into your chair and hugging them gently.

You weren’t anything like them. Not tall or sleek or scarred from combat. Not graceful in a catsuit or strong enough to throw a punch through a wall. You weren’t stick thin, but you weren’t curvy in a dramatic way either. You existed somewhere in the middle comfortable in hoodies, always in glasses, a bit awkward when the spotlight came too close. Your brain was your strongest muscle, and it sometimes felt like that was all you had.

Would he be disappointed?

You let out a slow breath, eyes flicking to your reflection in the dark screen across from you. No makeup, hair pulled back, sweater two sizes too big. You looked like someone who blended into a crowd. Like someone no one would stop for a second glance. What if you showed up and he just… didn’t see you the way he did over comms? What if the mystery was the only thing that made you interesting?

Your hand reached out instinctively, pressing your fingers to the edge of the console like you were grounding yourself.

You wanted to meet him. Of course you did. He was charming, and kind beneath all the jokes, and smart in the ways only someone who’d been through hell could be. But a date? That felt like something other people did. People who didn’t feel the need to hide behind tech and sarcasm to feel confident.

You sat there in silence, chewing your lip, wondering if he even knew what he was asking when he said, “see you then.”

Maybe it wasn’t a real date. Maybe he didn’t think of it like that.

But deep down, you knew you wanted it to be. You wanted to be seen. And you were scared of what would happen if you really were.

𖤓˖⁺‧₊☽𓅨☾₊‧⁺˖𖤓

Dick Grayson stood in front of the mirror of his Blüdhaven apartment, tugging at the hem of his sweatshirt like it was a tux. Casual. Chill. Low key. That was the goal.

So why the hell did he feel like he was prepping for a mission?

He ran a hand through his hair, tousling it for the third no, fourth time. Dark jeans, clean white sneakers, a navy hoodie that fit just right not too fitted, not too loose. He changed shirts three times before this one finally felt like the right one. He hadn’t been this particular about his outfit since prom.

“It’s not a date,” he told his reflection. “It’s just coffee.”

A pause.

“…With the girl who knows all your safe houses, your secret patrol routes, and who once talked you through stitching your own shoulder at 3 a.m. without flinching.”

Okay. Maybe a little more than just coffee.

He reached for his phone on the counter. One unread text waited at the top of the screen.

Comms girl <3: You sure about this?

Comms girl <3:You don’t have to meet me.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard before he typed back quickly.

bluebird: I’m very sure. You owe me that coffee, remember? I risked my life for that latte.

Your reply came within seconds.

Comms girl <3: You were five feet from the guy. I stalled him with a fake 911 ping. YOU’RE WELCOME.

He chuckled, thumbs flying across the screen.

blurbird : Still counts. Heroics were involved. You agreed to a reward. No backing out now.

Comms girl <3: Still time to change your mind. Could just keep this mystery thing going. It’s fun. Less risky.

He stared at that message a moment longer than he wanted to admit. There was a strange comfort in the way things were. The comms. The banter. The way your voice softened when his breathing grew strained after a tough fight. How you’d scold him for reckless moves and then follow up with, “But also… that flip you did? Sick as hell.”

You were part of the job no, more than that. You were part of him. But only in fragments.

He’d seen the pieces you gave: your voice, your wit, your ridiculous caffeine addiction, the hum of music sometimes playing faintly in the background when you were on shift. But he’d never seen you.

Meanwhile, you’d seen everything.

bluebird: You’ve seen my file, haven’t you?

he typed.

bluebird: I know what color your eyes are. I haven’t even seen yours.

Comms girl <3: Don’t worry. They’re not laser eyes or anything.

Comms girl <3: Still time to run. I won’t be mad.

Dick stared at the screen, thumb resting over the keyboard again. A few moments passed. Then he typed back:

bluebird: I don’t want to run. I want to meet you. For real.

Read. But no reply. He locked his phone, shoved it into the pocket of his hoodie, and grabbed his keys and helmet. Outside, the early evening had begun to spill across the Blüdhaven skyline. Fading light. Long shadows.

For once, he wasn’t slipping into the shadows himself. He was stepping into the sun.

𖤓˖⁺‧₊☽𓅨☾₊‧⁺˖𖤓

The café on 7th was a small, tucked away place with mismatched chairs and the smell of cinnamon and roasted espresso clinging to every wooden beam. A warm corner of the city where life slowed down just a little. He arrived ten minutes early. Too early.

The bell above the door jingled, and instinct kicked in. He scanned. Two older women by the window, a guy with earbuds tapping at a laptop, a bored barista pulling espresso shots with dead eyes. No sign of you.

He ordered her drink extra sweet, extra foamy, “liquid sunshine,” you once called it and a black coffee for himself. Settled into a table by the window. Full view of the door. He texted you again.

bluebird: I’m here. No pressure. But I brought your order. It’s waiting patiently.

Nothing.

He flicked the lid of the cup. Checked the time. Tapped his knee beneath the table. Every chime of the bell had him sitting up straighter, breath held in quiet anticipation.

Not her.Not yet.

And that was the thing he didn’t even know what she looked like. No name. No face. Just a voice in his ear, a rhythm in his nights, a lifeline during the chaos. But even without a face, even without a name, he knew you.

He leaned back and watched the doorway like it held all the answers. Maybe it did.

His phone buzzed again.

Comms girl <3: I’m close. Just… taking a second.

He stared at that message. His heart did a quiet, hopeful jump.

bluebird: You nervous?l

Comms Girl: Maybe. You?

He smiled.

bluebird: I’ve fought Killer Croc, Deathstroke, and Jason with a crowbar. This is worse.

You didn’t text back right away. He waited. Sipped his coffee. Looked at your untouched drink and wondered if you’d ever actually take a sip from it. Maybe you’d just show up, apologize, and walk away. Maybe you’d turn around before even walking through the door.

You were already on the sidewalk. One breath away from stepping inside. He turned his eyes to the window, scanning every person who passed. Wondering if one of them might look in, catch his eye, smile.

Waiting. he hoped that mask off, no gadgets, no grappling hooks, no safety net that was enough. So he waited. For you.

𖤓˖⁺‧₊☽𓅨☾₊‧⁺˖𖤓

The drink was starting to sweat on the table.

Dick’s thumb spun slow, lazy circles around the lid of the cup you still hadn’t claimed. The café wasn’t busy only a few people trickled in here and there. His eyes lifted every time the door jingled, hopeful… and then dropped just as quickly.

He wasn’t used to feeling this unsteady. With the mask on, he could take a punch. Leap off a roof. Throw himself into chaos without blinking. But right now, sitting at a table with a slowly cooling cup of coffee for someone he’d never even seen before?

He was sweating more than the damn drink. The bell above the door jingled again.

And he looked.

She stepped in like she was trying not to be noticed shoulders drawn slightly inward, a quick glance around the room before her eyes dropped to the floor. She didn’t look out of place, not really. She looked… normal.

Pink Converse. Faded denim jorts hugging her hips. A plain black tank top tucked in just right to show her figure, casual and effortless. Hair pulled back loosely like she’d tried to fix it three times before giving up.

Dick’s eyes lingered…. respectfully. He wasn’t a jerk. But he was a man. And the way she looked, with nervous energy practically rolling off her in waves, had his chest tightening just a little.

Cute. Definitely cute. Attractive, sure. She was cute. Soft around the edges. Eyes wide like she wasn’t used to being looked at too long.

Dick’s gaze flicked down, then back up not lingering too long. A polite once over. Curious. Gentle. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he looked away.

He didn’t know what to expect. For all the times he’d imagined this moment, all the late night banter and daydreams of what she might look like, he’d never settled on a face.

Still watching her from the corner of his eye, Dick slowly reached for his phone and typed out a message.

bluebird: “I’m by the window. Got your sugar bomb of a drink already. You close?”

The girl the maybe you girl jumped slightly when her phone buzzed. Fumbled it out of her pocket. She smiled. Just a little.

Her hand went to her phone. Dick’s screen lit up.

Comms girl <3: Already here. Just… not sure where to go.

His heart stopped. Slowly, his gaze lifted again this time with full awareness. He watched as she read his message, fingers still hovering near the screen.

Like she was laughing at herself and suddenly, everything clicked.

Dick’s breath caught for a beat. His lips tugged upward in a crooked smile as he texted again. Dick forgot how to breathe.

bluebird: Black tank. Pink shoes. You really do own those Converse.

You didn’t even look up from your phone. You were already typing.

Comms girl <3: Ok stalker, stop checking me out

He huffed a quiet laugh.

bluebird: Respectfully. Thoroughly. Definitely.

You lifted your head then, eyes meeting his across the room. Nervous. Hopeful. Your lips curved into something soft and self deprecating.

He stood before he could overthink it, heart thudding as he crossed the short space between your hesitant stillness and his table.

“You’re late,” he said, voice light, teasing.

“Fashionably,” you replied, walking with him as he guided you toward the window seat. “Also, very nearly didn’t come in. I walked past the window twice. You didn’t notice.”

“I noticed,” he said, pulling your chair out like the gentleman he rarely remembered to be. “I just didn’t know it was you. But then you looked at your phone like it offended you.”

You sat, cheeks flushed with something caught between embarrassment and amusement. “That was me realizing I sent three different versions of ‘I’m almost there’ and still sat in my car for ten minutes.”

Dick slid your coffee toward you. “Well i guess in a way you were.”

You took the cup, curling your fingers around it like it might steady you. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. I still might run.”

“Do I need to stop you? I’ve got grappling hooks.”

That made you laugh. Really laugh. He liked that sound more than he expected. It wasn’t tinny over the comm. It was full, alive, right in front of him.

“God,” you groaned, lowering your head for a second. “This is so weird.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But good weird.”

You peeked up at him. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Better or worse?”

You grinned, shy but cheeky. “You’re taller than I thought. That’s not fair. I have no defense against tall and charming.”

“Charming, huh?” He took a sip of his coffee, raising a brow over the lid. “You haven’t even heard my best lines yet.”

You rolled your eyes, the way you always did when he flirted too hard through the mic. But now it was real. Now, he could see the way you bit back a smile, the flush that crept to your ears.

“I’m not used to being looked at,” you admitted after a quiet beat. “I’m used to watching. Behind the screens. Behind the noise. I’ve seen your face a hundred times. This is… lopsided.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, gaze steady and warm.

“Then let’s even it out.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Let me learn you,” he said, voice low, honest. “No comms. No mission. No static. Just… you.”

You looked away, biting your lip, your fingers tracing the lid of your cup now like he had earlier. “You’re a lot more intense in person.”

“I’m a lot of things in person,” he said, smiling. “Most of them good. Some of them bad. All of them me.”

A silence passed. Not awkward contemplative. Like both of you were quietly adjusting to the weight of seeing each other. Really seeing each other.

“I always see you in your outfit, this feels a little weird” you murmured eventually.

He grinned. “You’ll be happy to know I left the spandex at home.”

“Tragic.”

Another moment of quiet, then

“I’m glad you showed up,” he said.

You smiled down into your drink. “Yeah. Me too.”

Outside, the city moved in its usual rhythm cars, footsteps, noise. But here, at this little table by the window, something new was starting. Not a mission. Not an assignment. Just Dick and you.

𖤓˖⁺‧₊☽𓅨☾₊‧⁺˖𖤓

The coffee was long gone, but neither of them had made a move to go their separate ways.

Instead, they strolled the streets of Blüdhaven, their pace slow, like time had bent around them just for a little while. The sun had started to dip behind the buildings, casting soft golden light on the sidewalks, and the breeze stirred the trees enough to make the leaves flutter like lazy applause.

You walked beside him with your now empty cup in hand, straw still between your lips despite it having been dry for the last ten minutes. Nerves still clung to your skin, thin but persistent. You had no idea where to put your hands or how to keep your voice steady. You weren’t usually like this. Over comms, you were bold, loud, sarcastic, and playful.

But out here, in the open, without a headset and with Nightwing walking beside you in casual clothes that hugged him way too well for your nerves to take? It was different. He was real. And you were suddenly aware of every flaw you’d been trying not to think about since this morning.

“You know,” you said with a light chuckle, trying to keep your voice in that easy, familiar tone, “I honestly expected you to cancel last minute. Or like, show up but wear the mask the whole time and pretend to be mysterious.”

Dick looked over at you, one brow raised, and a smile playing at his lips. “You really thought I’d ghost you after all our late night flirting?”

You shrugged, trying to play it off, but your eyes darted away. “I mean… I dunno. Maybe.”

“You ruined that for you because i would never,” he said dramatically, then bumped his shoulder gently against yours. “I told you I was coming. I meant it.”

His voice was warm, not teasing this time. Just honest. He watched you as you gave a small smile, eyes still scanning the sidewalk like you were searching for something to say. He saw the way you carried yourself. Not shy, exactly just… cautious. Though he saw you and wanted too. All of you.

Not just the confident voice in his ear or the tech genius who could break into encrypted systems like they were open windows. He saw the little things: the nervous hand fidgeting with your cup sleeve, the way you pulled at the hem of your shorts when you thought he wasn’t looking, the practiced jokes you used to deflect any compliments.

So he gave you more of them.

“I like your shoes,” he said casually, glancing down at the worn pink Converse. “its a very you thing, reflective of your personality”

You laughed an actual laugh, not a polite one. “I don’t know if footwear can tell you my life story?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he said, nodding with mock seriousness. “Pink shoes? Total power move. I love when women.”

You shook your head, trying to hide your grin. “you love when women?”

“And the shorts?” he added. “Perfect length. Shows off those legs that have been sitting behind a computer for, what? Ninety percent of your adult life?”

“Oh my God,” you groaned, covering your face with your free hand. “You’re a menace.”

“I’ve been told worse,” he said with a wink.

You both fell into a comfortable rhythm after that. Step for step, laugh for laugh. The tension slowly ebbed away the longer he stayed near you like he was peeling back the nervous layers without ever drawing attention to them.

After a few quiet moments, you nudged him lightly with your elbow. “Okay, so serious question.”

“Hit me.”

“How the hell does this team work? I started hacking stuff and suddenly im here? ”

He laughed, raising both brows. “You tell me. You’ve got this adorable, good vibe going for you, but I’ve read some of those logs. You were wrecking firewalls like they owed you money.”

“I wasn’t that bad,” you defended with a smirk. “Okay, maybe the satellite thing was a little over the line.”

He turned to face you mid step. “Wait. What satellite thing?”

You winced, cheeks flushing. “I… might’ve accidentally hacked into a WayneTech orbital system when I thought it was an old NASA server.”

He stared at you, stunned. “You hacked WayneTech?”

“Allegedly,” you said, grinning now. “And two days later, Babs showed up in my basement. No warning, no badge, just… bam, red hair and righteous fury.”

“She must’ve been so mad.”

“She told me I was wasting potential and recruited me on the spot.”

Dick laughed again, and this time, it was full bodied, the kind that lit up his whole face. “Classic Babs.”

“Honestly? She’s the first person who ever looked at me and didn’t just see a mouthy hacker. She actually saw… me.”

His smile softened. “She does that. Did the same for me once.”

You glanced at him curiously. “Oh yeah?”

He nodded, hands tucked into his hoodie pocket. “Back when I was still figuring things out after leaving Bruce. I needed distance from the Bat stuff needed to figure out who I was when I wasn’t under the cape. Babs helped me get there. Helped me want to be more than just Robin.”

“I think you’re doing alright,” you said, bumping his shoulder this time.

“I’m trying,” he said with a shrug. “Still check in on the family though. Bruce, my brothers, Grandpa.”

You blinked. “Grandpa?”

“Alfred,” he clarified with a mischievous grin. “I started calling him that just to piss him off, but I know he secretly loves it.”

You laughed again, shaking your head. “That’s so weirdly wholesome. ‘Nightwing has emotional depth and a soft spot for butlers,’ coming to theaters this fall.”

“Hey, he’s not just a butler. He’s the butler.”

“I stand corrected.”

The sky was blushing now, soft shades of purple and orange painting the horizon. The city buzzed around you, but for once, it didn’t feel overwhelming. It felt like a quiet pocket of something special.

Dick glanced sideways at you, the wind tugging gently at your hair, and felt that same flicker in his chest again. The one that started when your voice used to crackle in his earpiece during midnight stakeouts. The one that grew stronger every time you made him laugh, or saved his ass from another security lockdown, or stayed on the line with him just so he wouldn’t be alone.

“I’m really glad we did this,” he said softly.

You looked at him, caught a sincerity in his eyes that left no room for doubt.

“Yeah,” you said, voice just as soft. “Me too.”

The air had taken on that evening crispness the kind that whispered promises of something new. The two of you were still walking, slowly now, like neither wanted to reach wherever the sidewalk might end.

Dick glanced at you again, longer this time. Not just quick, playful side glances, but a longing look. One that lingered as the fading sun touched your skin. He could see the way your lashes caught the light, the slight smile tugging at your lips as you sipped from your empty straw out of habit. The way your eyes moved when you were thinking.

You caught him staring.

“What?” you asked, arching a brow.

He shrugged with an easy, boyish grin. “Nothing. Just… you’ve got a good laugh.”

You blinked. “What, like a ‘haha’ laugh or a ‘joker is getting off’ laugh?”

He chuckled. “The kind that’s been in my ear for months, but somehow sounds better in person.”

Your stomach fluttered. You covered it with a sarcastic smile. “Are you flirting with me again, Grayson?”

“Only mildly,” he teased, then glanced ahead. “I mean, I’ve gotta pace myself. You’re kind of… addictive.”

You didn’t answer for a moment. You didn’t know how. And honestly, you were worried your voice would betray how warm your chest suddenly felt.

He didn’t press it. Just kept walking with you in step. But then he said, a little more softly:

“I never really thought about it before… how different things feel when you’re not just a voice in my ear.”

You looked over at him, curious. “Better or worse?”

He gave you a look, deadpan. “What kind of question is that?”

You tried to laugh, to brush it off, but he turned toward you fully now, walking backward a few steps so he could face you as you moved.

“You have this… energy. When we’re on comms, it’s like… controlled chaos in the best way. Keeps me grounded, keeps me alert. But now? Seeing you like, actually seeing you your expressions, your body language, your weird obsession with pink…”

“I do not!”

He smirked. “You do. It’s very cute.”

You shoved his arm lightly, heat rushing to your face. But the smile was genuine now. You were relaxing, piece by piece.

“I guess I just didn’t realize how much I’d been missing until now,” he added, turning back around to walk forward again. “Hearing you’s great. But… seeing you talk? Watching your eyes move when you go on your little tech rants or when you start teasing me? It hits different.”

Your heart thudded hard.

He wasn’t saying “I want to see your face more.” But he was.

You swallowed around the growing smile and said, “Well… good thing I’m not going anywhere.”

He shot you a glance then, something soft and full of unspoken words.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That is a good thing.”

605 notes · View notes

lyjen · 6 months ago

Text

In The Right Place Part 2 | Evan “Buck” Buckley

Summary: Buck’s recklessness frustrates (Y/n), but later he saves her during a call. Afterward, they open up about their pasts, growing closer than ever before.

Trope: Enemies to lovers

Feel free to send in a request in my “Ask me a question 👀” section! 🫶🏽

9-1-1 Masterlist | <<< Previous Chapter

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

The 118 arrived at the location the 9-1-1 caller had passed through. They were at the edge of a deep, rocky ravine where the hiker had slipped and fallen. The dispatcher told the team the man was injured, but clinging to a narrow ledge half way down.

It was a miracle the hiker could call for help, the reception wasn’t that good in the middle of nowhere, and most of the people that fall half way down a ravine, don’t survive.

The doors of the firetruck opened as the team got out of the vehicle. The dust was flowing around the scene, from the sandy road beneath the tires of the truck.

Bobby took one look at the scene they were working with, and turned to the team. “We’re going with a rope rescue.” Captain Nash said the second he scanned the situation. “Buck, you’re our climber. (Y/n), you and Eddie handle the lines. Chim and Hen, prep medical gear.” He continued, certain of his choices.

It has been exactly two weeks since (Y/n) had joined the team, and she could say with certainty that the 118 was slowly starting to feel like home, like it felt back in Long Beach. She was starting to get to know the rest of the team everyday a little bit more, and the other way around.

(Y/n) nodded as her Captain was done giving everyone their tasks and moved to secure the rope system as Buck fished the harness from the truck and slipped into it with practiced ease.

“You good to go?” Eddie asked as he finished tightening Buck’s gear. A grin appeared on Buck’s face. “I was born ready” he said with way too much confidence, making (Y/n) roll her eyes at his typical reaction. “Of course you were.” she muttered under her breath, continuing preparing the ropes.

The words left her mouth a little too loud. Buck looked up at her, catching the words and the tone. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, raising a brow at her words.

“It means..” she started as she lowered the ropes in her hands and glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t do anything stupid” she snapped as she glared at him from her spot at the ropes.

Buck’s grin vanished from his face and he sighed. “Relax, (Y/n). I’ve done this a million times.” he said, trying to reassure her that everything was okay.

“That’s what worries me.” She shot back as she tightened her hands on the rope. She hoped those words came out of her mouth as a mumble, but it came a little louder than she had hoped. She knew he heard her words.

Ever since she had that conversation on the first day with Buck, things had changed just a little bit. They were still trying to find out a way to work together, but it was difficult working with someone who didn’t think for at least one second.

Moments later, Buck was carefully being lowered over the edge of the ravine, as the rope creaked softly because of the weight that was hanging on it. From her spot on the ground, (Y/n) watched him descend down to the victim. Her eyes were flicking between Buck and the rope system as Eddie monitored the lines beside her.

“Slow and steady, Buck.” Eddie said into the radio as Buck was out of sight, rippling down to get the wounded hiker. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve got it.” Buck’s voice sounded as confident as always. Making (Y/n) roll her eyes at the amount of confidence he had in his voice. “Just focus for once.” She mumbled under her breath as the rope gently moved through her gloved hands.

Buck could feel the jitters in his abdomen, even though he had done this a hundred times, if not more. When his feet touched the small space where the hiker landed after his fall, he didn’t want to put too much weight onto the ground to avoid the ground falling from beneath them.

“What’s your name sir?” Buck asked as he grabbed the second harness that was sent down. “I- Uh- Luther” the hiker stumbled as he was unsure what was happening. “Luther, I’m Buck. I’m going to get you out of here okay?” he explained. Luther nodded in agreement, but Buck could tell he was scared. “Okay, now.. I need you to stand up slow and steady and let me put this around you.”

Luther nodded as he slowly stood up, his legs were looking like they were made of jell-o. Every step the hiker made, how slowly and steady he did it, it made the ledge crumble beneath him. Rocks were breaking loose with every single short move he made and tumbling down into the ravine. If something did go wrong this moment, there would be no turning back. But luckily Luther stepped into the harness, as Buck secured him and stabilized him.

“Got him!” Buck called out, but just to be sure he grabbed his radio. “We’re ready to come up! Green!” his voice came through. A soft sigh left (Y/n)’s mouth as she heard the confirmation, she took a breath she didn’t know she needed.

For once he didn’t do anything stupid. But it wasn’t over yet.

“Okay, let’s pull them up slow” Eddie instructed, signaling to (Y/n) the sign to pull the rope, to get them on solid ground again. (Y/n) held her breath again as they began raising Buck and the hiker.

She could hear the ropes creaking under the weight that was hanging onto the other side, but the system held firm. “Almost there,” Eddie muttered as he had his hands steady on the lines, pulling it.

The creaking of the lines became louder within every pull, making the thing (Y/n) scared of reality as a horrific snap echoed through the ravine.

One of the anchor points failed.

(Y/n)’s eyes widened at the sound of the snap as her heart was leaping into her throat right now. “No, no, no.” (Y/n) mumbled under her breath. The rope jerked violently, sending Buck swinging hard into the rocks. A grunt fell off Buck’s lips as his body slammed into the side of the ravine. He placed one of his hands on the rocks to bring the swinging rope to a halt.

“Hold it! Hold it!” Bobby’s voice roared over the scene as Eddie and (Y/n) tried to get the rope back under control. “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” Eddie grunted as he used all his strength to pull the two people back in.

(Y/n) threw her weight onto the line, placing her heels into the ground as they tried to steady Buck. “Buck talk to us” Bobby sounded over the radio. Panic was creeping into her chest as it took Buck seconds to answer. “Buck, what’s your status?” Bobby asked.

(Y/n) had her eyes closed as she held onto the rope for dear life. The radio made room for some statics, “We’re fine cap, just.. get us up!” his voice sounded over the radio, mixed with a cough.

Eddie glanced over his shoulder, looking at (Y/n) “You good?” Eddie asked as they made eye contact. She nodded, “Let’s get it over with.” she said as she let her eyes wander back to her gloved hands and they both pulled the ropes.

The climb was slower this time, the rope continued to creak as Eddie and (Y/n) worked together to lift Buck and the injured hiker back up. Her hands were hurting from the weight she needed to pull, but it didn’t bother her. They needed to get the both of them back on the ground. And she didn’t care if she needed to break her own skin to do it.

It looked like there wasn't an end to the rope she had in her hands. But when Buck’s helmet finally came into sight, and his boots hit solid ground, (Y/n) let out a shaky breath and placed her hands onto her thighs.

She was exhausted, not only from pulling the ropes, but also the stress she was experiencing the last five to ten minutes.

Buck unhooked his harness as Hen and Chimney immediately checked the hiker. (Y/n)’s eyes were locked on Buck as she took off the gloves and yanked them to the ground. Before she could let her brain catch up with her movements, she stormed over towards Buck.

Buck unlocked the clip of his helmet, as he heard footsteps coming closer. He looked up, and he found (Y/n) stroming over at him. Fire was burning in her eyes as she shoved him hard in the chest.

“What the hell was that?!” she shouted, Buck’s back falling against the firetruck as confusion took over his face. “Whoa- what’s your problem?” He stumbled as he looked at her.

“God you’re such a fucking idiot, Buck” (Y/n) continued to yell, giving him a shove again. “Do you even think before you act?” she added, before Buck could even explain or say something back at all.

“(Y/n), it wasn’t my fault-” he said as he held up his hands. He didn’t even do anything but his job? Why was she so upset with him?

“You act like you’re invincible, like nothing can touch you, but you’re not! That rope could’ve snapped completely, and then what? What if I couldn’t pull you back up? What if—” she stopped talking as she noticed how loud she was talking, she needed to calm down.

She looked down to the floor and turned her back towards him as she placed her hands on her hips. She took a breath as she blinked the tears away which were welling up in her eyes.

Buck’s face softened as he took a cautious step towards her. “Hey.. i’m okay. I’m right here.” He said. She was breathing hard as she wiped her face angrily. “You don’t get it, Buck..” she paused, her voice sounded broken and it was barely above a whisper. “For seconds… I thought we lost you.”

At first, Buck didn’t know what to say. His confused expression was replaced by genuine regret, even though he didn’t do anything. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He apologized with a soft voice.

(Y/n) squeezed her eyes closed, “I thought we had talked this through? That we had a deal-” she paused, and she turned around, facing Buck now.

Her eyes were slowly turning red, “Whatever you’re doing, you don’t get to do that to us. To me-“ her lip was starting to tremble as she said those words.

Buck was caught off guard by her words. “To.. you?” he asked her slowly. And that’s where she realized what she’d just admitted, she cared about him. (Y/n) shook her head as she turned away. “Forget it.” she added, as she made a move to walk away from the conversation.

But he reached out, gently wrapping his hand around her upper arm. “(Y/n), wait-” he said. She glanced over her shoulder, their eyes connected.

She was clearly upset with what happened, but why was she mad at him? He didn’t sabotage the anchor point? Why would she even think that Buck would’ve liked the idea of bringing himself and the victim into a dangerous situation like this? It’s not like he particularly wanted to fall to death.

The sound of Bobby’s voice cut through the small moment they were having, pulling the both of them back to reality. “Buck! (Y/n)! Wrap it up, we’re heading out!” His voice sounded.

“On it cap!” Buck quickly switched, and with that, (Y/n) pulled her arm free with a hard pull. She gave Buck one last look. “Next time, think before you act.” and with those words she turned and walked away, leaving Buck standing there.

But this argument wasn’t really like the ones they had before, there was something new, as if something had shifted.

______

“Buck, (Y/n) you’re on the west side.” Bobby said, as he quickly broke the team into pairs. The warehouse they were searching was a blazing inferno, the fire was clawing itself through the structure with a fury that threatened to consume everything. They had to be fast.

“You got it, Cap.” Buck replied as he tightened his grip on the halligan between his hands as (Y/n) gave their captain a nod as she stood next to Buck. When she heard their names being paired together, she rolled her eyes for a quick second.

Bobby finished his explanation as he and Eddie went to their assigned location and tasks.

“Why do I always get the feeling we always pull the short straw together?” (Y/n) mumbled as they made their way through the huge space of the warehouse. Buck shot a glance over his shoulder, a grin was visible on his face “Maybe the universe thinks we make a good team.” he replied.

She let out a soft sigh, “Or maybe you’re bad luck.” she shot back, she wasn’t quite sure if she wanted that to say out loud or whisper it to herself. They both moved quickly, (Y/n) breath was labored as she followed Buck through the chaos and her flashlight was slicing through the thick grey smoke.

A voice cut through the air, calling out for help through the gasps for air. “Over here!” Buck shouted as loud as possible to get above the roar of the flames. She spotted Buck crouched near a pile of collapsed debris, when she hurried to his side she felt her pulse thundering in her ears.

“Someone’s trapped” Buck said while urgency was audible in his voice. He pointed towards a narrow gap beneath a fallen beam, the faint sound of coughing came from within, and continued with a call for help.

“We need to get him out.” (Y/n) said determined, as she already started tugging at the debris that was blocking their way. The heat was killing. But every second counted. Sweat was already dripping down (Y/n)’s face, she couldn’t imagine what it must feel like for the person that was trapped. The air was thick, and dark, almost if there wasn’t any oxygen left.

Buck threw his weight against the largest beam, grunting as he lifted it just enough for (Y/n) to crawl closer. “Carefull!” he called, not sure if he could hold the weight of the beam with only his body.

“I’m fine! Just don't try to kill me.” she shot back as she kneeled down and wriggled her body through the tight space to reach the trapped person.

When (Y/n) made her way through the tight space Buck had created, she reached the victim. Buck meanwhile managed to move the beam, still giving her the same amount of space to crawl through.

“Sir, can you hear me?” (Y/n) asked, her gloved hand brushing against his arm to try and get any kind of reaction from the man. The man nodded weakly, making (Y/n) let out a breath of relief. “Buck, I’ve got him!” (Y/n) called. “Get ready to pull him out!” she added as she wriggled her way back through the tight space.

She was half way when a deafening crack echoed through the building. The floor beneath them shuddered violently, and (Y/n)’s head shot up as she realized the ceiling above them was starting to give way.

“(Y/n) move, now!” Buck shouted, panic was creeping up his chest as he watched his partner struggling to get back through the tight space. (Y/n) barely had time to register the danger before Buck lunged toward her. His hand grabbed a handful of the back of her turnout coat, yanking her backward with such force that her body slammed into his, making them hit the ground hard.

The crash of debris behind them was deafening, all kinds of materials were scattering in every direction.

For a small moment neither of them moved, their bodies were pressed together as the crash of debris closed in around them. His arms were wrapped around her and his chest was rising and falling against her back.

“Are you okay?” his voice asked, as the adrenaline was rushing through his veins. (Y/n) tried to catch her breath, squeezing her eyes closed for a moment as a sharp pain appeared in her left side. “I- I think so” she stumbled, mixed with a tremble in her voice.

His grip loosened on her body as he helped her sit up, Buck stood up from behind her as he held out a hand towards her.

In pain, she hissed and pressed her eyes closed again. “You’re hurt.” he concluded as he scanned her facial expressions. She shook her head, “It’s nothing.” she said but the pain in her side told her otherwise.

“Can you stand?” he asked her. She nodded, though her movements were slow and hesitant. She accepted his hand and let him carefully lift her to her feet. “We still need to get him out,” she said, motioning toward the man who was coughing weakly beneath the debris.

“I’ve got him.” Buck said, “Just stay behind me.” he added. (Y/n) allowed Buck to take the lead this time.

He worked quickly but smoothly, pulling the man free. Buck put the male in the right position, crouched down as he held the man’s wrist in one hand and in the other hand his thigh. Her eyes were set on Buck as she watched him perform the right steps.

It was kinda.. attractive?

God no. She shook her head, trying to get rid of the awful thoughts she just had. Two weeks ago they were enemies and now she actually started to like him? No. Hell no.

“Let’s go!” Buck commanded as he walked back towards (Y/n) with the man on his shoulders. He kept a close eye on (Y/n) when they made their way through the flames again.

The heat was suffocating, the air thick with smoke, but they kept on going. But finally, the cool rush of night air hit them as they burst through the exit.

The team was already waiting outside, as paramedics rushed forwards to take the injured man from Buck. Buck crouched down again to place the man onto his feet again. “Here, he’s all yours. He inhaled a lot of smoke but he’s conscious.” he quickly briefed the paramedics.

As soon as the man was placed onto the gurney the paramedics hurried away. (Y/n) pulled her helmet from her head and blew the strands away that were in front of her face.

His eyes were locked on (Y/n) as he watched her take off her gloves and her entire facial expression changed when she made one wrong move.

“(Y/n)” Buck said in a serious tone. “Sit down. Let the paramedics check you out.” he told her. She looked back at him, as she let out a “I’m fine.” as she pressed her hand against her side and tried to catch her breath.

But Buck wouldn’t take no for an answer. He made eye contact with Hen who was giving the both of them a questioning look. So Buck waved her over. Hen rushed over towards the two, “Hey, you okay?” she asked as she watched (Y/n) press her hand onto her side.

“She’s hurt” Buck said quickly before (Y/n) could answer. “No, I’m fine.” she muttered through her voice with a lack of conviction. But he turned towards (Y/n) again. “No you’re not” he said, his tone soft but insistent.

She tried to pull away, get away from the conversation but Buck placed his hand firmly on her shoulder before she could try and run, guiding her towards Hen. “Come on, i’ll take a look” Hen said, not leaving any room for an argument.

(Y/n) sighed as Hen guided her to sit on the bumper of the ambulance. She took off her turnout coat as Hen unzipped her medic bag and began her examination. Hen gave her a small, knowing look. “You just had to follow Buck into the inferno, did you?”

(Y/n) let out a weak chuckle, “You know how it is.. The guy moves and you just, go.” she said. “Yeah well, next time.. maybe let him handle the death-defying stunts.” Hen replied as she pressed gently against (Y/n)’s ribs.

She winced, biting on her lower lip to not let out a curse word.

“Ribs are bruised but not broken,” Hen confirmed. “You’re lucky. Could’ve been worse.” she concluded. “Lucky isn’t how it feels,” (Y/n) muttered, leaning her head back against the ambulance.

Hen smirked. “Trust me, Buck’s had worse. You’ve officially joined the ‘pulled-from-the-fire-by-Evan-Buckley’ club. Membership comes with bruises and a lecture.”

(Y/n) chuckled as she caught herself glancing toward where Buck stood talking to Bobby. His shoulders were squared, his hands moving as he told what had happened.

Hen followed her gaze, her tone softening. “He’s got a habit of throwing himself into danger for the people he cares about. You did good in there, but you’ve got to let yourself heal.”

(Y/n) nodded, her stubbornness fading as exhaustion took over. “Thanks, Hen.”

“Anytime,” Hen replied with a warm smile, packing up her kit.

As Hen moved on to help another teammember, (Y/n) sat quietly, watching the embers from the fire flicker into the night sky. The adrenaline was finally wearing off, leaving her with a dull ache in her ribs.

______

The station was quiet after the chaos of the fire. Every member of the 118 had spread themselves over the firehouse, some were going to hit the shower, some were going to take a nap. But (Y/n) found herself alone in the locker room.

She wanted to change into something more comfy to move in than a button up. She stood in front of the mirror as she lifted her shirt just enough to inspect the already dark bruises blooming along her ribs.

“Great.” she mumbled under her breath as she gently poked the tender skin, making her hiss at the touch.

“Those look bad.”

The sudden voice that had entered the locker room startled her, making her drop her shirt quickly. She spinned around to find Buck standing just a few feet away, he was leaning against the doorway. His usual cocky grin wasn’t there now, he seemed softer. His eyes were wandering back to where he had just been checking her side.

“Ever heard of knocking?” (Y/n) said as she turned back to her locker, trying to get rid of whatever moment this was.

He smirked faintly, “It’s a locker room. I didn’t think I had to.” he replied. She shot him a look through the mirror that was in her locker, but the annoyance didn’t quite reach her eyes. It was a small mirror after all. “What do you want, Buck?” she asked.

For a second, Buck hesitated. But eventually stepped into the room, making the door behind him call into its frame. “I just.. wanted to check on you. After earlier.” he replied to her question.

(Y/n) scoffed softly, as she wriggled the button up shirt off her arms and placed it into her locker. “I’m fine.” she said, just like she told him outside earlier.

Buck reached the line of lockers she was standing in front of. “You don’t look fine to me.” he answered as he crossed his arms and leaned his left shoulder against the lockers. “You took a hit in there.” he continued but it didn’t make (Y/n) turn around or glance over her shoulder at all.

She pulled the elastic from her hair, her small bun wasn’t as tight as it used to be a few hours ago. “It’s a bruise Buck.” she said unconcerned as she grabbed the hair on her head in one hand and had the elastic ready on her other hand. But the ache she felt in her ribs told her otherwise. “I’ll live.”

(Y/) finished making her bun as she used some bobby pins to keep it into its place. The hum of the overhead lights filled the silence that was now taking over the room. Buck tilted his head slightly, as he watched her finishing her hair.

“You know…” he started slowly, “you’ve been snapping at me a lot lately.” he continued as he kept his distance. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked him as she checked her hair.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Buck told her, sounding more serious now. “Every time I open my mouth, you’re on me like it’s your job. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you hate me.”

(Y/n) sighed and turned on her heels to face him, she crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t hate you, Buck.” she told him. “Then what is it?” Buck pushed himself off the lockers he was leaning on with his shoulder and stepped closer, searching her face. “Because it’s not just me being reckless, is it?”

And just when he asked that question, she looked away while pressing her lips into a thin line. “It doesn’t matter.” she said.

There was clearly something that she was hiding from him. Something sensitive that she pushed away. “It does to me,” Buck replied softly. She turns away from him facing her locker again. But Buck didn’t intend to leave before he knew the story behind her behavior. “Come on, talk to me.” he said, his eyes desperate for an explanation. He tried to search eye contact through the mirror she was standing in front of.

She brushed her fingers over her t-shirt where her bruises were, and let out a shaky breath. “You really want to know?” she asked, as she found him looking at her through the mirror.

Buck nodded.

She stared at her own reflection as she spoke. She didn’t have the courage to look him directly in the eyes as she told her story. She had the courage to do lots of things: running into burning buildings, collapsing buildings, helping strangers. But telling this story, she just couldn’t. “I lost a colleague on the job once. ” she started.

“Well.. not just my colleague. He was my best friend.” she continued.

Buck’s expression shifted as his arms fell to his sides. “What happened?” he asked her.

(Y/n) swallowed hard, avoiding his gaze in the mirror as her eyes fell down to her hands. “It was a structure fire, kind of like our first call together. He was just as reckless as you, always throwing himself into the fire first. It went well most of the time. Only that time… he didn’t make it out.” Her voice was on the edge of breaking down. But she needed to finish the story.

(Y/n)’s voice was quieter now, more fragile than he’d ever heard it. It was like he was suddenly listening to a little girl.

“He was the person who always had my back,” she continued, still staring at her fingers as she picked her skin. “But I couldn’t save him. I had to hold the line while the fire got worse. I had to stand there, knowing he wasn’t coming out. And then I had to look his family in the eye and tell them…” Her voice broke, and she quickly wiped a hand over her face, trying to collect herself. “It doesn’t matter how many times people tell you it wasn’t your fault. You still carry it with you.”

Buck stepped closer, his voice soft but steady. “(Y/n)… I’m so sorry.” He placed his hand onto her shoulder, carefully, not wanting to spook her.

For a moment, there was another silence. It was there but it wasn’t awkward at all. It was a vulnerable moment.

Finally, Buck let out a soft breath as he disconnected his hand from her shoulder and sank down onto the bench nearby. “You’re not the only one carrying ghosts, you know,” he admitted.

(Y/n) glanced to her side, looking at Buck who was sitting on the bench.

Buck’s gaze dropped to his feet. “A few years ago, there was this guy, Devon. He was on a rollercoaster when the lap bar just opened up and his best friend got ejected.” He paused, as he remembered the moment like it was yesterday. “The rollercoaster was hanging in the middle of the loop, upside down when we arrived. Devon was hanging onto it with his life. I got to him in time, but he refused to grab my hand..” Buck swallowed hard, his voice rougher now. “I told him I got him,but he just let go before even trying.”

(Y/n)’s expression softened and she folded her arms over each other as Buck continued his story.

“If he just reached out to my hand, I could’ve saved him.” Buck said, his voice barely above a whisper. “And for the longest time, I kept thinking—if I’d just been faster, if I’d gotten there a minute sooner, maybe he’d have grabbed my hand.” He looked up at (Y/n), his eyes searching hers. “He was the first person I had lost on the job. That kind of guilt? It doesn’t go away.”

(Y/n) sat down on the bench beside him, her voice quiet. “No, it doesn’t.”

Buck gave a faint nod, his lips twitching into a small, sad smile. “So when you yell at me for being reckless, I get it. I know what it’s like to lose someone. I’ve been there, too.”

She stared at him for a moment, the wall she’d built between them beginning to crack. “So that’s why you jump first without thinking… Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Buck shrugged his shoulders as a faint laugh fell from his lips. “Didn’t think it mattered. I’m usually the one driving everyone crazy, not the other way around.”

(Y/n) let out a soft huff of laughter despite herself, shaking her head. “You are insane, you know that?” Buck grinned, the first real smile she’d seen from him all day. “Yeah it’s not like you told me about twenty times earlier, but you keep me on my toes.” he admitted.

She rolled her eyes at his words, but there was no bite to it this time. They sat there for a moment. Buck’s gaze flicked to her ribs again. “Let me see.” he told her.

A confused expression appeared on her face, “What?” she asked. “The bruises” he said as he motioned his head to her side. “Can I take a look?” he then asked, more politely instead of a command.

(Y/n) hesitated for a second, but with a sigh, she lifted her shirt slightly. Buck winced as he saw the deep bruising. “Damn, (Y/n), that’s bad.” he concluded as he finally saw the wound from up close now.

“I’m pretty sure I'll live” she muttered. “You’re tougher than you look,” Buck said softly, when his eyes wandered from her wound back to her face. “Don’t you forget it,” she replied, her voice quieter now.

There was another silence, but it wasn’t like the others. It wasn’t filled with annoyance, awkwardness, or anger. Something shifted.

Her eyes were lingering on his face for a second, but before she could say more, Buck’s lips crashed into hers. His lips brushed first a bit roughly against hers, but became softer as his lips landed on hers. The kiss was gentle, a bit hesitant, but most of all: it caught her completely off guard.

(Y/n) froze for a second, making her hand press against his shoulder. But eventually she leaned into him as she let herself feel the moment. His hand moved up to her cheek as he brushed his thumb lightly over the skin as her hand that was on his shoulder moved to grab the short strands of hair on the back of his head.

They both pulled back, Buck searched her face nervously. Did he get the signs correct? “You okay?” he asked, a bit out of breath.

The confused and surprised look that had washed over (Y/n)’s face remained as he asked the question. But quickly merged into a faint smirk as she shook her head. “You’re lucky I didn’t hit you.” she said, laughing. “Wouldn’t be the first time,” Buck teased her, his voice soft as he brushed his thumb over her cheek one more time.

“You’re such an idiot.” she said, as she moved her hand from his neck down to his shirt again. She grabbed a fist full of his button up shirt, and pulled him closer again.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

9-1-1 Masterlist | <<< Previous Chapter

#911 #911 fox #imagine #911 abc #911 imagine #buck imagine #buck x reader #evan buckley imagine #evan buckley x reader #evanbuckley

229 notes · View notes

lanaroff · 3 months ago

Text

House of Broken Hearts- Chapter 15

Paring: Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Warnings: ANGST, Blood, Knives.

They had found him. The place was cold and bare, buried beneath layers of concrete and dirt, with dust coating long-abandoned consoles and rust biting at old tech. It’s not exactly the kind of place you’d expect to find the most elusive man in intelligence. But when the biometric door unlocks with a hiss and opens to reveal Nick Fury standing in front of an array of monitors—arms crossed, jaw tight—Steve knows they’ve finally reached the end of a very long trail.

Tony steps in first. “You son of a bitch.”

Fury doesn’t flinch. “Took you long enough.”

“You disappeared,” Steve says, voice calm but sharp. “You left us blind when everything started falling apart.”

“Not everything,” Fury mutters, not facing them yet. “You still had each other.”

Tony doesn’t wait. He walks straight up to Fury, slamming the thick folder Sharon had given you—the same one they showed Ross—onto the metal desk in front of him.

“Did you even read this?” he spits. “Do you know what you let them do to her?”

Fury’s eye lingers on the file. It’s already opened—he’s seen it. And he says nothing. That silence only sets Tony off more.

“She was tortured. Experimented on. Treated like an animal. And while she was out there breaking herself apart for this damn country, you were sitting here in a hole pretending to be dead again. Tell me, Fury—was it all part of your brilliant long game? Let your agent rot while you play spy games in the dark?”

Fury looks up slowly, and there’s something different in his face. Older. Worn.

“I didn’t know they’d get to her,” he finally says.

“That’s your excuse?” Sam says now, stepping forward. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“I knew something was wrong when S.H.I.E.L.D. files on her suddenly vanished,” Fury continues, ignoring the venom in Tony’s voice. “The intel she gathered—everything we had to protect her with—was gone. And when I dug deeper, I realized someone inside was rewriting history.”

Steve’s eyes narrow. “You mean they framed her.”

Fury nods once. “Someone high up. Very high. Someone with enough clearance to not only access her files but alter them. Strip away every trace of the operation.”

Tony laughs bitterly. “So that’s it? You just disappear? Hide away and let her take the fall?”

“I’ve been tracking them,” Fury snaps, his voice finally breaking through the ice. “Every senator, every agency name. Someone is pulling the strings from within, and if I stayed in the open, I’d be next. They wanted me quiet. So I gave them what they wanted—just long enough to find out who’s really behind this.”

“And did you?” Steve asks. “Did you find them?”

Fury exhales, turning to one of the monitors and tapping a few keys. A screen flickers on. Photos. Redacted files. Surveillance stills. “Not all of them. But enough to start drawing lines. A name keeps popping up—General Claiborne. Tied to funding black ops, shell companies, and, conveniently, the person who gave Ross the go-ahead to pursue Y/N without a trial.”

Sam leans in. “That’s how they did it. They made it look like she flipped.”

“Because they needed a scapegoat,” Tony mutters. “And she was the perfect one.”

There’s a long beat of silence. Steve runs a hand through his hair. “You should’ve told us, Fury.”

“I couldn’t risk it,” Fury says, looking at him now. “I knew if I told you, you’d tell her. And if she knew… she’d go straight to them. She’d walk into the fire just to prove herself.”

“She did walk into the fire,” Tony says, eyes hard. “And you let her burn.”

Fury doesn’t respond.

“And then Ross,” Steve says darkly. “He didn’t believe a damn thing we said. The proof, the testimonies, the files—he called it a setup.”

Fury’s jaw clenches. “Because he’s in on it. He’s part of the cover-up.”

Tony slams a fist on the table. “You know what Maximoff did in that meeting? She threatened to tear the whole system down if they laid another hand on her.”

Fury looks up at that. Something flickers behind his eye.

“She stood between Y/N and the entire government,” Steve says quietly. “She didn’t care about protocol. About diplomacy. But you? You are a coward, you used her for your own good. And throw her at the wolves when you didn’t need her.”

Fury lowers his head and doesn’t say anything. He knows they are right. But he can’t admit it, not to them.

Tony moves closer again, quieter this time. “We need to end this. If you have any intel that can clear her name, you give it to us. Right now.”

Fury nods. “Everything I’ve got is in this bunker. Names. Contacts. Locations. I’ll upload it all.”

Steve looks at him. “You’re coming with us.”

“I will,” Fury says. “But first, we tie the noose. This goes beyond Y/N. It goes to the core of what’s left of S.H.I.E.L.D., and maybe even deeper.”

Sam looks at the screen. “Then we find Claiborne.”

“And anyone else standing in the way of clearing her name,” Tony says.

⸻

Back at the farm, the kitchen is warm, filled with the scent of rosemary and roasted garlic. The windows let in golden evening light, casting soft shadows across the counter where you stand beside Wanda, sleeves rolled up, carefully slicing carrots for the stew. It should feel like peace. Like home. But there’s something restless under your skin. You try to ignore it—try to focus on the rhythm of the knife, the feel of the cutting board under your fingers.

Wanda hums beside you, soft and melodic, something Sokovian and low. Her hair is up, her face flushed from the heat of the stove, and when she leans over to stir the pot, her arm brushes yours. You close your eyes for a second and let yourself feel it. Warmth. Familiarity. Love.

But then the knife slips.

It’s the tiniest thing. Just a slip. Just a line of red across your palm.

And the world collapses.

You don’t hear the knife clatter to the floor. You don’t hear Wanda say your name. You don’t feel the kitchen anymore.

It all fades.

The scent of rosemary is gone. The golden light from the window collapses into a flickering, sterile blue. You blink, but your vision blurs at the edges—walls melt away, replaced with icy concrete and blood-stained steel. The air thickens, colder, harder to breathe. You can hear the hum of the fluorescent lights above you. The metallic clink of chains you haven’t worn in weeks. The soft shuffle of boots echoing in the hall.

You’re back there.

You see the knife in your hand, stained red, and suddenly it’s not a kitchen knife anymore—it’s a scalpel, a tool, an extension of their hands. You look down at your bleeding palm and everything tilts. Your stomach churns. The cut—small, innocent—burns like acid. Pain flares behind your eyes, and a low whimper slips from your throat.

You’re slipping under.

You don’t even realize Wanda is talking to you.

“Detka?” she says softly. “You okay?”

Your head snaps up. Your eyes lock on hers—but you don’t see her. You don’t recognize her. You see someone wearing her face, standing in your cell, speaking in her voice. It’s a hallucination. It’s a trap. They’ve done this before—used her face to break you down.

Your breath goes shallow. Your hand tightens around the handle of the knife.

“Don’t come any closer,” you whisper, eyes wide. “I swear, I’ll use it.”

Wanda freezes, her blood running cold.

“Y/N,” she says carefully, her voice soft, terrified, “baby, it’s me. It’s Wanda. Look at me. You’re not there anymore.”

You take a step back, trembling. “No. No, this is wrong. This isn’t real. You’re not her. You’re not Wanda. She’s dead.”

She chokes on a breath. “No—no, she’s not. I’m right here. I’ve always been here. Please, baby—please come back to me.”

But your eyes are wild, lost, flicking to the corners of the room like you’re expecting someone to come in and drag you away. You can’t hear her. You can’t feel the floor beneath you, or the warmth in the air. You can’t remember the farm, or the kitchen, or her touch.

Your hand shakes, and you raise the knife, pointing it at her, voice trembling, cracked with panic. “Stop it. Stop lying to me. Who are you? Why are you doing this?”

“I’m Wanda,” she whispers, tears in her eyes now, hands shaking. “Please, Y/N. Please remember me.”

You take another step back. “I don’t know who you are. The real Wanda would never be here. She’s gone. She left. She never came.”

And something in her breaks.

Her voice wavers, but she doesn’t step back. “No. I didn’t leave you. I fought for you. I died for you. I searched the world for you. And I’d do it again.”

“I don’t believe you!” you scream, the sound ragged, barely human. “You’re not her! You’re just something they built in my head to break me again. You’re not real. You’re not real.”

She’s shaking now. Her eyes burn red at the edges, not with power—but with pain. Her hands hover, helpless. “Please,” she begs, voice raw. “Please don’t do this. Please come back to me. I can’t lose you again.”

But you don’t hear her. You’re too far gone.

You’re in the cell. You’re bleeding. You’re alone.

You don’t even see Natasha enter until it’s too late.

She freezes in the doorway.

Blood on the floor. Your hand clenched white around the knife. Wanda’s trembling frame, standing inches away—her hands raised in surrender, eyes brimming with tears. Your voice cracking with panic as you scream that this isn’t real, that Wanda is dead, that none of this is real.

And Natasha—

She breaks.

You don’t see it, but Wanda does. The subtle stagger in her step. The way her eyes go wide with horror before she forces herself forward. This is not the battlefield. This is not a mission. This is you.

And she couldn’t protect you.

“Y/N,” she says softly, voice trembling with something she’s never let herself feel in front of you: grief. “It’s me. It’s Nat.”

You spin, wild and disoriented, and you point the knife toward her, too. But Natasha doesn’t flinch. She moves a step closer.

You blink at her, confused, flickering between timelines—unsure if she’s real or another ghost conjured to torment you.

You flinch at the sound.

“No—stay away—Don’t touch me!”

Natasha’s heart cracks in two. She swallows, her eyes burning, and crouches down slowly, holding your gaze.

She moves fast. Her hand wraps around the back of your neck, firm and practiced, just enough pressure to disarm, to bring you down. You try to fight, a choked cry escaping your throat, but your body gives in.

And before the black takes you, you hear her whisper:

“I’ve got you.”

Then you fall.

And Natasha—

She sinks to the floor beside you once you’re out. The knife clatters uselessly away. Your blood stains her hands as she holds them to your chest, steadying your shallow breaths. Her forehead drops to yours, and she presses her eyes shut.

Wanda collapses beside her, arms wrapped around herself, unable to stop shaking.

“I should’ve protected her,” Natasha chokes. “I promised her I would.”

“You did,” Wanda whispers, her voice barely audible. “You still are.”

But Natasha doesn’t believe it.

Not when the person she swore to protect lies unconscious on the floor, after nearly forgetting her own name.

⸻

The night is quiet.

Too quiet.

It shouldn’t feel like this—this stillness should be peaceful, comforting. But to Wanda and Natasha, it feels like a silence forged from something broken. Something spilled open that neither of them has been able to stitch back together.

You’re still asleep on the couch, breathing slow and shallow. The bandage on your hand has been redressed, and your body has stopped trembling, but your face carries the ghost of what happened. Wanda sits beside you, curled in on herself, her fingers intertwined with yours. Her eyes haven’t left your face in over an hour.

Natasha stands by the window, arms crossed over her chest, jaw tight. She hasn’t said much—not since she brought you down. Not since she watched the person she’d sworn to protect shatter in front of her.

“I almost didn’t recognize her,” Wanda whispers.

Her voice is hoarse. It’s the first time she’s spoken in minutes, and the sound of it cuts through the quiet like a blade.

“She looked at me like I was a stranger. Like I was the thing hurting her. She thought I was part of it, Nat.”

Natasha turns slowly, her face pale, strained. “I saw.”

“She pointed a knife at me,” Wanda says, almost to herself. “And I didn’t even care. I just wanted her to see me again. I didn’t care if she hurt me. I just wanted her to know I was real.”

The silence stretches. Natasha walks over to the kitchen island and leans on it heavily, her voice quieter now.

“I’ve seen people break before,” she murmurs. “Hell, I’ve broken before. But that… what she went through, what HYDRA did to her—I wasn’t there, and I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

Wanda looks at her, eyes wide and red, almost glowing with emotion. “You couldn’t have done anything.”

“I know,” Natasha says, then shakes her head. “But that doesn’t stop the guilt. Doesn’t stop the part of me that wishes I had found her sooner. That I had ripped those bastards apart before they did this to her.”

Wanda swallows. Her voice shakes. “She’s terrified of me sometimes. Like I’m a dream she doesn’t trust. I don’t know how to reach her when she’s like that.”

“You stay,” Natasha says softly. “That’s how. You stay and you love her. Even when she can’t see you.”

They fall into silence again, both of them watching you breathe, their hearts heavy and twisted in their chests.

⸻

You stir in your sleep. The world feels foggy when you start to wake, and the first thing you see is Wanda—curled beside you on the couch, still holding your hand, her head resting against the armrest. Her lips are slightly parted in sleep, lashes damp from tears.

She looks like she hasn’t slept at all.

Your eyes sting.

Memories slam into you with cruel force—blood on your hand, the knife, her face, the fear in her voice when you didn’t recognize her. The way your voice shook when you asked her who she was. The way you almost hurt her.

A sob claws its way up your throat before you can stop it.

Wanda wakes instantly.

Her eyes find yours, and she’s on her knees beside you in seconds, brushing hair from your face, cradling your cheeks in her palms.

“Hey, hey,” she whispers. “I’m here. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

“I hurt you,” you gasp, choking on the words. “I didn’t recognize you. I—God, Wanda, I thought you were part of it. I thought you were just… in my head.”

She shakes her head fiercely, her hands trembling as they cup your face. “You didn’t hurt me. You were scared. You were in a place you didn’t choose to be.”

“I’m broken,” you whisper. “I don’t even know how to stop this. I keep going back there, and I don’t know how to come back sometimes. I can’t do this, Wanda. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not hurting me,” she says, her voice cracking. “You’re here. You’re trying. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

You press your forehead against hers, the tears falling freely now.

“I want to get better,” you whisper. “I want to be okay. For you. For Natasha. For me. But I’m not ready to go back. Not to the city, not to the compound. I can’t face the world right now.”

Wanda’s breath catches. “What do you need?”

You look at her then, really look at her—eyes soft with love, with heartbreak, with the kind of devotion that could level buildings. You reach for her hand and intertwine your fingers.

“I want to stay here. Somewhere like this. Somewhere far from everything. I want us to start over. I want a life with you. Just us. I want to build something with you. A place that isn’t haunted.”

Wanda’s lips part. Her eyes search yours, and you see it—the flood of emotion, the sheer weight of it.

“You want us to leave?” she breathes.

“No,” you whisper. “I want us to begin. I want to move to a farm nearby. Just you and me. I want mornings in the quiet. I want to fall asleep beside you without fear. I want to find myself again. And I want to do it with you.”

Wanda exhales, trembling, and pulls you into her arms. You bury yourself in her warmth, letting the pieces of you find something solid to rest against.

“I would follow you anywhere,” she murmurs into your hair. “If this is what you need… then we’ll build it. Together. From scratch.”

You close your eyes. For the first time in what feels like years, the future doesn’t terrify you.

You can still feel the bruises. The scars. The trauma clinging to your bones.

But in Wanda’s arms, you can also feel something else.

Hope.

A beginning.

Tag list: @seventeen-x @womenarehotsstuff @redhoodte @ayrtonwilbury @justyourwritter69 @casquinhaa @womenarehotsstuff @justarandomreaderxoxo @yelldontwhisper @raven-ss @chickenlittlsblog @username23345 @justyourwritter69 @ayrtonwilbury

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #marvel #reader #wanda maximoff fluff #wanda maximoff angst #y/n #wanda maximoff x female reader #wlw #y/n y/l/n

122 notes · View notes

idiashroudshusband · 5 months ago

Text

Loading… // Idia Shroud x Reader - Fluff

The dormitory of Ignihyde was silent, save for the soft hum of computer fans and the flickering glow of blue flames that danced in the darkness. It was past midnight—Idia’s favorite time of day. A time when he didn’t have to worry about forced social interactions or the suffocating expectations of the outside world.

And yet… tonight felt different.

You were sitting in his room, curled up on his bed, bathed in the soft neon glow of his monitors. One of Idia’s favorite animes was playing on a monitor, both of you watching it. Idia still couldn’t quite process how this happened. How you happened.

You, who somehow weren’t put off by his reclusive nature.

You, who laughed and payed attention at his ramblings about obscure game lore instead of getting bored.

You, who leaned close enough that he could smell the faint scent of your shampoo, making his heart rate skyrocket like he was facing a final boss with no HP left.

“Idia?” Your voice right next to him pulled him out of his spiral, and he jolted, nearly knocking over his energy drink.

“W-W-What?” He tugged his hoodie down over his face, soft pink flames sparking erratically at the tips. “D-Don’t sneak up on me like that! Critical damage to my heart gauge…”

You chuckled, resting your chin on your palm. “I’ve been here the whole time, you know.”

“Th-that’s even worse,” he muttered, burying his face deeper into his hood.

It had started with small things. You bringing him food when he forgot to eat (that wasnt just energy drinks and candy, though you did buy some for him on occasion), waiting for him outside the mandatory classes he had to attend, even when he insisted he was completley fine going alone, coaxing him out of his shell little by little. And now? Now you were in his personal space, sitting in his room, watching his favorite anime with him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

If this were an otome game, you’d definitely be on the true romance route, and that terrified him.

“…You okay?”

Idia stiffened when he felt your fingers brush against his wrist, hesitant but warm. He swallowed, feeling his throat go dry. His mind screamed at him to pull away, to hide behind his screen where it was safe. But he didn’t.

Instead, he let out a shaky breath and mumbled, “I just… I don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“Why you’re here.”

You blinked, tilting your head. “Because I want to be?”

“That’s—” His brain short-circuited. “That doesn’t make sense. I mean, I’m not exactly protagonist material. I’m not cool and confident like the other housewardens, I don’t do well in crowds, and I—” He hesitated. “I’m… kind of a pain to be around.”

You frowned. “That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is.” He forced a laugh. “I mean, I literally have a stat debuff in social situations. If this were a dating sim, my affection points would be so low that I wouldn’t even unlock the friendship ending-”

“Idia.”

You said his name so softly, so gently, that it stopped him cold. Before he could spiral further, you scooted closer and took his hand in yours. His entire system crashed.

“I like you,” you said simply, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. “Not in a ‘background NPC’ way, or in a ‘pity route’ way. Just… you.”

His throat clenched. His fingers twitched in your grasp, as if debating whether to hold on or pull away. The warmth of your touch, so foreign yet addicting, made his head spin.

“B-But…”

“No buts,” you interrupted, squeezing his hand. “You don’t have to be some overpowered anime protagonist. You’re you, and that’s more than enough. I like you for being you.”

Idia’s heart thudded against his ribs, his flames flickering a soft, pastel pink—his face dusted with a soft rosy blush. His mind still screamed that this had to be some elaborate dream, a rare gacha pull that he’d wake up from any second.

But then you smiled at him, patient and unwavering, and suddenly, for the first time in a long time… he didn’t mind the idea of stepping outside his comfort zone.

Just a little.

Maybe.

If it was with you.

I love writing silly cute fanfics about my favorite little guy <3333

#fanfic #fanfiction #fluff #idia shroud fanfic #twst idia #idiashroud #idia shroud #twisted wonderland idia #disney twst #twst #twst fanfic #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland #idia x reader

138 notes · View notes

luvingjeanie · 13 days ago

Text

jealousy, jealousy | OHSHC x fem!reader

authour’s note: no honey i’m so sorry, i can’t write about him romantically, he is my son :(

synopsis: how do they handle jealousy?

included: tamaki suoh, hikaru hitachiin, koaru hitachiin, kyoya ootori, takashi morinozuka, haruhi fujioka

warnings: cringe petnames (it’s tamaki, what do you expect?)

₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ *˚ ⏝꒷︶ ͡𑁬♱໒ ͡ ︶꒷⏝ ˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊ ˚ ‧₊ .:･˚₊

✮ Tamaki Suoh

✮ melodramatic, hysteric, a full theatre performance. if it was an act, just for show, he would surely win an oscar.

✮ seeing you, his girl, his love, his princess, his flower, his heart (all cheesy petnames were given to you by him, not me), being flirted with by another boy was a jolt to his entire system. he quite literally clutched his chest, hand on his forehead, and if there is any kind of chair or sofa behind him, he is collapsing on to it

✮ for a moment though? he does just stand there, eye twitching.

✮ once his theatrics cease, he’s by your side within the blink of an eye, a cloud of dust in the spot he had previously been standing in.

✮ pale, lithe hands on both of your shoulders, unintentionally squeezing so tight that you’re absolutely sure Tamaki’s finger prints will forever be indented into your skin.

✮ he begins to fuss and gush, absolutely fawning over your ‘unbelievable, astonishing beauty’, using that little trick of his to allow a little tear to trickle down his infuriatingly handsome face to add some flair

✮ if that doesn’t work in garnering your attention (or alternatively, weirding the guy out and making him back off), he just throws a tantrum.

✮ if he wasn’t so good looking? it would be an ick. if you didn’t love him so much? you would be ten times more embarrassed than you currently were

✮ ‘my sweet princess, leaving me! she must be mad at me? why else is she talking to that dirty, good for nothing, sleazy commoner-‘ , and he says all of this waving his hands like a man gone mad above his head whilst wailing to kyoya who doesn’t care in the slightest.

✮ there is no hiding Tamaki’s jealousy, it’s physically impossible for him to do.

✮ when Tamaki Suoh is in love? it’s all consuming, he’s terribly co-dependent. some think it’s general clinginess, but what he’ll never admit (seriously anyway, perhaps he’ll joke) is that it’s because for the majority of his life, he was lonely. and now he isn’t. he may be annoying at times, dramatic and overly confident, but he genuinely means well. he just loves you. too much at times, perhaps.

✮ over time, you’ve realise that if talking to a boy who’s a little too flirt is unavoidable, the best thing to do is to give Tamaki all of your attention and affection as soon as possible.

✮ hold his face in your hands, coo and fawn, peck his cheeks and his lips, call him the most handsome boy you’ve ever seen (because let’s face it, it’s true), and all is right in the world again.

✮ Kyoya Ootori

✮ stoic. reserved. eerily calm. you honestly wouldn’t notice if you didn’t know him so well.

✮ he stands there, adjusting his glasses with a single finger before he goes back to jotting on his clipboard, pretending to simply just be going about his day, monitoring the host club as per-usual

✮ but only you notice the subtle raise of a single dark brow, or the slight clench of his jaw, the flex of his hand.

✮ he flickers his eyes over to you periodically, waiting for you to put a stop to this pathetic boy’s nonsense. he isn’t one to cause a sense, not at all like Tamaki.

✮ he won’t rush over in a fit of melodramatic upset and jealousy, nor will he wail and whine about you leaving him and how much he loves you in hopes to avert your attention to him.

✮ Kyoya Ootori is composed and cool. He isn’t insecure. In fact, dating him required an emotional vetting process. Upon realising his interest in you extended beyond providing you with a pleasant service, when he stopped viewing you as any other guest, a background search was conducted on your family (he usually does this with all clients, but he dug a little deeper this time around), getting to know you was a slow process.

✮ dating was honestly something he never thought he would do. he didn’t see the point, as a marriage would probably be arranged for him anyway, so what was the need?

✮ but you? well, he came to realise he trusted you. and that was enough for him to not let jealousy consume him

✮ Kyoya’s jealousy is more like the small irritating prick of a needle. he doesn’t allow it to overpower him, or to cloud his rationale, but it isn’t pleasant at all

✮ but, he’ll let you deal with it independently unless it’s clear the little pest who calls himself a man isn’t taking a hint

✮ all in all? he trusts you, and despite how irritated he feels, no matter how much he wants to put that idiot in his place, he won’t. he isn’t one to cause a scene or make a spectacle of the situation, not unless he feels you’re incapable of handling yourself, and even then? it’s done with class and integrity, for both your sakes.

✮ Hikaru Hitachiin

✮ we all know how childish this boy can be. he’s moody, and a little emotionally constipated. he feels deeply, but he’s not prone or capable of communicating it in the most mature way

✮ he resorts to embarrassing the boy flirting with you, i fear.

✮ whatever he can pick at, he will. poorly dressed? greasy hair? mild body odour? poor, tasteless, pitiful pick up lines? he’s grasping for straws in an attempt to humiliate this boy out of flirting with you

✮ absolutely gets Kaoru in on it too, and it doesn’t take much convincing either

✮ it begins with them loudly whispering, purposely so the boy can hear, and then it moves to straight up in your face bullying

✮ ‘Kaoru, just look at those rags, can you believe he left the house like that?’

✮ ‘Forget the rags, Hikaru, I can’t get over the smell-‘

✮ but God forbid you stick up for the boy and tell Hikaru he’s being mean, that’s an absolute betrayal and he’ll let you know.

✮ then unfortunately, all negative emotions are directed at you.

✮ he isn’t mean, he could never be mean to you. he teases and jests, of course, that’s just in his nature, and it’s done with nothing but affection. but he is snappy, he grumbles short responses until he yells, that is if he isn’t giving you the silent treatment

✮ when he yells, it isn’t about you at all, in fact, it’s more of an unintentional confession of insecurity and doubt. shoulder’s taught, high, and tense, fists clenched, nails almost biting into the pale skin of his palms, and brows tightly knitted together as he bit back a response after your incessant ‘what’s wrong?’s and ‘are you alright?’s

✮ ‘you seemed pretty content leaving me to go talk to that guy, why don’t you just go back to him, huh?!’

✮ after that? it’s obvious, he’s hurt. i wouldn’t even call it jealousy or envy, but a genuine fear you’ll leave.

✮ for a while, Hikaru is only comfortable with you being friendly to people he is also close with. he hates sharing, and not out of selfishness, but a need to keep you close, to give you a reason to stay

✮ as with what happened with Haruhi in episode 16, he needs a push from other’s to make amends, because of course you’re feeling apologetic for making your boyfriend feel so hurt, but he had no right to lash out at you

✮ after continuous badgering from the club (largely Tamaki and Kaoru), he finds you alone, wherever you may be, and for a moment just sits quietly at your side, not touching, maybe an inch or two between you

✮ then, he’ll swallow down all the apologies he had thought of that don’t sound quite right before quickly glancing to you and apologising in his way

✮ it isn’t a traditional apology, more of a short, bashful explanation as to why he acted so brash and callous. yet, despite an actual ‘i’m sorry’ not being said, it’s enough.

✮ it’s heart-felt, it’s quietly mumbled, and he means it

✮ and that’s all that matters

✮ Kaoruu Hitachiin

✮ similar to Hikaru, but not quite. maybe a mix of Tamaki in there too, a little childish, and melodramatic. there’s cheeky quips and pouts, but no yelling or silent treatment (thankfully, Hikaru, take notes)

✮ it’s starts with him questioning it a little, is he being stupid? is he deeping it? is he being dramatic? no, no, this guy is going too far. this guy is interested in HIS girlfriend, this visually assaulting, ill-dressed, cheap-cologne wearing commoner is flirting with HIS girlfriend

✮ so? he’d like to think he’s about to do something, but he doesn’t really. he pouts. embarrassingly so.

✮ he’s thought os insults he could throw at the guy, he’s thought of ways to swoop in and steal you away (is it really stealing if you’re his girlfriend?), but he doesn’t act on any of those thoughts or urges

✮ what if it made you mad at him? he couldn’t handle that

✮ so he waits, muttering little insults to himself with crossed arms and the scowl of a scolded toddler on his lips

✮ ‘he flirts like he’s just learned how to talk, tch’

✮ ‘she’s my girlfriend. s’not fair.’

✮ genuinely just feeling sorry for himself, acting like you’ve completely forgotten he’s existed, when you’ve probably been talking to this guy for about five minutes

✮ when you return to him he does create a little show of it, a smooch on your cheek, an arm around your shoulder, and the smuggest of smug grins tugging his lips upwards and eyes glancing to the boy you had just been talking to in a way that said ‘look over here loser, how you like that?’

✮ he rarely brings up the fact that he’s jealous, because honestly? he’s embarrassed, and similar to how he felt about Hikaru growing closer to Haruhi, he understands you have your own life, with people that know you but don’t know him. reluctantly, he comes to terms with the fact that he can’t always be the centre of your universe, that you can’t rewrite the stars and space to make planets orbit him rather than the sun

✮ of course, he wishes it wasn’t this way, in a selfish way that makes him ashamed of himself, he wants you all to himself, but he’ll forever have that fear that the closer he tries to keep you, the more it will push you away

✮ Kaoru being jealous is quieter than you’d expect, as despite being characterised as ‘mischievous’, his emotional intelligence is honestly shocking

✮ Takashi Morinozuka

✮ he’s strong and silent for a reason. Mori is a secure guy, secure in his masculinity and relationship. honestly, as long as you look happy, he’s content and all is right in the world

✮ it’s extremely difficult to make him jealous, in fact, he’d only ever become remotely jealous if it seemed as though you were reciprocating the attention and affection of another, which of course, never happens

✮ instead, he worries. he’s a protector by nature, so rather than scrutinising your interactions with other boys for signs of flirting, he’s mentally vetting these men to ensure they aren’t a public nuisance or worse, simply because he wants to ensure your safety

✮ although with Mori near by, no matter how hard these guys may want to make advances, they’re far too intimidated to allow these thoughts to manifest as physical actions

✮ if this ever does happen? he never strays from the strong silent guard dog boyfriend persona that was not only assigned to him by the Host Club, but was also just natural to who he was

✮ it’s as if he suddenly manifested behind you, from shadow or air you don’t know, and murmurs soft words in your ear before leading you away, not at all acknowledging the creep who got a little too close for his liking

✮ and that’s honestly it, short and sweet (more terrifying for the random dude)

✮ similarly to Kyoya, he isn’t going to cause a ruckus or draw needless attention, that would be selfish. he doesn’t want everyone to praise him as a knight in shining armour, he just wants to remove you from that situation as quickly as he possibly can

✮ Haruhi Fujioka

✮ Haruhi is stupid. she’s smart academically, no doubt. she was able to get a free ride to Ouran Academy, of course she’s intelligent.

✮ romantically, however? an absolute idiot

✮ she doesn’t even realise she is jealous, god bless her. she just has this indescribable look on her face.

✮ it’s a sad frown, but with a nose scrunched up in disgust, yet with brows furrowed in confusion, you don’t exactly know what she’s feeling and neither does she

✮ she just watches, lost in thought as she tries to compute how she feels whilst also wondering if you interacting with person who is clearly interested in you is wrong of you, or if she’s just irrational

✮ of course, this sweet girl gives you the benefit of the doubt. you surely wouldn’t be talking with this person for so long and giving them the attention they crave if you knew how they felt about you (and spoiler alert, she’s right)

✮ Haruhi slowly wilts away until YOU realise she’s jealous, because you truly can’t figure out if she’s aware she’s currently bright green or if she’s staying put to be polite

✮ when you return to her, she’s bashfully scratching the back of her neck, waving it all off with a sheepish, awkward smile, genuinely believing she’s fooling you into believing she’s fine and nothing was amiss

✮ she’s a little silly, but you wouldn’t embarrass her by pointing it out!!! so, you plant a sweet kiss to her cheek and lead her to one of those chaise lounges in the host club that she just knows was stupid expensive for some tea!

#kacey talks <3 #ouran high school host club #tamaki suoh x reader #tamaki suoh #kaoru hitachiin x reader #hitachiin twins #hikaru hitachiin x reader #kyoya ootori x reader #kyoya ootori #takashi morinozuka #haruhi fujioka #haruhi fujioka x reader

54 notes · View notes

nasa · 1 year ago

Text

Sharpening Our View of Climate Change with the Plankton, Aerosol, Cloud, ocean Ecosystem Satellite

As our planet warms, Earth’s ocean and atmosphere are changing.

Climate change has a lot of impact on the ocean, from sea level rise to marine heat waves to a loss of biodiversity. Meanwhile, greenhouse gases like carbon dioxide continue to warm our atmosphere.

NASA’s upcoming satellite, PACE, is soon to be on the case!

Set to launch on Feb. 6, 2024, the Plankton, Aerosol, Cloud, ocean Ecosystem (PACE) mission will help us better understand the complex systems driving the global changes that come with a warming climate.

Earth’s ocean is becoming greener due to climate change. PACE will see the ocean in more hues than ever before.

While a single phytoplankton typically can’t be seen with the naked eye, communities of trillions of phytoplankton, called blooms, can be seen from space. Blooms often take on a greenish tinge due to the pigments that phytoplankton (similar to plants on land) use to make energy through photosynthesis.

In a 2023 study, scientists found that portions of the ocean had turned greener because there were more chlorophyll-carrying phytoplankton. PACE has a hyperspectral sensor, the Ocean Color Instrument (OCI), that will be able to discern subtle shifts in hue. This will allow scientists to monitor changes in phytoplankton communities and ocean health overall due to climate change.

Phytoplankton play a key role in helping the ocean absorb carbon from the atmosphere. PACE will identify different phytoplankton species from space.

With PACE, scientists will be able to tell what phytoplankton communities are present – from space! Before, this could only be done by analyzing a sample of seawater.

Telling “who’s who” in a phytoplankton bloom is key because different phytoplankton play vastly different roles in aquatic ecosystems. They can fuel the food chain and draw down carbon dioxide from the atmosphere to photosynthesize. Some phytoplankton populations capture carbon as they die and sink to the deep ocean; others release the gas back into the atmosphere as they decay near the surface.

Studying these teeny tiny critters from space will help scientists learn how and where phytoplankton are affected by climate change, and how changes in these communities may affect other creatures and ocean ecosystems.

Climate models are one of our most powerful tools to understand how Earth is changing. PACE data will improve the data these models rely on.

The PACE mission will offer important insights on airborne particles of sea salt, smoke, human-made pollutants, and dust – collectively called aerosols – by observing how they interact with light.

With two instruments called polarimeters, SPEXone and HARP2, PACE will allow scientists to measure the size, composition, and abundance of these microscopic particles in our atmosphere. This information is crucial to figuring out how climate and air quality are changing.

PACE data will help scientists answer key climate questions, like how aerosols affect cloud formation or how ice clouds and liquid clouds differ.

It will also enable scientists to examine one of the trickiest components of climate change to model: how clouds and aerosols interact. Once PACE is operational, scientists can replace the estimates currently used to fill data gaps in climate models with measurements from the new satellite.

With a view of the whole planet every two days, PACE will track both microscopic organisms in the ocean and microscopic particles in the atmosphere. PACE’s unique view will help us learn more about the ways climate change is impacting our planet’s ocean and atmosphere.

Stay up to date on the NASA PACE blog, and make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of sPACE!

#NASA #Earth #climate #climate change #PACE #ocean #atmosphere #global warming #science #planet

1K notes · View notes

workersolidarity · 1 year ago

Text

[ 📹 Scenes from renewed airstrikes by the Israeli occupation army targeting the town of Beit Hanoun, in the northern Gaza Strip, where a huge tower of smoke and dust rises over the city. ]

🇮🇱⚔️🇵🇸 🚀🏘️💥🚑 🚨

209 DAYS OF GENOCIDE IN GAZA AS ISRAELI OCCUPATION CONSIDER ALTERNATIVES TO RAFAH INVASION

On 209th day of "Israel's" ongoing special genocide operation in the Gaza Strip, the Israeli occupation forces (IOF) committed a total of 3 new massacres of Palestinian families, resulting in the deaths of no less than 28 Palestinian civilians, mostly women and children, while another 51 others were wounded over the previous 24-hours.

It should be noted that as a result of the constant Israeli bombardment of Gaza's healthcare system, infrastructure, residential and commercial buildings, local paramedic and civil defense crews are unable to reach countless hundreds, even thousands of victims who remain trapped under the rubble, or who's bodies remain strewn across the streets of Gaza.

This leaves the official death toll vastly undercounted as Gaza's healthcare officials are unable to accurately tally those killed and maimed in this genocide, which must be kept in mind while considering the scale of the mass murder.

As a result of the genocide of Palestinians by the Israel occupation army, Colombia's President, Gustavo Petro, has announced his administration will sever diplomatic ties with the Israeli entity.

The Colombian President made the announcement as part of the country's annual Labor Day celebrations, during which President Petro said that the Republic of Colombia would sever all diplomatic ties with the Israeli occupation on Thursday, due to the Netanyahu administration's tendency for genocide. President Petro further called the Israeli Prime Minister himself a "perpetrator of genocide".

In other news, the Israeli occupation's Security Service may be considering alternatives to the Rafah operation, an Israeli plan to invade Gaza's southern city of Rafah, where over a million Palestinian civilians have taken shelter in tent cities under the direction of the Israeli occupation army, in order to complete the supposed defeat of Hamas.

According to a report in the Palestinian news outlet, SAMA News Agency, the Israeli occupation's Security Services are deliberating on alternatives to a full-scale invasion of Rafah due to intense international pressure and outcry over a potential operation in the last city standing in the Palestinian enclave.

More than 1.4 million Palestinians have gathered in Rafah's tent cities, most having left their homes in northern Gaza following the start of the genocide, under the direction of the Israeli occupation army who told civilians the city was to be a "safe zone".

Since then, the Israeli occupation forces have repeatedly bombed and shelled the city, including, at times, the tents of civilians.

The report states that the Israeli Security Services considers that, "“in all cases, a focused military operation must be carried out on the Philadelphia axis” on the border between the Gaza Strip and Egypt, under the supposed claim of “preventing smuggling routes for Hamas.”

The report added that the Security Services were also monitoring a "completely unusual" deployment of the Egyptian army near the border with Gaza, attributing the deployment to Egyptian fears that large numbers of Palestinians could stream across the border in the case of an Israeli assault on Rafah.

The Israeli Security Services said Egyptian army had deployed to areas where they previously had only Egyptian Police forces, which added army forces widely deployed with armored vehicles near the border.

The Security Services went on to say that Israeli army officers were preparing for a scenario similar to the 2012 operation, in which Palestinian mujahideen left Gaza for the Egyptian Sinai, seizing an armored vehicle before storming the Israeli border.

The report added that Israeli Security Services were considering a complete withdrawal from the Netzarim axis, seperating the northern and southern halves of Gaza, which constitutes a "heavy price" that the Israeli occupation was willing to pay as part of a hostage exchange deal with the Hamas Resistance movement. This despite continued Israeli calls for the "complete destruction" of the Hamas movement.

In further news, a number of American congressional Democrats signed a letter to US President Joe Biden, calling on the President to influence the Israeli occupation into not conducting an operation to invade the city of Rafah, in the southern Gaza Strip.

57 out of 212 Congressional Democrats signed the letter, asking the Biden administration to take all necessary measures to dissuade the Israeli entity's Prime Minister, Benjamin Netanyahu, from launching a full-scale invasion of Rafah.

"We urge you to invoke existing law and policy to immediately withhold certain offensive military aid to the Israeli government, including aid sourced from legislation already signed into law, in order to preempt a full-scale assault on Rafah," Democrats said in the letter.

The letter continued by saying, "an Israeli offensive in Rafah risks the start of yet another escalatory spiral, immediately putting the region back on the brink of a broader war that neither Israel nor the United States can afford."

"If the Israeli government will not uphold international law and protect civilians, then the United States must act to protect innocent life. We urge you to continue your work toward achieving a lasting ceasefire that will bring hostages home and build a path toward safety and security for all."

Meanwhile, the occupation's slaughter in Gaza slowed during negotiations for a hostage exchange deal, but did not stop, as several bombings targeted various sectors of the Gaza Strip, including the north, south and central axis.

In one example, Israeli occupation warplanes bombed a residential home in the Nuseirat Refugee Camp, in the central Gaza Strip on Wednesday evening, martyring a civilian and wounding at least 5 others.

Video published by the Palestinian Red Crescent Society (PRCS) showed the recovery of the dead and wounded, including women and children, while massive destruction was evident resulting from the strike.

In the video, PRCS crew members can be seen filling black plastic body bags, including at least one with a very small body, likely a young child.

At the same time, Zionist artillery shelling targeted a residential house in the Al-Fukhari area, killing a woman, while occupation fighter jets bombed a residential building in the "Six-Martyrs" neighborhood of the central Jabalia Refugee Camp, in Gaza's north.

Occupation jets also bombarded the town of Al-Mughraqa, while also shelling the headquarters for an electricity distribution company in Al-Zawaida, both in the central Gaza Strip.

The Barracks at the entrance of Al-Zawaida were also targeted in a bombing, resulting in a number of casualties.

By dawn, the bombing and shelling was renewed when occupation warplanes bombed the city of Al-Zahra'a, north of the Nuseirat Camp, in central Gaza, killing at least 6 civilians, while yet another bombing targeted the northwest of the Nuseirat Camp, after which, paramedic and civil defense crews removed the bodies of three civilians killed in the strike.

IOF warplanes further bombed agricultural lands near the Ard al-Mufti police station in the Nuseirat Camp, wounding 9 civilians and damaging several homes.

Elsewhere, Zionist air forces bombarded the Qaa al-Qurain area, southeast of Khan Yunis, in Gaza's south, murdering yet another civilian and wounding several others.

Occupation aircraft also bombarded the Bani Suhaila, Abasan, and al-Kuzha'a neighborhoods, east of Khan Yunis.

Local civil defense crews in the Khan Yunis Governate announced that they had recovered the bodies of 6 civilians of various ages, killed in bombings targeting the Camp area of Khan Yunis .

In yet another atrocity, occupation warplanes bombed a residential building belonging to the Ishteiwi family, in the Al-Zaytoun neighborhood, southeast of Gaza City, resulting in the deaths of two Palestinians and wounding a number of others, while several other Palestinians remain missing under the rubble.

IOF fighter jets also targeted a residential home in the Al-Shujaiya neighborhood, east of Gaza City, while another bombing of the Wadi Al-Arayes area, east of the Shuja'iyya neighborhood, resulted in the deaths of two civilians who were taken to the Baptist Hospital.

A group of civilians were also targeted in an airstrike in the Al-Zaytoun neighborhood, southeast of Gaza City.

Occupation forces also continued to bomb the Sheikh Ajlin, Tal al-Hawa, and Al-Zaytoun neighborhoods of Gaza City.

The Israeli occupation additionally targeted the tents of displaced civilian families in the city of Rafah, in the southern Gaza Strip, while also bombing the town of Al-Shoka and the Al-Tanour neighborhood, east of Rafah City, resulting in the death of one civilian and the wounding of many others.

As a result of "Israel's" ongoing special genocide operation in the Gaza Strip, the death toll among the local population has risen further still, now exceeding 34'596 Palestinians killed, including over 14'690 children and 9'680 women, while another 77'816 others were wounded since the start of the current round of Zionist aggression, beginning with the events of October 7th, 2023.

May 2nd, 2024.

#source1

#source2

#source3

#source4

#source5

#source6

#source7

#source8

#videosource

@WorkerSolidarityNews

379 notes · View notes

everwhovian · 1 month ago

Text

a CATastrophe of circumstance | Hwang Brothers | [ao3]

“Oh my God,” he thought. “Oh my God. I’m a fucking cat.”

Jun-ho infiltrates the Games determined to expose the truth and find his missing brother. What he didn’t plan on was getting cursed, turned into a cat, and adopted by the very man he was trying to arrest – who, surprise, turns out to be his brother.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

The office was too quiet. Not silent in the way of peace, but in the way of secrets – coiled like smoke in the corners, waiting.

Jun-ho crouched just behind the threshold, pressed into the shadow between two cabinets. From here, he had a narrow line of sight through the door. The room beyond was pristine – sleek black monitors casting a faint electric glow, the soft hum of ventilation systems, surfaces so polished they nearly reflected the sterile light overhead. Not a single photograph. Not a single speck of dust.

At the desk stood the man in the black mask.

The Front Man.

Jun-ho stilled his breath as the figure lifted the phone from its cradle and pressed it to his ear.

“Front Man speaking,” the man said, voice low, clipped, as calm as if he were confirming a dinner reservation.

Jun-ho’s fingers tensed.

“Yes, sir. A minor disturbance took place. But it’s being addressed.”

His pulse thudded against the inside of his skull. He inched closer, the wood floor cold beneath his palms.

“No need to worry. We’ll make sure there’s no trace of the disturbance by the time the VIPs arrive.”

A pause.

“Yes, sir. The game will begin on time, in line with the schedule.”

The phone clicked into its cradle with quiet finality.

The Front Man lingered. His gloved fingers tapped the desk – once, twice - before he turned away and walked across the room, each step measured and deliberate. The elevator opened with a soft mechanical chime.

Jun-ho listened as the doors hissed shut again.

Gone.

He stayed frozen for a long moment, lungs tight, until the tension in his spine began to ache. Then he rose.

The office was just as it had appeared in surveillance – perfectly arranged, devoid of life. But up close, there was something worse about it. The silence felt deliberate. Every angle too precise, every object scrubbed of humanity. The liquor cabinet gleamed, untouched. The air smelled of metal polish and something faintly acidic, like sterilizer left to rot.

He stepped to the desk and reached out, brushing the cradle of the phone. It was still warm from the last call.

His hand hovered. He hesitated.

Then he picked up the receiver.

Nothing.

No dial tone. No buzz of static. Just a sterile, humming void.

He punched in numbers anyway. 112. A string of emergency codes. Even a Seoul precinct’s direct line. Each press echoed with a mechanical click into a silence that didn’t care.

No connection. No help.

Jun-ho swore under his breath and moved to return the receiver – slowly, carefully, just as he’d seen the Front Man do it.

But something in him flickered with doubt.

Was it the same way? Did he place it the exact same way?

The whisper of uncertainty crawled up his neck like a cold hand.

He turned sharply to leave – only to catch the edge of a low shelf with his hip.

A small tin rattled off and hit the floor.

Dust billowed from the impact, fine and dry and ancient, a thick cloud of silence disturbed.

Jun-ho stumbled back with a cough.

Then came the sneeze.

Once.

Twice.

And on the third –

The world pitched sideways.

Not metaphorically.

The floor seemed to ripple beneath him. The air thickened like water. His body jerked forward, and something inside him twisted with a strange, sickening snap – as if a zipper had been pulled down the wrong way.

His gun hit the floor. His hands – his hands were gone.

No. Not gone. Changed.

Where his fingers should have been were now small, velvet-lined paws, black with sharp cinnamon streaks, speckled in a constellation of gold and gray. His limbs buckled under him. His vision swam low to the floor.

And his clothes – his uniform – pooled around him like a deflated skin.

He tried to breathe.

What came out was a confused, trembling mrrrow.

Jun-ho looked down again, hoping – please – he was hallucinating.

But no.

Paws. A tail. Tiny shoulders. The soft sweep of fur where his jacket should have been.

He tried to stand and nearly faceplanted.

“Oh my God,” he thought. “Oh my God. I’m a fucking cat.”

And not just any cat. His reflection in the black cabinet door showed sharp amber eyes, a dark tortoiseshell coat in deep russets and smoke-black, flecked with strands of cream and ochre. His tail flicked once – erratic, irritated.

No. No no no. This had to be some kind of chemical reaction. Maybe the dust had been laced with something. Or maybe he’d finally lost his grip on reality, cracked under the pressure and imagined the worst possible fate –

The elevator dinged.

The panic hit like a lightning bolt.

Jun-ho bolted. His claws scrabbled against the smooth floor, slipping briefly before he found traction. He darted across the office, ducked through the bedroom door – thankfully left slightly ajar – and dove beneath the bed, tail streaming behind him like a dark ribbon.

He collapsed into the shadows just as the Front Man entered the office again. The phone rang.

Jun-ho flattened himself against the floorboards, fur bristling.

“Front Man speaking.”

Jun-ho’s ears twitched.

“I’m happy to hear you enjoy the game, sir. Yes, sir. The Host is currently waiting for the VIPs to arrive.”

He could hear every word perfectly. And yet none of it mattered because he was now an eight-pound creature of pure anxiety and toe beans.

“Yes. Everything is proceeding according to plan.”

Click.

The receiver landed.

Jun-ho’s heart pounded so loud it drowned out the silence.

Then –

“Are you in here right now?”

His stomach dropped like a stone into a deep lake.

“I have to say – you’re good. But you made one mistake.”

Jun-ho’s breath stilled in his lungs.

“I always put the receiver down the other way.”

Shibal.

He was moving again. The boots. The steps. Closer.

Jun-ho bolted from beneath the bed in a blur of black and rust, paws pattering furiously as he darted out of the bedroom, down the hidden hallway, and launched himself down the spiral stairs.

The motion lights above flickered to life one by one, illuminating his flight like a spotlight on a doomed stage.

“You shot Number 28 with a Smith and Wesson M60 revolver,” the Front Man’s voice echoed after him, crisp and unnervingly amused. “Standard issue for Korean police.”

Jun-ho didn’t stop. He hit the bottom of the stairs and skidded behind a row of shelves. His heart pounded so violently he thought it might shake loose from his tiny ribcage.

“I don’t know how you got in,” the voice called again, growing louder with each descending step, “but you can’t leave this place without my permission.”

Jun-ho’s ears pinned flat.

“I’m sure you have questions. It’s not too late to come out and talk.”

Oh for the love of –

“Come out. I don’t want to shoot you if I don’t have to. But you’re cornered.”

Jun-ho crept out from behind the shelf.

Tiny. Tense. Tail lashing. His paws barely made a sound on the concrete, but the mask turned immediately.

The Front Man stood at the far end.

He stared.

“It’s… a cat,” he said at last, sounding genuinely perplexed. His head tilted slowly, as though trying to decode what the hell he was looking at. “Where did you come from?”

And Jun-ho… hissed.

Sharp and indignant. Like he could somehow threaten him, like his tiny body was still a real danger. His fur bristled along his spine, back arching as high as it could go. His claws clicked against the floor as he tried to hold the pose.

The Front Man didn’t flinch. He sighed.

And reached up.

Fingers curled under the edges of the black mask, lifting slowly, carefully – not in a dramatic reveal, but like it was a chore. Just something that had to be done.

The mask came off.

And Jun-ho froze.

The hiss died in his throat.

He blinked once.

No. That wasn’t –

Yes. It was.

Hyung.

He stood there – paler, colder, eyes sharper than they used to be, but it was him. Jun-ho could see it now, even in this dim light. His mouth. His posture. That familiar tiny squint of are you serious right now tightening around his brow.

Jun-ho didn’t move.

He didn’t breathe.

In-ho blinked once, then lowered the mask to his side, rolling his eyes like this was somehow the most annoying part of his day.

Jun-ho hissed again. Louder. Angrier. He arched his back like a Halloween decoration and tried to bolt –

Too slow.

In-ho stepped forward, crouched smoothly, and scooped him up in one motion.

Jun-ho thrashed immediately, wriggling in his grip, paws scrabbling at his chest with all the fury of a betrayed sibling trapped in a ten-inch body.

But In-ho didn’t drop him. He didn’t even wobble.

He adjusted his hold, arm curled under Jun-ho’s belly, other hand securing the scruff – gentle, firm, practiced.

“You don’t belong here,” he said.

Jun-ho flailed instantly, letting out a high-pitched yowl of betrayal, claws flexing toward anything soft.

In-ho did not budge.

He simply shifted his grip, one arm secure under Jun-ho’s front legs, the other hand curled under his hindquarters like he’d done this a thousand times.

“The intruder was a cat” he muttered. “My guards are fired.”

In-ho just held him like someone who’d wrangled more than one angry stray in his life. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have to. His expression said enough.

A slow, tired blink.

Then a muttered breath that might have been “unbelievable.”

Jun-ho glared up at him, ears flattened tight against his head.

This couldn’t be happening.

His brother – his missing brother – was the Front Man.

And he was holding him like a mildly inconvenient tote bag.

In-ho looked down at him. “You done yet?”

Jun-ho bit him.

In-ho didn’t even flinch. He just exhaled – low, annoyed – and carried him like he was a loose file that needed filing away. The sound of his boots echoed across the polished floor, past the shelves and through the hidden hallway, Jun-ho’s dark tortoiseshell body cradled in his arms like a sulking, clawed briefcase.

They reached the bedroom. In-ho kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot and twisted the lock with one hand.

Jun-ho didn’t need to be told what that meant.

He was being contained.

The moment In-ho let go, Jun-ho hit the ground running – only to find every door already shut. The heavy steel office door, the hidden hallway panel, even the connecting bathroom door stood firm and sealed. No gaps. No escape routes. Just cold walls, smooth floor, and air that smelled faintly of steel and something sterile.

He froze in the middle of the room, tail lashing, amber eyes wide. In-ho didn’t even look back at him. He just moved calmly through the space, peeling off his gloves like this was any other day, then disappearing into the adjacent bathroom with a rustle of cloth and the soft click of a cabinet.

Jun-ho bolted for the shadows beneath the bed.

The world was too loud. The air too tight.

He crawled so far under he pressed against the back wall, wedging himself into the narrowest pocket of dark he could find. His fur bristled. His heart rattled like a trapped wasp in his chest. Every beat pulsed through tiny veins, all the more maddening for how wrong it felt. The body didn’t fit. It wasn’t his. He wasn’t supposed to be this small. This fragile. This… furry.

He pressed his forehead against the cool floor, trying to calm down. Trying to breathe.

But the thoughts wouldn’t stop.

This can’t be real.

This can’t be happening.

You’re not a cat. You’re not a cat. You’re not a –

But every flick of his ear betrayed him. Every twitch of his tail confirmed it. The angle of the world. The press of the floor beneath his chest. The soft weight of a body that wasn’t his.

And his brother.

His missing brother was the Front Man.

The Front Man.

Jun-ho’s stomach twisted.

He had come here for answers. For justice. For In-ho.

Not for this.

Not to be turned into something clawed and voiceless. Not to discover that the man at the top of this hellish machine wore his brother’s face beneath that mask.

He curled tighter into himself, nose to paws, eyes burning with everything he couldn’t scream.

Then the silence shattered. The radio hissed. Static, faint, followed by a clipped voice – sharp and metallic, like it didn’t belong in the quiet.

“We found a body.”

Jun-ho felt the air shift around him. He watched from under the bed, just barely visible through a narrow gap in the floor-length blanket, as In-ho stood very still. He didn’t respond at first. Even the quiet hum of the room seemed to hold its breath.

“Where is it?” In-ho asked eventually, voice low and devoid of emotion.

“Northern coast. Looks like it’s been in the water a while.”

Jun-ho’s stomach twisted violently, a cold, creeping dread sliding into his gut like seawater.

“He’s in a guard uniform. No ID, but there was something in his vest.”

A pause. And then: “A police badge.”

Jun-ho’s heart stopped.

His badge.

The one he had slipped into that vest, into that dead man’s pocket before pushing him off the ferry. A decoy. A lie. A necessary one.

And now – would In-ho think the body was his?

There was silence again. In-ho didn’t move. Then, almost too calmly: “Heading to your position ”

“Yes, sir.”

The radio clicked off.

In-ho reached for his mask, slid it back into place with the slow, mechanical precision of someone sealing something tightly shut. He turned on his heel and left the room without a sound, the door whispering closed behind him, the lock sliding into place with a dull, definitive click.

Jun-ho was alone.

Trapped.

The silence that followed was cavernous.

He remained frozen under the bed for a long time, too stunned to move, his tail curled tight against his side, his thoughts lashing at the insides of his skull like wild animals. He couldn’t get warm. His fur, so sleek and dense, did nothing to stop the chill coiling through him now, deeper than skin, deeper than bone.

He was a cat. That alone was already too much to comprehend. But now – this. His brother. His brother, who had once cooked ramyeon at three in the morning just because Jun-ho was sad. His brother, who used to call him stubborn with fondness and flick his ear when he was annoying. His brother, who had vanished – and who, Jun-ho now realized with gut-wrenching clarity, hadn’t just gone missing.

He had become the Front Man.

He had become this.

Jun-ho didn’t cry. Cats couldn’t cry.

But his breath shuddered, and he hated the soft, rasping sound of it.

Time blurred.

An hour passed – maybe more. He didn’t know. The light didn’t change. There were no windows. Only the distant echo of machinery and the humming tension of a space too clean, too still, too saturated with silence.

Then –

Footsteps.

Not fast. Not urgent. Just… uneven.

Jun-ho’s ears swiveled.

The door opened with a whisper.

In-ho stepped in.

And something was wrong.

The mask was gone. He had thrown it – Jun-ho could see it lying askew on the floor, face tilted toward the ceiling like a discarded skull. His coat hung off one shoulder. His hair was slightly damp, or maybe it only looked that way under the light. And in his hand –

Jun-ho squinted.

Then stilled.

His badge.

Held not like evidence, but like something fragile. Like something sacred. Like grief made tangible.

In-ho walked to the bed and sat down heavily, as if all of it – this island, the lie, the mask – had finally grown too heavy to carry. He didn’t speak. He just stared down at the object in his hand, fingers white around the edges.

In-ho thought the body was Jun-ho’s.

In-ho thought he was dead.

Jun-ho didn’t realize he was holding his breath until his lungs ached. His mind reeled – sick with panic, with disbelief, with the unbearable awareness that he had just watched his brother quietly process the idea of his death. And not just process it – but accept it.

The ache in his chest surged forward like a wave breaking against rock.

He moved.

Slowly, silently, every muscle tight and trembling. He crept out from beneath the bed, paws soundless on the floor, tail low, body close to the ground. His ears were back, not in fear, but in a kind of reverent disbelief.

He didn’t know what he was doing. Only that he had to move. Had to be seen. Had to be there.

In-ho didn’t look up.

So Jun-ho jumped.

He landed softly on the bed, right beside him.

For a second, neither of them moved.

Jun-ho looked down at the badge. His badge. His name. The very thing that had almost undone him.

And he hated it.

He hated all of it.

He hated the man sitting beside him – this stranger wearing his brother’s face. This thing that In-ho had become. This monster who ran the games.

But he couldn’t let him believe that body had been real.

He couldn’t let his brother grieve someone who was still alive.

He stepped forward on trembling paws and opened his mouth.

“Listen, hyung. You have to help me. I’m trapped in a cat’s body and I don’t know what to do. I’m not dead. I’m here. I’m right here.”

But what came out was a soft, confused “meow.”

He blinked. Tried again.

“Mrrrow. Mreww.”

No.

No no no no no –

He stepped forward until he was right beside In-ho’s leg, practically leaning against him now, eyes wide, chest heaving, trying to will the truth into existence.

But there were no words. Only sounds. The dull language of a creature he didn’t ask to become.

In-ho finally turned. He looked down at him with an expression that was… tired. Older. Not broken. But cracked.

Then, with the kind of tired gentleness that cut deeper than anything else, he patted the top of Jun-ho’s head.

Just once. An absent brush of fingers through tortoiseshell fur.

“Good cat,” he murmured.

His fingers brushed gently through Jun-ho’s fur. A slow, quiet pat. Not hesitant. Not dramatic. Just soft.

Like it was the only comfort he had left.

Jun-ho’s body sagged without his permission.

He slumped next to his brother and closed his eyes, not out of peace – but exhaustion. Grief. Fury. And the quiet, unbearable fear that he might never speak again. That he might never be human again.

He felt In-ho’s hand rest lightly against his back.

It was warm.

And he hated that it still felt like home.

In-ho just kept holding the badge. Kept staring at it like it might suddenly bring him back.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

It started, humiliatingly, with tuna.

Jun-ho had resisted at first, out of principle, out of pride, and out of the deep, bone-deep certainty that if he gave in to something so domesticated, so small, so beneath him, he might never crawl back out of this nightmare – that each bite would take him one step further away from who he was, who he had been, who he was still screaming to be.

But after nearly twelve hours curled beneath the bed, back pressed tight against the wall, thoughts unraveling in loops too tangled to make sense of, his hunger won the war his pride had started.

The bowl was ceramic. White. Unassuming. Placed beside the wall with such quiet care that it made Jun-ho’s stomach twist – not because it was insulting, but because it wasn’t. Because In-ho hadn’t tossed it at him like food to a stray. He had offered it. Gently. Like he cared.

That was the worst part. It wasn’t cruelty. It was kindness. Blind, unknowing, completely misdirected kindness. And Jun-ho hated how much it worked.

He ate.

He cleaned the bowl.

He even licked the rim.

And when he was done, he curled back into himself under the bed and seethed – not just because of what had happened, but because the tuna had been really fucking good.

A few hours later, In-ho had added a water bowl, set beside the radiator near the far wall, and a blanket folded in a half-moon next to it, the fabric soft enough to be deliberate, the placement close enough to the heat source that it could only mean he’d thought about it. Jun-ho ignored it for exactly three hours before padding over and curling into it, not because he was cold, but because he was tired of the floor pressing into his ribs.

By the next day, he had become part of the routine.

He didn’t know when it happened exactly – somewhere between the silent standoffs and the quiet meals, between the suspicious stares and the occasional, maddening ear scratch – but In-ho had started carrying him.

Sometimes it was just from room to room, his dark tortoiseshell body cradled like a bundle of warm laundry against a black-clad arm, the fabric of the Front Man’s coat rough against his flank, but other times… other times it was worse.

He was brought into strategy meetings, set down gently on the chair beside In-ho like some miserable executive assistant. He was placed on the observation platform during game prep, left to sit and blink slowly while masked soldiers rushed about below. Once, unbelievably, he was tucked into the crook of In-ho’s elbow like a child’s toy as the man barked orders through a headset, his free hand absently stroking Jun-ho’s spine as if this was a normal day and not the darkest farce Jun-ho had ever lived through.

And the guards – the soldiers, the blank, silent enforcers in pink – watched.

They never said a word. But they noticed. He felt it in the way they tilted their heads when In-ho passed with a tail swishing against his coat, in the longer-than-necessary glances they exchanged as their boss – the man they feared – walked past with a deeply displeased cat lodged against his chest.

Once, one of them even saluted him.

He had considered biting that one.

But he had a mission.

And he needed to be heard.

The tail came first.

He started small, working through Morse code in the quiet hours, curled beside the radiator, tail flicking in long dashes and staccato dots, patterns etched into the air like invisible language, like prayers thrown into the void.

He spelled HELP. He spelled SOS. He spelled I’M JUN-HO, YOU IDIOT.

Nothing.

Not a twitch.

Not a glance.

Not a single sign that In-ho had even noticed, let alone understood.

So he escalated.

The paw came next.

He climbed into In-ho’s lap during surveillance review, settled his front paws on his thigh, and began tapping – slow, steady, insistent, a beat repeated with absolute precision.

Three short. Three long. Three short.

He even paused in between, giving his brother time to recognize the rhythm.

He got a sigh in return.

And a distracted murmur: “Do you want food?”

Jun-ho had never wanted to throw something across a room so badly in his life.

Except, of course, he couldn’t throw anything.

No opposable thumbs.

Just toe beans.

He wanted to scream.

But screaming came out in chirps now. In yowls and meows and frustrated, warbling noises that sounded like they belonged to a spoiled alley cat who’d just been told it couldn’t go outside.

And worst of all – worst of all – some part of him was adjusting.

Not happily. Not willingly.

But inevitably.

His body was adapting faster than his mind. The way he moved, the way he balanced, the way he landed after a jump – it was all terrifyingly easy now. Muscle memory that wasn’t his own was beginning to take over.

And when In-ho stroked the space behind his ear, he purred.

Not because he wanted to.

But because the body did.

And he hated it.

He hated everything about this.

Which is why, when he finally noticed the photograph, it undid him.

It was a quiet evening. Lights dimmed. In-ho at his desk. The room silent but for the hum of machines and the occasional shuffle of paper.

Jun-ho had been pacing the floor again, nerves coiled too tightly to rest.

He leapt onto the desk to get a better view of the surveillance screens – and that’s when he saw it.

The photo sat there like a trap.

So small. So easy to miss. Tucked beside the monitor, half-hidden behind a stack of neat reports, the edge of the frame worn where fingertips had gripped it again and again – quiet evidence of something soft, something human still buried beneath the black mask.

Jun-ho hadn’t noticed it before.

Or maybe he had, and his mind simply hadn’t let him look too closely. Maybe some part of him had been protecting what little was left of him by not letting him see it – this fragile, quiet proof that In-ho still remembered who he was. Who they had been.

But now, perched on the desk, tail flicking in slow, irate rhythm, he saw it.

And it stopped him cold.

It was an old photo. Casual. Unposed. The lighting was uneven, the background slightly out of focus – a mountain trail, maybe. A memory from before everything went to hell. In-ho was smiling. Not broadly, not easily, but enough to be real. He looked younger. Softer. His arm was looped around the shoulders of a skinny, scowling teenager with a scrape on his chin and a hoodie that didn’t quite fit.

Jun-ho stared. He remembered the day – how much he’d hated taking the photo, how annoyed he’d been, how tired and scraped-up and hungry.

He remembered laughing later.

He remembered the soda In-ho had bought him afterward, the way his brother had ruffled his hair and told him he looked like hell.

He lifted one paw and tapped the glass. Once. Twice. A third time – harder.

In-ho looked up from his papers. His eyes narrowed slightly.

“What now?” he asked flatly.

Jun-ho tapped again.

He moved closer, pressed both paws to the frame now, dragging them down the surface like he could claw his identity into the glass.

He looked up at In-ho. Wide, desperate, amber eyes boring into his brother’s face.

Me.

It’s me.

Can’t you see?

He tapped again – frantic now, pacing in place, tail lashing.

He wanted to scream. Wanted to grab the frame in his teeth and shove it in In-ho’s face. Wanted to claw open his own chest and pour out the truth.

But all he had were paws. Pads. Claws.

So he did the only thing left.

He opened his mouth.

“Hyung, listen. Stop being so dumb, please.”

“Rrrrrrowwwwwlll,” his body said, with all the fury and conviction of a creature who had not been designed to deliver heartfelt speeches.

In-ho blinked slowly.

“You’re so dramatic,” he muttered.

Jun-ho let out a frustrated chirp, slammed both paws against the photo again, and yowled.

“You really need to calm down.”

Jun-ho hissed through his teeth – not because he was angry, although he was – but because he didn’t know what else to do. The helplessness was curdling inside him like spoiled milk, thick and sour, unbearable.

Then, as if it were a completely normal response to a cat trying to have an existential meltdown, he reached out and patted him. On the head. Again.

The same exact pat as always. Flat. Absent. Familiar in a way that made Jun-ho want to scream.

He wanted to bite him. He wanted to claw his way into his collarbone and force the recognition out of him.

Instead, glared up at In-ho with everything he had. The fury of betrayal. Of being reduced to a pat on the head and a bowl of tuna.

In-ho raised an eyebrow.

“You’re such a weird little thing.”

Jun-ho narrowed his eyes, extended one claw, and slowly, deliberately, tapped the frame one last time.

In-ho stared.

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

Jun-ho’s ears flattened. His tail lashed behind him, no longer twitching but whipping with sharp, frustrated strokes.

He was going to get out of this body.

He didn’t know how. He didn’t know when.

But when he did – when – he was going to make In-ho regret every single pat.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

It was over.

The games were finished. The blood had dried. The bodies had been bagged and burned and Gi-hun had survived, somehow – stumbling, bloodied, blank-eyed in the aftermath – and now he was gone too, swept off the island like the last chess piece in a game that had been rigged from the start.

The dormitories were silent. The control room dark. The compound half-dismantled, folding in on itself as the island exhaled, exhausted and empty.

And Jun-ho was still. A. Cat.

He sat on the ledge of the dresser, tail curling and uncurling with a rhythm that felt far too smug to belong to him, his gaze fixed on the man kneeling by the bed – maskless, coat draped over the back of a chair, duffel bag open as he folded a stack of dark shirts with surgical precision.

In-ho was packing.

Going home.

Off the island.

Back to whatever life waited for the man who had orchestrated six days of slaughter and carried a cat around like it was a service animal trained to detect emotional damage.

Jun-ho, meanwhile, was still covered in fur. His dark tortoiseshell coat shimmered in the lamplight – smoke and rust and ochre, elegant and lethal and utterly wasted on a creature who was now being referred to, with no irony whatsoever, as Kkobugi.

“Kkobugi,” In-ho said now, from where he knelt beside his duffel bag, folding his coat with mechanical precision, “I swear to God, if you scratch up my travel bag again, I’m leaving you behind.”

Jun-ho did not move. He did not blink. He just glared. Because Kkobugi.

Kkobugi. As in Squirtle. The water-type turtle Pokémon. The one with stubby little limbs and a vacant smile and a fucking shell.

Jun-ho did not even have a shell.

And yet here he was, named after a cartoon reptile by the man who used to teach him how to tie his shoes.

It was insulting. It was demeaning. It was absolutely on brand.

Because of course In-ho – cold, aloof, terrifying In-ho – would cope with grief and global conspiracies by adopting a cat and naming it after a childhood video game.

He shifted slightly, claws slipping against the varnished wood of the dresser, and let out a long, wheezing sigh that bordered on a yowl.

Jun-ho’s ears flattened with slow, practiced disdain.

“You know,” In-ho continued, as he tucked a pair of gloves into the side pouch of the bag, “for something so small, you really do carry an ungodly amount of judgment in your eyes.”

Jun-ho blinked once. The slow, deliberate blink of someone who would absolutely burn this place to the ground if he had opposable thumbs. He jumped from the dresser and onto the bed in one clean movement, landing squarely atop In-ho’s folded shirt with the weight of a very pointed message.

In-ho looked at him. Smiled faintly. Almost fond. “You’re ridiculous,” he said.

No. You are, Jun-ho thought savagely.

But all that came out was a low, guttural mrrrrow, which made In-ho chuckle and reach over to scratch behind his ear.

And the worst part – the absolute betrayal of cat biology – was that Jun-ho leaned into it.

Just for a second. Just because it was him. Just because, in some completely fucked-up way, it still felt like home.

But then he caught himself, jerked away with an indignant chirp, and sank into a loaf of pure spite on top of the now-wrinkled shirt.

In-ho just laughed, soft and tired.

“All right, Kkobugi. Relax. I’m not leaving without you.”

Jun-ho’s eye twitched. He swore to god, if he ever got his human body back, he was going to sue someone for emotional damages. Preferably In-ho.

His hyung who was now asking him if he was ready to go.

No – he wasn’t ready to get shoved into a carrier, shipped off the island, and become the weird reclusive man’s therapy pet. He hadn’t signed up for this.

He had come here with a plan.

A real plan.

Sneak onto the island. Uncover the truth. Find his brother. Blow the whole thing wide open.

And the sick joke of it was: it had worked.

He had found In-ho.

Not like he’d wanted to. Not as a missing persons case. Not as a survivor in hiding.

No – Jun-ho had found him as the monster behind the curtain. As the black-gloved puppet master of the entire horror show. As the man who watched people die from behind glass and didn’t flinch.

And yet - he had found him.

A win is a win, right?

And even if he was still trapped in this stupid, twitchy body with fur that collected static and a tail that wouldn’t stop flicking whenever he got mad… even if he still couldn’t speak… he was here.

And In-ho was too.

That was something.

Now all he had to do was figure out how to get unstuck. Somehow. Some way.

He didn’t know what he was waiting for – a reversal spell, divine intervention, a cursed can of tuna – but he was not going to stay Kkobugi forever.

Jun-ho let out a huff, tucked his paws under his chest, and glared at In-ho as he zipped up the bag and moved toward the door, whistling low under his breath.

They left the island by night.

No farewells, no sirens. Just the low whine of the engine, the chop of dark water, and the slow disappearance of that godforsaken silhouette in the distance – a black smear of rock and concrete vanishing into fog. Jun-ho sat curled at the edge of the passenger seat in the dinghy, tail flicking violently with every bump of the waves, fur bristling from the cold and his ever-growing resentment. In-ho didn’t say much. He never did.

By the time they reached the mainland, the sun had started to rise.

It was quiet. Ordinary. Devastatingly so.

Jun-ho was shoved into a carrier for the ferry ride across the harbor – a small, blue, plastic thing with paw-print air holes and a suspiciously soft fleece lining. In-ho had bought it from a 24-hour pet supply store without hesitation and hadn’t even asked if Jun-ho wanted the one labeled “Seafoam Blue.” Jun-ho had yowled for the entire trip, purely out of spite.

Back in the city, it was like waking from a nightmare – only instead of peace, Jun-ho found himself stuck in a domestic comedy. In-ho’s apartment was exactly as he remembered it: tiny, utilitarian, smelling faintly of coffee and dust. Clean. Lived-in. Quiet.

And now, inexplicably, cat-proofed.

There was a food bowl. A water dish. A litter box in the bathroom. And, most offensively, a small fabric mouse on the living room rug that squeaked when stepped on.

Jun-ho knocked it under the radiator on day one.

By day three, he’d torn the little felt ears off it just for fun.

And In-ho still didn’t know.

Still didn’t get it.

Jun-ho tried everything. Morse code on the window. Again. Tapping at photographs. Again. Staring unblinking at the police badge In-ho had placed on the bookshelf like a quiet memorial. He even managed to rearrange dry kibble into the word NO once – only for In-ho to glance at it, frown, and say, “What, not hungry?”

The rage was slowly eating him from the inside out.

Jun-ho took to knocking things off counters with increasing drama. Remote? On the floor. Mug? Shattered. Laptop? Nearly died in battle.

Nothing worked.

And the name.

Oh god, the name.

“Kkobugi,” In-ho called, the word echoing through the apartment like a curse disguised as affection, “get off the counter.”

Jun-ho, perched on the very same counter, gave him a look that could have curdled milk.

“I’m serious.”

Jun-ho did not move. He was on his last nerve. His last paw. His last sliver of sanity.

Because he had found his brother. He had completed his mission. He had survived the island. He had lived. And now he was eating chicken-flavored pâté out of a bowl labeled KKOBUGI in comic sans.

It happened without warning.

One second, Jun-ho was crouched on the counter, tail twitching like a fuse, fur on end, practically vibrating with all the rage and unspoken thoughts that had nowhere to go except into increasingly dramatic acts of property damage. He had been glaring at the back of In-ho’s head with the intensity of someone who had once passed police training and now couldn’t even operate a doorknob. The betrayal, the absurdity, the name – it all swirled in him like storm clouds, tightening in his chest.

And then he sneezed.

It wasn’t even a dainty, cat-like sound. It was violent. Primal. A full-body jerk that knocked him off balance and nearly sent him careening off the countertop.

He landed awkwardly. Hard. Not because he slipped – but because his paws were suddenly feet.

His limbs stretched mid-fall. His spine arched in ways it hadn’t in days. His bones snapped back into place like someone dragging a zipper up in reverse. Fur vanished. Joints reformed. His tail was gone.

By the time he hit the kitchen floor, naked and human and gasping like he’d been dragged through a dimensional paper shredder, it was already over.

Silence blanketed the apartment.

The linoleum was cold. His legs felt too long. His fingers – fingers – were trembling against the tile, curled like claws.

Jun-ho blinked hard, trying to reorient to a body that didn’t crouch naturally anymore. That didn’t twitch at every shadow. That didn’t want to chase dust particles in sunbeams.

And In-ho stood in the doorway, holding a coffee mug mid-sip, utterly frozen.

Jun-ho met his gaze evenly, chest rising and falling with slow, deliberate breaths, heart hammering somewhere behind his ribs like a fist on a locked door.

The mug didn’t break, but it might as well have.

Jun-ho pushed himself upright. He crossed to the dresser and pulled it open with calm, practiced ease – found an old pair of sweatpants that still smelled faintly of detergent – and stepped into them without ceremony.

In-ho still hadn’t moved. Still hadn’t blinked. His breath caught in his throat, visible in the soft light from the hallway, like he didn’t dare exhale in case the vision in front of him disappeared.

And then Jun-ho lifted one hand.

Not in greeting.

Not in forgiveness.

Just a single finger. Raised in the universal gesture of shut up.

In-ho’s mouth opened – instinctively, like it always had when he needed to take control of a situation – and Jun-ho raised his hand a fraction higher, not even looking at him, as he pulled the drawstring tight and shoved his feet into a pair of slippers that didn’t match.

“Don’t,” he said finally. Voice hoarse. Flat. Dangerously even. “Not yet.”

Jun-ho ran a hand through his hair, still half-wild from transformation, and finally turned to face the man who had unknowingly fed him wet food and called him after a cartoon turtle for six straight days.

And In-ho – Front Man, killer, commander – looked completely shattered. He stepped forward, slow and hesitant, like approaching a wild animal.

“I thought you were dead,” he said, the words brittle at the edges. “I held your badge. I saw the body. I –”

Jun-ho’s expression cracked – just a fraction. A tremor in the jaw. A flicker in the brow. The kind of hurt that slips in sideways.

“Yeah,” he said. “So did I.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Grief and guilt and disbelief layered thick in the air.

In-ho opened his mouth again, but Jun-ho cut him off with a sharp breath through his nose, that same raised hand snapping back up between them.

“One more word,” he said, voice low and dangerously even, “and I swear to god I will knock every mug off your shelf.”

In-ho stared at him.

Jun-ho stepped closer, eyes burning now, the fury bubbling up through his chest like a second heartbeat.

“You patted my head,” he said, voice climbing by degrees. “You fed me tuna, In-ho. You bought me a toy shaped like a mouse.”

“I –”

“You named me Kkobugi.”

In-ho winced.

Jun-ho spread his arms in exasperation as he stared at the ceiling like it personally offended him.

“A Pokémon, hyung. A. Pokémon. I was literally trying to tell you I was a human being trapped as a cat, and you looked me in the face and said, ‘Oh, you look like Squirtle.’”

Jun-ho’s voice cracked halfway through the sentence, too sharp to be calm, too hoarse to be furious. It hung in the space between them like a snapped string. He didn’t stop.

“I mean, what the fuck? I don’t even look like Squirtle. You couldn’t have gone with something dignified? Panther? Tiger? Anything?”

In-ho stayed still, his hands loose at his sides, expression unreadable.

But Jun-ho’s chest was rising faster now. Breath hitching. His words piling one over the other like floodwater finally breaching the levee.

“I thought you were dead,” he said, and the tone shifted – just a little, but enough to splinter something. “I went there because I found the card in your apartment. That stupid card. And I thought – God, I hoped you were just missing. That maybe you’d been recruited, or forced, or – something. Anything but what I found.”

He took a step forward.

“I broke into the Games because I thought if I found the players, I might find your name on a list. I was going to stop it. I thought – fuck, I thought if I could just get to the island –”

Another breath. Sharper now. Like something catching in his ribs.

“Then I heard about the organ harvesting. About the players disappearing. One of the bodies they dumped had only one kidney, and I – I thought it was you.”

He was too close now.

Too close to keep pretending this wasn’t shattering him.

He could feel the words backing up in his throat. Feel the tears pressing hot at the corners of his eyes. But he didn’t stop.

“I thought I’d lost you. That you were dead and I didn’t even know how or where or why. And then I get here and –”

His voice collapsed.

“You were him.”

He was trembling. Shoulders tight, hands clenched. He stared up at In-ho, who still hadn’t moved, not once, not even to breathe it seemed – and then Jun-ho hit him.

Just once. A weak, open-handed slap to the chest. It barely made a sound.

Then again.

And again.

He didn’t stop.

The hits weren’t angry, not really. They were soft, directionless, more like gestures than violence, his fists barely landing as he pushed against In-ho’s chest over and over again, just trying to feel something solid, something real.

And then – his legs gave out.

He dropped forward, forehead pressed to In-ho’s shoulder, fists still loosely balled against his chest. Not hitting anymore. Just touching. Just being there.

And In-ho finally moved.

He wrapped his arms around Jun-ho like it wasn’t even a question. Like he’d been waiting for this.

One hand slid to the back of Jun-ho’s neck. The other wrapped across his shoulders, pulling him in like gravity.

And Jun-ho – after a heartbeat of resistance, of tension, of years held in his spine – let it happen.

He didn’t sob.

But his breath stuttered.

Jun-ho clutched fistfuls of In-ho’s shirt and pressed his face to his shoulder and spoke, words tumbling past his lips like they’d been caged for too long.

“I was a cat,” he said, voice muffled, broken. “I was a cat, hyung.”

In-ho didn’t move. He didn’t question it. Just held him tighter.

“For days. I woke up and I had fur and claws and – I knocked over a tin in your office and there was all this dust and then I – sneezed, and suddenly I couldn’t hold a gun anymore, I couldn’t stand up. I was a cat.”

He laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound. His fists thudded weakly against In-ho’s chest again. Not out of anger now, just helpless frustration.

“You patted my head, In-ho. You scratched behind my ears. You called me Kkobugi.”

And he shook, silently, against his brother’s chest. Because he had been a cat. Because he had almost died. Because In-ho had become something monstrous. Because he was alive. Because they both were.

“I had to watch you. Every day. Watch you be this – this thing. Watch you give orders. Watch you pretend none of it mattered. And I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t even scream. I just sat there and ate tuna and knocked mugs off counters and – and slept in a stupid fleece blanket while people were dying.”

His voice cracked open again.

“I hated you. I hated you so much.”

In-ho’s arms didn’t loosen.

Jun-ho sagged.

“And I missed you,” he whispered, almost too quietly to hear. “I missed you so much.”

And finally, finally, he stopped talking.

His shoulders were trembling. His throat ached. His entire body felt like it had been wrung out, dried up, and left in the sun too long.

But he was human. And his brother was here. And maybe that was the only thing keeping him upright now. Jun-ho held onto him like he wasn’t sure he’d ever get another chance.

Later, he would stop him.

Later, when his voice no longer trembled and his heart wasn’t trying to claw its way out of his chest, when he could look In-ho in the eye without flinching, Jun-ho would do what he came here to do.

He would get him out. Drag him away from the island, from the mask, from the machine that had swallowed him whole and made him forget who he used to be. He would not let him go back.

He didn’t know how yet. Didn’t know what it would take. But he swore – he swore – he would find a way.

But not now.

Right now, his arms were wrapped around the brother he thought he’d never see again. Right now, he could feel In-ho breathing against him, solid and warm and real, no longer a mask in the dark. Right now, the world could wait.

He was still scared.

Still furious.

Still half-convinced that none of this was real.

But the warmth of In-ho’s arms – the weight of his breath, the strength in his hands, the way he didn’t pull away – told him otherwise.

He wasn’t a cat anymore.

And he wasn’t alone.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

Blame my discord friends for this! It started very innocently with a question: if you could turn either of the brothers into pets, which one and which pet?

And suddenly we had a full-on AU which I was forced to write. Crack treated seriously!

Also, this is how I imagined Jun-ho

#hwang brothers #cat!jun ho #squid game #hwang in ho #hwang junho #hwang jun ho #hwang bros #squid game fanfic #inho and junho #hwang inho #in ho and jun ho #crack treated seriously #crack fic #Junho turns into a cat #blame my discord friends

55 notes · View notes

websitestargirl · 4 months ago

Text

wave goodbye

part one –> next part. series masterlist found here. ao3 link found here

2k words

CW: fem!pilot!rerader severe medical injuries, implied violent/scary situations opioids

It’s imperative you take a few months to heal, they say. The fracture is brutal. Metal screws will have to be fixed to your joints, they say. Still, they won’t dim the cool white LEDs from the ceiling of the medbay until nightfall. Cot uncomfortable now that the springs have begun digging into your lower back. Mattress dipping in where your sedentary body’s been laying. Spinning in and out of light sleep laced with vivid dreams and an ever present sensation of falling. Closing your eyes shocks your system into a dizzying spin, forever dropping upwards towards the clouds.

The nurse spends another moment fixing the machinery before stilling and scratching down something for the doctor. The words he speaks are clear but puncture through your brain at an abrasion too rough to process any meaning from the syllables. You nod in agreement to what was said before letting your head fall back against the flattened pillow. The door clicks shut as you loosely jiggle your arm. The IV sways, needle prodding on the inside of your bruised veins. Drowsy from the painkillers and toes numb from boredom, you hope your CO will withhold from breaking the bad news at least until you’re walking again. But you know it’s coming regardless.

There’s a knock. The door creaks open and it’s him. Report in hand, your duffle of neatly packed belongings slung over his shoulder. Through the hypnagogic fogginess of morphine, the green attire is soothing on the eyes. Each blink is slow, eyelashes fanning over your vision with each squeeze shut. Your heart beats slowly, feeling the muscle pulse in your ribcage. Breath loud, sound filling your lungs and then your ears on the exhale.

His movements are sluggish, slow and blurry. There’s motion when his arm reaches underneath the wall-mounted first aid kit to dim the lights. There’s a thump as he plops the luggage on the polyester cushioned armchair. The other chair is pulled up to the bedside where he takes a seat, fingers intertwined in his lap.

Silence interrupted by the sound of the heart monitor beeping in rhythm with the pounding in your chest. The moment lingers for hours, the man sitting so still you blink yourself back into consciousness. Startled, the thought crosses your mind that maybe the man in front of you is a mannequin and this is just another one of your elaborate REM dreams. Perhaps you’ve been asked a question and have missed it entirely, so lost in your own world to realize you’re being expected to speak. You wonder if he’s alive, if the moment isn’t lasting as long as it feels. You blush when you realize you had flinched back, delirium puppeteering your body like a bug infested bed.

When he says your name, you’re brought back down to earth. It’s quiet and contemplative, a bittersweetness to its intonation that makes the whole thing seem a bit more serious. More than grounding, it’s become sobering. Dust collects on the thin blanket keeping you only a bit warmer than the ice chilly coolness inside the ICU. His words are not warming. Through the muffled warble, you make out the important bits.

Something about your injury, something about recovery time, and something about leave.

“You’ll be on leave until you’re stable. Then we’ll touch base with whether or not you can come back and serve. If not, we’ll have your discharge later in the year.”

You wince as your nodding sends sharp stabs down your spine.

“Understand?”

“Yessir.”

Somehow, the moment resembles detention from elementary school. Watching your teacher’s back as they begin speaking to your parents. Frightened by the punishment, the hours of time yanked away from what could have been recess. And when your CO shuts the door, the low drone of electricity fills the air.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

On and on.

Heart beating as it should in a body that doesn’t work all that well anymore. The looming punishment must be your hubris. Too eager to show off. Histrionic and untamed in such a cocky expression. An exacerbated rise and fall of the plane. Tipping, spinning, falling down. Down towards the ocean, the dry yellow grass, the sandy dunes. Bracing for impact.

Pull up. Pull up.

On and on.

A mantra rattling between your ears as the pressure begins to sit on your chest. Pinned down to the cot, underneath your skin is an itch desperate for relief. To run around and jump. Stretch on the linoleum floors of the gym with earbuds in, dismissing wandering eyes from the groups of guys deadlifting bars nearly twice your weight.

And before the pressure stings too much, a smooth wash of morphine rushes through your veins. Nervous system slipping back into a dull relaxation. Suddenly, the entire thing’s become an abstract concept. You repeat the image of your CO walking out on you. Lights dim, army green jacket. Navy hat. You’re going home. All the way back to some lonely apartment filled with dusty curtains and counters. On track to spend the next 6 months waiting for the bones and ligaments in your leg to regenerate and reattach your leg to itself. And after all of that, there's no guarantee you’ll even be back. Maybe that was your last mission.

And you spent the first half of it making bets with the guys.

You blink awake, disoriented and confused. You can’t remember when you fell asleep, suddenly being pulled from the depth of unconscious bliss. The little hand on the clock has moved only one number. Each lull down to sleep only keeps you there for an hour or so. But each awakening feels like you’ve been out for days.

Toes numb, you wiggle them to try to get some feeling back in your body. The toes on your right leg don’t move much at all.

There’s a knock on the door. The door opens softly as Captain Price wanders in. Never all that close, he takes the chair your CO had moved to put next to you. His hat gets removed to come up over his heart, a warm hand gently clasping your wrist. A small comfort.

His voice is barely audible when he whispers your name. “I read your report. In my professional opinion it’s not,” he pauses, tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth, “great.”

You nod again, dumb and blind. Through a dry mouth, you rasp out, “my CO said I’m going home.”

“You are going home.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “No, everyone is safe because of you.”

Ruby red shame begins burning at your core. Acid eating at the lining of your stomach. A cheese grater pressed to your trembling heart. Like you’re waiting behind a frosted glass door for your parents to be told the bad news. To be pitied, reassured like you’re in need of it. Told you did a good job to soothe your doped up brain. Like without the morphine you’d just crumple at his feet. That the scolding will come when you’re able to take a beating without being struck with a seizure. Hit and thrown down onto dirty cement; if you weren’t at risk of going septic.

You reject his words, shutting him down with the most venom you can gather on your teeth. Biting back at him, slurring your words as they all come pouring out. As if your parents are waiting for your explanation as to why you had pushed some kid off the monkey bars. Frantic and with a haste deceptively dishonest, Price doesn’t give you much of anything to work with. The only shift in demeanor is the raise of his eyebrows at your sudden outburst.

You must look stupid, surely. Emotional, histrionic brat. Hysterical witch.

A hand comes down to smooth the greasy strands of hair back away from your face. He shushes you, the sound powering over your own mumbling, the sound of the EKG. The muscles in your face fall slack as he continues to pet you.

“Enough of that. You need to rest.”

Feeling your eyes droop, you pout, staring at the grey baseboard of the room. He makes a cooing noise, something pitiful and humiliating. It softens your spikey heart. You lift your gaze back to him, the look of worry surprising you. Blue eyes piercing into your own, you shudder at how close he suddenly seems. No longer the elusive Captain who’s hell bent on smoking cigars inside and stinking up the lounge. Or barking out orders at rowdy little boys he’s somehow corralled into a pen. Cattle crop in hand and an iron stare.

“I don’t want to be replaced.”

“I’m sorry, kid. It’s part of the game.”

The comforting palm of his hand no longer feels so reassuring. Then, suddenly recalling from your patchwork memory bank––

“How’s Ghost?”

Price gives a half smile at that, thumbing a cigar between his finger and thumb. He brings it up to his lips before snapping himself out of the habit, placing it back in his breast pocket. A chuckle, confident and familiar. He’s seen this happen to the man a million times over.

“He’s fine. Fractured his wrist pretty badly but he’ll be able to work in a few weeks at the very least.”

“The doctor said I’ll be incapacitated for a few months. She said that I might not be able to work anymore if it doesn’t heal well.”

“You’re a pilot, you’re in better shape than all of us.”

Your eyes flutter shut, sleepy and slurring your words. “I don’t carry around all that dead weight all the time…”

“You don’t smoke.”

“You just don’t see me. When I–– well, we–– fuck. I can’t tell you.”

“What?”

“Me and um–– Ghost and I outside. Sometimes. Wintertime in–– in Siberia.”

“I know.”

“How?”

“You’re not very discreet.”

“He’s discreet though.”

“But you’re not.”

“Hm… I suppose. You’re not going to report me are you?”

“To who?”

“The–– the Air Force people. I’ll get in trouble.”

“Why would I do that?”

You shrug. “I’m not gonna heal well.”

“Look, you’re delirious, try to get some sleep. I’ll come talk to you a little later about leave details. I’m still working it out with your CO. You’re not technically with us so I can’t dismiss you as I want to.”

“What do they want to do?”

“They want to send you home, recover, and then be demoted to a training instructor for the rookies in Arizona.”

There’s a heavy silence hovering in the air.

“I want to get you back up there with us. You injured yourself and one of my men but the fact we finished the mission with 0 KIA is enough for me. I’m convinced.”

“I think I’m paralyzed.”

Price stands, chair scraping against the linoleum floor. His hat is lifted back on top of his head, collar fluffed as he readjusts his jacket. Whatever he wanted out of the conversation he must have gotten. Unbothered by the abruptness. Dismissive of the disappointment on your face. Stay, he can nearly hear it. But that’s not the point.

“We’ll see. Go back to sleep.”

Price gives a solid nod as he peers down at you. Through pity and a bittersweet sympathy, there’s a murkiness in his gaze. Uncertainty of his sincerity. The words he spoke are beginning to slip away, recollection of his comments warping into indistinguishable grunts and low drones. Like he wasn’t ever there. Slipping back down and deep underneath a blackened sea filled with mercury. It poisons your flesh and anchors your body down. The Mariana Trench. Riptide pulling you in. Down and down, floating endlessly into a bottomless pit.

No promise anyone will be there waiting to catch you. Scoop you up and propel you all the way back up to the surface. To be collected via fishing net in the grasp of lonely sailors. The lighthouse spotlight blinding you with a beacon so bright it burns through your retinas. In the dense hypnagogia of your heavy lids and slipping consciousness, you find the strength to lift up your numb arm.

The nerves tingle, another rush of morphine must be hitting your system, cycling through your blood and drooling out your loose mouth.

“Take care.” Price opens the door back up to slip out.

You only manage to make a quiet, noncommittal grunt, lifting your arm up to give him a wave goodbye.

#call of duty #ghost cod #mine #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #cod x reader #price cod #john price

61 notes · View notes