#No. 20

[lostwhump]

@whumptober | Day #20: "Permission to Die" Gladiator (2000)

[serickswrites]

Falling Stars

Warnings: captivity, torture, restraints, forced to watch, blood, wounds, infection, mcd

Caretaker carded their fingers through Whumpee's sweat soaked hair. They had pulled Whumpee into their lap hours ago and had tried to offer Whumpee any measure of comfort, no matter how small.

It was the least they could do.

They had sat chained in a corner for days, watching Whumper torture Whumpee. Begging Whumper to give Whumpee a break and hurt them. Hoping that rescue would come soon and they would both be spared.

But as the days wore on and the blood dried on Whumpee's skin and Whumper re-opened every wound, Caretaker began to doubt. They began to doubt help was coming. They began to doubt Whumper would hurt them. And they began to doubt that Whumpee would survive.

Some of Whumpee's wounds still bled from Whumper's last visit. Some wounds oozed and wept. And some were so deep that Caretaker was certain Whumpee was dying. And soon.

"You......you need to......get out of here, C'ta'r," Whumpee managed to rasp out. "G-G-G-Go outttttt th-th-th-the wwwwwwinnnnndow-ow-ow-ow."

"I'm not leaving you," Caretaker said as they stared down into Whumpee's fever bright eyes. "Just rest a bit longer. We'll find a way to get both of us out of here." Caretaker blinked hard, fighting against the tears that were always present in their eyes. They looked away as they tried to blink away the tears. The starry night's sky winked at them from out the window.

Whumpee smiled softly. "I.....I don't th-th-think sssso-o-o-o-o."

"Nonsense. Just rest more. Rest and then I'll take you home. You can rest more. You can heal. And maybe....maybe you will be all better by the time all those falling stars happen around your birthday. We could watch them again."

"I'd.....like th-th-that."

"Just rest, Whumpee. Close your eyes. I'm not going anywhere."

"C-C-Can'ttttt l-l-l-leave yyyyyyou-ou-ou."

Caretaker's heart twinged. "It's ok. I'm not going anywhere. You're not going anywhere. Just rest, Whumpee. I'll watch over you."

Reluctantly, Whumpee closed their eyes. Caretaker knew that no amount of rest was going to make Whumpee well enough. But they couldn't give up hope. They couldn't let Whumpee die. Not yet. There had to be a way for both of them to get out.

But as time wore on and Whumpee got weaker and weaker, Caretaker realized that Whumpee was holding on, was prolonging their suffering, to spare Caretaker the heart ache.

Whumper had dragged Whumpee from their arms countless times. Whumper had beaten and tortured Whumpee countless times. And Whumper had left Whumpee barely alive and breathing on the floor countless times.

But this time was different.

Whumpee hadn't stirred when the cell door slammed shut. They hadn't stirred when Caretaker called to them. Normally Whumpee slowly dragged themself close enough that Caretaker could pull them into Caretaker's lap. But this time they just lay there and breathed.

"Whumpee," Caretaker called softly. "Say something, Whumpee."

Whumpee groaned. "T-T-Tiredddd. H-H-Hurrrrrttts-s-s-s-s."

"I know. I know, Whumpee. Let me hold you. You've always slept better in my arms. Come on, Whumpee."

Caretaker stretched to the end of their chain, their fingertips just brushing Whumpee's arm. Whumpee moaned as they tried to roll onto their side. Blood had pooled beneath them and the ground was slick. Whumpee was too weak to pull themself along.

"Love, come on, you can do it."

Slowly, painfully, Whumpee rolled onto their side. They managed to push themself with one leg close enough to Caretaker that Caretaker could pull them close. Whumpee gasped with pain as Caretaker moved them, their eyes wide and bright with pain.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry! I'm sorry!" Caretaker repeated over and over.

Whumpee didn't respond as their chest heaved weakly. They lay in Caretaker's arms, but couldn't get enough air to speak. Their eyes were hazy with pain. Their eyelids fluttered open and closed as they struggled to remain conscious.

"I'm sorry, Whumpee. I'm sorry," Caretaker sobbed. They pressed their forehead to Whumpee's. "It's ok. It's ok. You can leave me. It's ok. I'll be ok. I promise."

Whumpee blinked up at Caretaker, their eyes suddenly clear. Caretaker nodded. "It's ok. You can rest. You can leave me. I'll be ok. I promise I'll be ok. You can," Caretaker sniffed, "you can go, Whumpee. I'm here. I won't leave you."

Whumpee's stuttering wheezing breaths echoed in Caretaker's ears. They opened their mouth, but no sound came out. "It's ok, Whumpee. It's ok. I love you. You're ok, love. I'll be ok."

Slowly, Whumpee's eyes closed. Their body slowly relaxed in Caretaker's arms. Their stuttering breaths continued as Caretaker watched Whumpee relax. A light flashed in the darkened cell. Caretaker looked up and out the window. Stars. The stars were falling out the window.

"The falling stars are here, Whumpee, look," Caretaker said as they returned their gaze to Whumpee. Their mouth went dry. "Whumpee?"

Whumpee looked peaceful, as though they were asleep, their face no longer pinched with pain. But Caretaker knew better. "Oh, Whumpee," Caretaker wailed, "I am so sorry. I'm sorry."

Whumpee flopped bonelessly in Caretaker's arms as Caretaker lifted Whumpee close. They rocked with Whumpee's body as they sobbed. Whumpee was free. Whumpee had gone. Whumpee had left Caretaker behind. Whumpee had gone where Caretaker could not follow. Whumpee was with the falling stars. And Caretaker was alone.

Tags: @mousepaw @jumpywhumpywriter @knightinbatteredarmor @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @anightmarishwhump

@steh-lar-uh-nuhs @celestialsoyeon @st0rmm @ay5ksal @pedro-pedro-pedro-pedro-pe

@artisticdemon

[one-piece-aus]

Whumptober Day 20

Caesar x Reader Mermaid AU

Requested by @flossie12

"Caesar, please!" You begged, hugging octo-limbs. "The humans have changed, they're not the cruel barbarians they once were. You should see how much their colonies have advanced!"

"And risk being turned into calamari? Shorororo, yeah right!" Caesar laughed before getting out an odd hairbrush from a glass vial. "I'll keep collecting their things when they fall into the ocean."

"They wouldn't do that, at least not the man I met," you defended them, folding your arms and pouting.

"Did you even meet him?" Caesar questioned, turning to you with a quirked brow.

"Well- no-"

Yesterday you watched a male human play with his furry seal companion. You admire how much affection he expressed to the creature, you know humans finally adapted to caring about other lifeforms. On top of that, you wanted to explore the world above since it changed so much from the last few years you observed their life from the sea. You rambled about your desire to your friend Caesar when he mentioned he probably had a way you could adventure up there, but he tried to backtrack when you perked up at the idea.

"But he had a furry seal companion with him that he deeply cared about-"

"Dogs, they're called dogs," Caesar corrected while setting the odd brush next to the large flat seashell.

"Dawgs? How do you know?" You inquired, watching the purple octo-man scoop shrimp and oysters from his cauldron onto the seashell.

"I've spent my fair share of time up on the surface to conduct research for my experiments, my dear." Caesar set the cauldron down and swam back to where the seashell with the cooked creatures. "I've learned about their things and more. It is not a place for merfolk to go, especially since most of them believe my nature is cruel." With that, he used the brush to stab one of the shrimp and ate it-

"Oh, that's a mini trident!"

"The humans call it a fork."

"Oh..."

You watched him as he ate the cooked creatures, this being one of the reasons other merfolk thought Caesar was cruel, though did not understand why. To you, your friend simply wanted to eat different things in different ways. You frowned, wishing the others could accept your friend for his strange mannerisms, but alas he acted "too human". Wait-

A mischievous smile wormed it's way onto your lips. "Caesar, I find myself comfortable around your nature, and I enjoy your company."

Caesar felt his cheeks start to glow red. It didn't help that you began to twirl his hair between your fingers, an affectionate habit you had.

"Sooooo, therefore I should be fine around the humans, right?" You believed your logic made sense.

Caesar sighed and brushed your hands away from his hair. "If this is your idea of making me give in, it won't work. I've seen what they do up there, [Y/n], you'll regret going up there and walk the same surface they do. Not even I want to go back there. As tempting as it is to gather their newest items, it's not worth it for me."

Caesar huffed, grabbing the flat seashell and mini tri- fork before swimming over and dropping them into a bubbly hole. You hummed to yourself, racking your brain for another approach.

"What if you sent me up there to gather those items for you?" You suggested. "I get to explore the surface world and you get new stuff without the hassle of going up there yourself."

"Even if I were to agree, I don't know how the potion would affect you. It took me months to perfect the potion for myself, but there's no telling what it'd do to you since our anatomies are different."

"Come on C.C. it can't be that drastic of a difference, we're basically the same species."

Caesar glanced over your form, the major difference between the two of you is the fact you were female and had a fishtail, whereas he was male and had octopus limbs. He could also go on about the micro things that differed you apart, though he knew that'd bore you.

"Alright, fine, wait here." Caesar went to another room and grabbed a glass bottle. Returning, unsurprised that you beamed with glee. He almost smiled if not for his worry about what may happen to you but it seems you will only learn the hard way. "Follow me."

He led you out of his cavern and swam to the shallow waters near the human's shores. He turned to you and presented the potion you desired.

"When you take this, your tail will be replaced with human legs, you won't be able to breathe underwater either so you'll need to surface and ahead to shore," he instructed.

"Got it." You grabbed the glass bottle.

"One more thing." Caesar reached into his pocket and handed you a signal seashell. "Every week I expect you to call me and deliver human goods to me, you can also use it to ask for me to bring you home if you so desire."

"Yeah, yeah." You took the seashell and put it into your sash bag.

"Hmph." Caesar turned to leave when you hugged him from behind, catching him off guard.

"Thank you, Caesar, I mean it." You nuzzled into the crook of his neck.

Wariness and guilt ruined Caesar's internal bliss, uncertain of what will happen to you. Though he savoured the moment nonetheless.

Four weeks had gone by since that day, and he hasn't seen you.

You kept your end of the bargain. He'd hear the seashell call but when he went to the shore, Caesar would only find a pile of human junk with a note for him. It frustrated him, why haven't you talked to him yet? Surely you wanted to ramble about the things you've seen to him, it's something you always do when you find something exciting. No matter, Caesar returned home carrying the items in a bag and proceeded to shift through them to see what held value to him. Soon it became mindless routine to him, and that's when he began to notice how quiet his life became. 

Months have passed by now, he hardly looked at what you gave him, tossing the bag in a corner full of junk. The only reason he bothered to collect them at this point is to tell you he still came. He ceased caring about these objects long ago, they will never be able to make up for your absence.

Hope had started packing up to leave Caesar. It's been ages now since he's seen your face, let alone heard your voice. He has begun thinking you loved your human life and would never want to return. Acceptance will be taking Hope's place, acceptance that his heart will be gone forever. Until he heard it.

The seashell call early in the week.

He scrambled to the surface, carrying the potion that'd turn you back. Breaking through the water, he scanned the area in search of you when he spotted you at the sandy beach smiling and waving him over.

"[Y/n], I was beginning to think I'd never see you again," he said once he neared you. "How come you never cared to see me all this time?"

Your smile faded, replaced with gloom. You point to your throat. Caesar tilts his head puzzled by what you meant to communicate with him. Why not use your words? He watched your lips move with no voice flowing out, only then did the pieces fall into place.

He said no more, opening his arms to embrace you and giving you the potion. Your tail grew back, alas your voice is still gone. He guided you to his home, a frown present on his face as he observed your gloomy self.

When you settle down, he gives you gel and some seashells for you to write with. You informed him of your time on the surface as a mute human, and while there were glimpses of your once starry demeanour, ultimately they were all washed away when you wrote about how you unveiled human's cruel nature. Just as you wrote the words "You were right", Caesar stopped you and held you close, telling you not to stress over it. 

Tears bubbled from your eyes into the ocean and you sobbed in his chest. Caesar gently stroked your hair, calming you the best he could while he tried to tame his own growing resentment toward humans. Times may change, but people never do. He'll make them regret what they did to you.

Tags: @bookandyarndragon @roseoftrafalgar

[emptybattlefield]

"just a little more" (day 12)

Dipper perseveres through some outdoor work with Grunkle Ford, and pushes himself too far. This is a combo with Heatstroke.

“What the hell does Ford have him doing out there?” asks Stan lackadaisically, sipping on a strawberry lemonade that he and Mabel just cooked up. It is the hottest week of the summer, and the two are cooped up under the shade of the veranda. 

Mabel sits on her knees in the chair beside him, tipping another packet of Stan’s sweet-n-low into her glass. “Disinfecting some kind of gadget parts. Apparently gnome saliva is very dangerous,” she answers. 

Stan grunts, and keeps an eye on Dipper, who’s wearing a hazmat suit, standing over one of Stan’s folding tables, which is laden with gadget parts of various shapes and sizes. Ford was nowhere to be seen. Stan takes a swig of his pink drink. Dipper rounds to the other side of the folding table—trips over one of the folds in his too-large hazmat suit. Stan is tight in his chair as the boy successfully catches his balance. 

But then, a second later, he faints. 

Stan is up from his chair in an instant. “Dipper!” Mabel cries while her uncle bolts across the lawn. 

Stan unzips the suit—trying his best to avoid iridescent rainbow goo—and slips Dipper out of it like a shell. The kid’s hair is plastered with sweat from nape to crown. Stan picks him up and carries him inside the kitchen.

He yells for Ford to come up. Where the hell was he? Stan places Dipper on the cool countertop. Heavy footsteps pound up the laboratory stairwell. Meanwhile, Dipper is listless, pale, and not very responsive.

The look on Ford’s face as he reaches the landing… “Dipper!” he hollers, rushing over. “Dipper, it’s your Uncle Ford. Is he alright?” 

Their nephew shifts—but does not rouse. 

Ford is already unsheathing his pocket vitals machine. “Dis you see any gnome saliva on him when you found him?” he asks. 

Stan wanted to slap him. “He’s done collapsed from heatstroke, you idiot. Dipper, it’s Stan. We’re gonna get you cooled off, kiddo.”

“Blood pressure is low. His temp is 103.4 degrees,” Ford says worriedly.

Stan glares at him. He found himself combing his thick fingers through the kid’s sweat-slicked hair. “You are not* a medical doctor.”

“I never said I was, Stan,” Ford states categorically. “I have 14 Ph.Ds, and a bachelor’s of science in nursing. You said Mabel’s running a bath, right?”

Suddenly, Dipper’s whole body stiffens and shudders on the countertop peninsula. His eyes fly open. “What did I just do?” he asks fretfully. 

“You fainted. You’re gonna be alright,” Stan answers gently. He carries him through the house to the bathtub, and lowers him in. His body twitches from the sharp cold. Mabel stands in the doorway—her worried, pink fingers at her mouth. The empty ice cube trays were discarded upon the toilet seat.

Ford quickly follows behind. Stan saddles the side of the bathtub, sitting him up—one of his dark socks underwater. Poor Dipper dry heaves, but nothing comes—false alarm. 

“Am I…contaminated?” Dipper directs his fearful look to Grunkle Ford. 

Ford replies, “No, son. Just a touch of heat exhaustion, by the looks of it. Best for you to stay in the bath a while, I’m afraid.”

Ford offers him some cool water, and Dipper sips it slowly. Ford can’t tell, but Stan can see that Dipper looks disappointed in himself. 

“Temp’s better,” says Grunkle Ford. “Pressure’s bounced back, too.”

Together, they laid Dipper back, so that all but the rounds of his shoulders and face were underneath the water. His shorts poof out to both sides. Mabel keeps him company. Ford disappears outside to retrieve the tableful of machinery pieces—apparently, they can’t be left in the sun for too long without damage.

The visceral zing! of the gnome saliva creeps into Stan’s spine. His head starts to feel a little light and airy under its influence. He ultimately ignores it. After some time, Stan grabs a bath towel from the top shelf of the closet. He shoos Mabel so that her brother can change and get into bed. 

Stan wasn’t the tucking in type, but he asks Dipper, “Kid, what were you thinking? Did you feel yourself overheating, or…?”

“I don’t know…I guess I did, but I was so focused on decontaminating,” he responds, ashamedly. 

“Just—all I ask is that next time, you listen to your body. Think you can do that for me?” says Stan.

“I will—next time,” Dipper replies sadly. 

Grunkle Stan laughs— “Y’know, way-back-when, you had to throw something at your Grunkle Ford to get him to even look up at you, if he was in the middle of a really good book.”

Dipper beams. 

“All’s I’m saying is—you didn’t get it from me,” Stan tells him.

“Where is Great Uncle Ford?” Dipper asks.

“Getting the gadgets. Something about the sun ‘degrading the finish.’ But, he agreed with me. It’s best you take it easy the rest of the day,” says Stan grimly. “You’ll be up and at it tomorrow.”

Stan leaves Dipper to himself, and descends to the basement lab. Ford looks up as soon as he hears Stan’s footsteps. “How is he?” Ford asks worriedly. 

Stan can’t help it—he sees red, and immediately shoves Ford into the concrete laboratory wall and pins him there. He has his brothers collar between his knuckles.

“You are on thin ice with me, Poindexter, you get that?!” Stan hisses, inches from his face. “How old were you when you had your first job mowing lawns? You know that he idolizes you. He wants to please you—that’s why I can’t let him turn himself inside out doing your* legwork.”

“I’m sorry, Stan, I’m terribly sorry,” Ford says helplessly.

Stan lets him go. The old man shakes his head. “Honestly, I think it’s good you let him work with you, but when are you gonna get it through your thick, plated skull—he is not your peer, Stanford,” he says all too frustratedly. 

Ford coughs. “I know that, Stanley—”

“You better,” Stan warns. “Because need I remind you—everybody else in the world thinks you died in ‘92. If anything happens to those two kids, it’s me who has to answer to their parents. You get that?”

“Understood,” answers Ford regretfully.

Stan grumbles something inaudible—and says nothing more to him before trumping back up the staircase.

McGuckett was the one who produced Ford’s industrial six-fingered gloves. Now that he had his memories back, the first thing Ford asked him for (aside from his forgiveness) was to make Dipper a pair as well. Ford had them on his desk because he was going to surprise Dipper with them once they returned. With how small they were—they looked silly now. 

When Ford emerges from the basement lab, he tenuously asks where Dipper is.

“Sleeping,” Stan retorts. He and Mabel are at the table playing cards. “Best you let him.”

“Grunkle Ford, do you want us to deal you in?” Mabel asks kindly. Stan’s stony face is in his lap.

“Sure. I can play one round,” he says. 

After several, Ford enters the twins’ bedroom, hoping to apologize to Dipper, but he’s out like a light—little threads of drool hang from his lower lip. Ford places the note on Dipper’s bedside, and the gloves on top to weigh it down. Outside, Mabel is calling a bit too loud because it’s his turn. Ford closes the door quietly.

*end*

[hero-of-the-wolf]

Chapter Summary: The captain falls in battle. Mask has an item for that

[yonbwekh]

whumptober day 20

Prompt: emotional angst

"Why!? Why are you doing this to me..??"

Whumpee screams hoarsely as a whip cuts deep into their back. "Why? Why!?" Whumper stops, looking down at Whumpee. "Because nobody, nobody else cares!"

Whumpee is taken aback and looks up at Whumper. They see a chance. "I.. I underst-" Before they finish they receive a quick punch straight to the teeth, sending them reeling.

"You don't understand shit!"

[psychologeek]

Whumptober #20+Alt 2: Mashber

Mashber (breaking point): A crisis, birth, a wave

20: EMOTIONAL ANGST | Shoulder to Cry On | "It's not your fault." Alt 2: Communication Barrier

~

Janet's water breaks on July 18th, but her child doesn't come out until noon of the 19th. Part of her wonders hysterically if the child did it on purpose, knowing the date.

(She spends half her time bouncing on a big plastic ball, humming "Eyni Eyni Yorda Mayim". Part of her seriously considers naming the child Efrayim.)

Janet's child is seven weeks old when they welcome the new year, and despite it all she finds herself humming "Hayom Harat Olam".

At eight weeks old, she put her child to sleep with Un'tane Tokef.

At this point, she realises that her previous plans aren't going to work. Raising a rootless child is not a real option.

(There's an infantry version, a childish part in her that longs to pay it forward. The rhythm and melodies and every tradition she once swore to leave behind.)

And besides, she remembers bitterly, it's not like denying their heritage ever helped any of them.

~

Janet's child is five years old when they have This conversation. She is putting the final touches of her warpaint: eyeliner, sharp as a fresh Lulav. Her child is sitting on the bed, biting lips and serious.

"Mummy," her child asks. "Why did Mr. Smith say that you're a cake? "

Janet puts down her eyeliner.

"What do you mean, honey? Can you tell me exactly what happened?"

"Um," her darling child hesitates. "In the Chrismas party. At Caleb's parents? I finished- I said hi to everyone and. Umm. Caleb said they have sweets and he said I can't get the grown-ups cookies and I said I can and he said nu-uh and I said I do it. And there were a bunch of people stand by the cookies table and I couldn't go 'way and then they say mean things! They said that you're a cake and you killed someone and that dad only marry you 'couse you're escotic and-and-"

Jant's child is crying, and she closes her eyes and hate' for a second. Hate everything and everyone that got her kid to feel that way. That made her child feel hurt.

Janet takes a deep breath, and looks at her child. "some people lack the proper intellect to hide their small-minded brains. Don't let them know they got to you - but never forget who they are".

"But why they say you're a cake, mummy?" her kid isn't sobbing, but there's pain on the tiny faces. "I don't understand. You don't even like cake! you prefer biscuits 'cause they're smaller and less messy!"

(There's something pure and sweet in the innocence of childhood.)

And there are many things she can say. Many different ways to talk about hate and prejudice and decades of hurt and pain. There are many ways to talk about it, but she choses the way they always did it.

(She tells her child a story)

"well. Years ago, there were people who came from a distant land. And their clothes were different and their names and the way they spoke. Most of them didn't speak English when they came. And they were asked to write their names, they couldn't do it in the letters you know. The letters that the guards on the border wanted them."

"So why didn't the guards learn to read their language?"

"Because. Because sometimes, that's how people are. and so the weary people, the poor and tired who came from across the sea, were told to use an X."

"So they all signed with X?"

"No. Because, if you turn it over - the letter X looks like a symbol of the people that weren't kind to them. It looks like a symbol that, for many many years, was easy to rise and mark pain for their parents and kin. A mark that was a sign for hundreds and hundreds of years of pain."

"So they didn't use the X?"

"No. No, they didn't. They put down their name as a circle. a round shape, with no sharp edges to hurt others. And in their langauge, that shape was called Kayk. And ever since then, when some people try to be mean, they remind to this people and their kids where they come from: from the poor, weary people who came to a strange land - looking for a better life."

Mother's earrings are long, like teardrops. As the light breaks through, it almost looks like magic.

"And that's bad?" asks the child, still sitting on the bed.

"You should find your own thoughts," mother takes a second to point her soft brush. "What do you think? Is going far, far away, looking for a better chance in life, a bad thing?”

The kid's mouth opens, but the mother shushes them.

"No. Not yet. Don't answer me now. Think about it, and tell me about your thoughts when we'll be back from the gala."

And as she finishes the final touches, she can hear the child behind her take a deep breath.

"You said they call it to those people and their kids," the words are soft. "So why they calling you?"

And this is a long awaited conversation,  one she can't have right now. So she take her child, her only-born, her loved one. 

And as the weight of innocence is warm in her arms, she says, "because knowledge is power. And you will always be judged by things you can't - and shouldn't - change about yourself. Because small minded people are always out there. But at least you'll know the truth behind the words said."

"Is it the story of our family?" asks her too-clever child.

"Yes," she says. "And no. This is a story of Our People. This is a story of Our Kind. But this isn't the only one. Not even the most common. This isn't The Story of our family, but it's one of the stories of Us.”

~

Janet's child is only fourteen years old, and there are many things she regrets she never said:

(I'm sorry)

(I love you)

(I know)

(You are my child)

Janet is dying.

She is drunken, but not with wine;

And right in front of her:  this cup of staggering; the beaker, this Kos Tre'la.

There are many things Janet wishes she told her child, and one she'll never regret:

"You are part of a long, brave dynasty. Never forget who you are. Never let anyone make you feel bad for who you are." (We shall outlive them)

(Like it? I have more mini-fics Whumptober index | And full size fics on ao3. )

[quietlyimplode]

the language of flowers and silent things

Whumptober 2023: Day 21 - Found family

Warnings: child abandonment, grief

Word Count: 1.8k (gif not mine)

Summary: Clint leaves to find a person from his past, surrounded by the family he created.

A/N: <3

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

.

2013

NEW YORK

“Can you find someone for me?” Clint asks Tony, looking around the room, and the technology it holds.

He can’t help but touch the screens and play with the holograms as he waits for Tony to reply.

“Can you pass me the copper wire?” Tony asks.

Clint hops up on the bench and throws it to him, his aim true.

“I can find anyone, if they want to be found, and even then, likely I can find them if they don’t want to be,” he answers distractedly.

“Can you hold this here?”

Clint hops down and pushes on the wire, analysing the circuitry and frowning.

“You’ve wired it wrong,” he surmises, pointing with his other hand.

Tony swears and rubs his face.

“How long have you been up for?” Clint asks, a pinch of worry for his friend and his insomniac ways.

Tony looks up and glances at the time.

Jarvis answers for him, “twenty six hours.”

Clint swears it’s sounds almost disapproving.

“What are you trying to do?” he asks, knowing that until the project has reached a satisfactory conclusion, there’s no way Tony will stop.

Rubbing his forehead, Tony shows him the circuit board connected to the towers alarm system, and automatic controls for system lockdown.

Clint frowns.

“Has there been any attempts to get in here?”

He doesn’t understand why Tony was upgrading the already functioning system.

He shakes his head.

“No, but I just..” he pauses.

“Who do you want me to find?”

Clint ignores him and without words helps, correcting the circuitry then placing the upgraded board into Tony’s hand.

“You know, if you get sleep, these things become easier,” he grins.

Tony rolls his eyes, the lower limbs of the suits attaching as he flies to the control box outside and installs the board quickly.

There’s a quick glow, and a light force field covers the tower before disappearing again.

Clint didn’t realise how big the project was, and smiles as Tony returns.

“Come get some food,” he prompts, holding the door open as the legs come away and he reaches ground again.

Tony obliges.

Heading to the kitchen, Clint explains about Gus.

The ex-carney, convenience store owner that stayed close to the circus and protected Clint from future foster homes and set him on the path of this life.

There’s some hesitation in the way Tony replies, and Clint doesn’t quite know if he should have trusted him with the story.

“Why do you want to see him again?” Tony asks, handing him a Stark-Pad.

Clint hesitates, feeling judged in the moment.

“I want to tell him about Barney, maybe just check that he’s okay. Thank him I suppose?”

He doesn’t know, not in any way he can put into words.

Tony is uncharacteristically quiet, before he takes the stark-pad off of Clint and opens up a data base, taking time, he seems to hack into some sort of data base.

It takes him a minute or so, before he hands the tablet back.

“He’s still in Iowa, Cedar Rapids, last known address was near the Prairie Park Fishery,” he pauses, “we can go now if you want?”

Clint stops in his tracks.

“What?”

Tony points upwards.

“Two hours, we can go there now if you want?”

Clint nods slowly.

“Yeah okay,” he says impulsively, “let me just send a message to Natasha, and let her know.”

Tony shrugs, “sure, I’ll be up at the hanger, if you ask Steve it will be a party.”

Clint decides on calling Natasha, feeling a slight urgency on getting going.

“Hey,” she picks up, after a beat.

“Hey,” he answers.

“I asked Tony to find Gus and he found him in like five seconds. He asked if we wanted to go visit, and I’ve said yes,” he says quickly.

“Doyouwannacome?”

Natasha takes a second before responding, and then tells him she’d meet him at the hanger.

He smiles. It’s like a road trip with his friends, something they’d do at the circus.

It’s seems somewhat fitting.

Picking up the phone again, he calls Steve.

“Hey man,” he says as the phone clicks over.

“Hey,” Steve replies.

“Natasha and Tony and I are going on a bit of trip to see an old friend I have in Iowa. Do you want to come?”

“When?” Steve asks.

“Now?”

Steve takes a moment and then agrees, Clint thinks he can hear the change in his tone, a small amount of pleasure at being invited.

“Come to the hanger when you can,” Clint tells him, “we’ll be waiting.”

.

The trip to Iowa is an exchange of stories. Clint starts by telling the story of Gus and how he taught him magic, he shows the others a trick and then produces a coin from Steve’s ear.

Much to his delight, Steve replicates the trick and produces two coins.

Tony, not to be outdone, produces two coins and a card.

Natasha bursts out laughing.

“You’re all magic nerds,” she says, joyfully.

The rest of the trip they try and outdo each other, Natasha taking the lead in flying the plane as they all show off random magic tricks, and teaching each other the ones they don’t know.

She gives them a ten minute warning and looks back to see Clint smiling, a true smile that had been so rare from the events of New York to learning of his brothers death.

She hopes this is positive and that Gus is the man Clint believes him to be.

Otherwise, she might kill him herself.

.

Clint knocks on the door.

Alone now, he wishes he hadn’t been so adamant to do this himself. He’d left Natasha with the others in the plane, promising to be back soon.

The anticipation feels heavy as he hears movement in the house and he hopes Tony was right in the address.

The door opens slowly, and Clint smiles lightly.

“Hello,” he opens, “I don’t know if you—“

“Clint?”

The door opens wider, revealing Gus, now older but still the same man.

“Hi,” he says shyly.

“Clint!”

He pulls him into a hug and Clint feels himself sink into it, feeling like a kid again.

“Come in,” Gus asks, ushering him through the door.

“Can I get you anything?

Clint doesn’t get a chance to answer as Gus disappears into the kitchen and returns with beer and a bottle opener.

He takes it and opens them both, offering it to cheers which Gus does with a smile.

“Clint,” he says, almost in reverence.

“How are you?”

“I’m good,” Clint replies, not sure what to say.

He came here to say that Barney was dead. To thank him for helping him when he was a child, to pointing him in the direction of the military.

“I — wanted to find you,” he starts.

Gus stands, finds an album on the bench and hands it to Clint.

“Open it,” he gestures.

The album has photos, some articles from the circus, pictures of Clint he’d never seen before, gently he turns the pages, emotion welling inside.

He can’t speak.

Gently touching the photos, he sees himself holding the bow and arrow as a young boy, stance strong and gaze focussed.

“That’s my favourite,” Gus says, watching Clint carefully, “you had such natural talent from the get go, and even if archery didn’t get you famous, I think you would have been a fantastic pickpocket.”

Clint huffs a laugh, turning the page.

“And now you’re an Avenger?”

There’s clippings from the paper from the last twelve months.

Of Tony, Steve and Thor, of him and Natasha. Articles and pictures.

Clint thinks it’s one of the kindest things someone has ever done.

He smiles.

“I’m just a human, amongst superhero’s, metal men and gods,” he laughs, starting at the start again to take the photos in.

“Maybe it’s what they need, to keep them in line,” Gus retorts.

Clint stops at a picture.

Barney stands arms crossed with a smile as Clint does a handstand.

He stares at it, and forces breath.

Barney.

“He’s dead,” he whispers, taking the photo out, he shows it Gus.

“He’s dead,” he repeats again.

Gus hobbles over to sit with Clint, taking the photo and then handing it back.

“I know,” he nods, and hugs Clint in a side hug.

“He came here, a couple of years ago, asking after you, I showed him and told him you had gone into the military.”

He turns the page and Clint finds the picture of himself in uniform.

“He was so proud of you,” Gus tells him.

“I think he wanted to tell you.”

Clint can’t help it; he cries.

For the loss of his brother, for all the words left unsaid and the time they’d never get back.

“Do you think he knew I loved him?” he asks, voice as small as a child’s.

“Of course he did,” Gus nods.

He closes the album, and motions for Clint to follow him.

“Barney stayed here, for a little while at least, and drew some pictures. I held onto them, as I hoped— I wished I would see you again.”

He opens the door and pulls out some pictures from a drawer.

The pictures are of Clint and Barney as children, their faces small and chubby.

Clint feels the tears on his face as he furiously wipes at them.

“Your brother, he was complicated and could be harsh and I think he wanted to protect you but didn’t know how… You were both so young.”

Gus looks down.

“I think I failed you both but I did the best I could,” he admits.

Clint shakes his head.

“No,” he refutes, “you saved my life, probably Barney’s too. I came to thank you.”

Gus waves him off.

“Take them,” he tells Clint, “they’re yours, the album too if you want anything from it.”

Clint nods, finding the album, knowing what pictures he wants and the ones he wants to show Natasha, maybe even the others.

He sits back down, not quite ready to leave yet.

“I’m going to get married,” he confesses.

Gus looks up, his smile wide.

“Will you come?”

The nod and laugh is infectious.

“Of course, of course I will,” he agrees.

He sits back and takes a sip of the still cold beer.

“Tell me about her,” he asks.

.

The plane home is in darkness, as Clint shares the chocolate and pictures that Gus sent with him.

He tells the stories behind the pictures, prompting Steve and Tony to tell their own.

Natasha holds onto the picture of Clint and Barney and stares at it for a long time.

“He looks like you,” she whispers later.

“Remind me,” he tells her, “remind me to tell you the story behind that one.”

Natasha hands it back to him, and nods, bringing her head to his and pushing it against his.

“I’m proud of you,” she whispers, so the others can’t hear.

“It’s hard facing our pasts, and I’m glad it went well.”

He regards Natasha and all the history she has with facing her past; the good and the bad.

He nods.

“Me too, Nat.”

.

[destiny-in-the-universe]

Whumptober Day 9

I'm going to steal someone's kneecaps if this flops /lh

Okay, as per usual, we're going to start off with a little brief commentary. The fandom itself is Vincenzo and I once again wanted to highlight the dynamic between Chayoung, Vincenzo, and Hanseo; this one's a different kind of hurt, but trust me - this one is a bit rough for anyone who's ever had experiences with trauma

I'm also going to say it may become a series but I'm uncertain yet. Just bear with me in this since I haven't written for the characters in such a long time, so as usual let's begin!

Read below the cut. You know the drill

Plot/Summary

Jang Hanseo never expected to escape from his brother's clutches, but he found himself saved by Vincenzo. Though the recovery is far from over, at least he has his family in Geumga Plaza...

until an unexpected memory comes rushing back.

Prompts

No. 15: Childhood Trauma/"I did good, right?"

No. 20: Emotional Angst/[REDACTED] (will be revealed later!)

Extras/Teasers

Trauma Recovery

Protective Chayoung and Vincenzo

Autistic Hanseo

Found Family

we're like the moon and stars (you and i)

Part 9 of Whumptober

[alyrewrites]

rest now in my arms (as I watch over you)

“Like he knew the sun would come up the next morning, Dick knew that Batman would always get back up, that nothing could keep him down. It didn’t matter what came at him -- loss of loved ones, false murder accusations, having his back broken, getting lost in time -- none of that had ever stopped him before. But there was no miracle coming this time, Bruce was going to die and Dick would lose another parent.” For Whumptober 2024 Day 20 - Emotional Angst/Giving Permission to Die

This is wrong. That was the thought that kept going through Dick’s mind. Bruce had always been a strong and imposing figure in Dick’s life. Even after he had grown into Nightwing and worked and led heroes with a variety of powers, Dick found that Batman had a gravitas that no other hero seemed to have. He was a rock for Dick. Like he knew the sun would come up the next morning, Dick knew that Batman would always get back up, that nothing could keep him down. It didn’t matter what came at him -- loss of loved ones, false murder accusations, having his back broken, getting lost in time -- none of that had ever stopped him before. So seeing him lying in a medical bed, barely hanging on to a fraying thread of life, was antithetical to everything Dick knew and just assaulted his senses with a sense of wrongness.

Alfred sat at Bruce’s bedside and, in a rare breach of his butler facade, was running a hand through Bruce’s hair. It was one of the few times Dick had ever seen Alfred act like the surrogate father that Bruce viewed him as and all it did was drive home the fact that Bruce was dying. There wasn’t any coming back from this. Bruce had lost a massive amount of blood by the time the Justice League were able to get him to medical, but not enough that he couldn’t recover. However, nearly every one of Bruce’s organs were either failing or on the cusp of it and were impossible to treat without putting Bruce under, an action which would almost certainly kill him. There was no miracle coming this time, Bruce was going to die and Dick would lose another parent.

Bruce kept asking about them, needing to know if they were okay, if his children were safe. Alfred and Dick kept reassuring him that they were, that he needed to focus on himself, but Bruce wouldn’t believe them until he saw his children himself. So Dick stepped out and sent out an emergency comm to all of them telling them that they needed to get to the Watchtower now. Something in Dick’s voice must have been telling because Jason only put up token protest before agreeing to come.

It was only about 15 minutes between when Dick made the call and when the Zeta tubes announced the arrival of his siblings, but, to Dick, it felt like an eternity. He just kept watching Bruce’s chest take in shallow, uneven breaths, afraid of the moment when he would see it stop, but also hating the amount of pain every breath clearly gave Bruce. Normally, someone in Bruce’s condition would have been given morphine to give them a painless passing, but Bruce was aware enough to refuse any pain relief, as he usually did, but this time, neither Dick nor Alfred had the strength to ignore his wishes this time. It was selfish, Dick knew that, but he wasn’t ready to lose his dad yet.

Clark and Diana had informed his siblings of the situation before they entered Bruce’s room, but even with the warning, Dick could see how the sight of Bruce weakly hanging onto life affected them.

“We’re all here Bruce, see? We’re all fine,” Dick said, trying to keep his voice steady.

Bruce blinked. His gaze, normally so sharp and clear, was unfocused even as he seemed to try and look at them each individually.

“It seems I can’t see very far right now, chum. Come closer so I can see your face.” His tone was completely different from earlier when he was speaking with the doctors earlier and refusing his pain medicine. It was much softer with a desperate, pleading undertone. Dick had wondered if Bruce had been aware exactly of the situation, but he should have known better. Of course Bruce did, he just refused to lower his guard around anyone. Normally, his children were included in that, but it seemed that his impending death was what was needed to take down that emotional wall.

Damian wasted no time responding to his father’s request and approaching the bed with Dick, Jason, Tim, and Cass just behind. Alfred didn’t remove his hand from Bruce’s hair and step out like he often did when . Bruce raised a shaking arm to cradle his youngest’s face. He tried to remove Damian’s mask but couldn’t seem to muster the strength to manage it.

���Let me see your faces. Please.”

Each of them removed their masks.

“See, B, we’re all here and we’re all fine. So quit worrying about us,”

“I can’t. You’re my children.” The way he was looking at them made Dick want to rage. It made him want to cry. Bruce was always so emotionally stunted and held himself back so much. He hadn’t looked at Dick like that since Jason died, with so much love and pride that it was like looking straight into the sun.

Bruce took another painful, rattling breath. “I’m so proud of you. So, so proud of you. I’m sorry I couldn’t… I didn’t say that more often. You deserved better than me, but I’m so glad… so glad that you came into my life anyways. I was so lucky to get to be your father and your partner.”

Dick felt a hot pressure build up behind his eyes. He didn’t want to cry. He didn’t want to have his last view of his father living to be distorted through tears.

“You are all so much better than me… so much better than Batman. Please, promise me, you’ll let Batman die with me. Let that darkness die with me. I never wanted any of you to have to…to have to carry that.”

“We won’t need to if you just pull yourself together father,” Damian said, “You just need to recover and then none of us will need to take your mantle,”

Bruce smiled weakly at Damian before turning back to Jason, Tim, and Dick. “Promise me. I don’t want… I don’t want you to fight each other again. You need to stick together, take care of each other. Promise me you won’t let Batman come in the way of that.”

“You don’t control me, asshole,” Jason snarled, “If you don’t want me taking the suit again, you’re gonna have to make sure the suit isn’t empty for me to take.”

Bruce looked at Jason sadly. “Jaylad.”

Jason scoffed wetly. “Fine.”

“I-I promise, Bruce,” Tim said, “So just stop talking like you’re going to die. I’m sure Clark will find something in his Fortress soon and you’ll be fine. So please, please don’t die, dad.”

“I’m sorry, Tim.” Bruce squeezed Tim’s hand weakly.

Dick wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to rage at Bruce. He wanted to tell him that he never wanted to touch the Batsuit again. He wanted to tell him that he wasn’t ready to lose him. He wanted to tell him that he still needed his dad. But he didn’t. Instead, Dick swallowed the lump in his throat and put on a small, strained smile.

“Don’t worry, dad, we’ll- we’ll be okay. We’ll take care of each other. You don’t have to worry about us. You can rest now,”

Dick could hear his siblings echo the sentiment in their own ways, but his attention was completely focused on Bruce. He watched as his dad looked to Alfred - looked to his dad - for confirmation

“It’s alright Bruce,” Alfred said, tears in his eyes, “I will watch over the family. You can rest now, son. You can let go.”

Dick watched as Bruce’s eyes closed and, for the first time, his entire body relaxed. The permanent tension that he seemed to carry finally released along with his last rattling breath. Bruce’s chest was still. The heart rate monitor showed a flat line and with the other monitors showing numbers that led to the same conclusion. Yet, Dick still couldn’t bring himself to believe it. He grabbed Bruce’s wrist and placed his fingers over the pulse point and waited.

Nothing. No warmth, no reassuring squeeze like Bruce used to do when Dick made him hold his hand as a child. Nothing at all. Bruce had lost a lot of blood already though, so maybe it was just that there wasn’t enough blood going to his extremities for Dick to find a pulse (he knew he was lying to himself, but the fact that none of his siblings stopped him was telling). He reached across Bruce’s corpse body to check the pulse point on his neck. He felt nothing, but he kept waiting, certain that he would feel something eventually. He just had put his hand in the wrong spot, just missed the artery. He adjusted his hand again and again, trying over and over again to deny the reality that was in front of him. Eventually, someone grabbed his hand to stop him. Dick found himself being gently guided into a hug by Alfred.

He sobbed.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Good Dreams

The Motherfucking Gallaghers Masterlist

CW: Referenced past child abuse / past withholding food as an abuse tactic, child of whumper

Kieran and Jax belong to @comfy-whumpee and, as always, are used with their permission and oversight. The format of this piece is heavily inspired by Morg's Echoes, which you should go read right now. I'll wait.

-

Izzy Gallagher wakes without a gasp, or a cry. She doesn't sit straight up in bed, or flail around. Lying perfectly still on her side, her eyes simply pop open all at once.

Heart in her throat, she holds her breath and listens. 

She can still feel the cobwebs she had been pushing through, desperate to escape the canvas-covered furniture in the monster room in her mother's house. It's been ten years since her father took she and Jamie to the train station and saved them, seven years since the trial sent Savannah Marcoset to prison, life without possibility of parole, a prayer Izzy turns to when she is most frightened… but she still remembers the feel of dusty cloth beneath her fingers and the grime that would settle on her cheeks, cut through by her tears. 

Then she hears it. 

There's water running in the kitchen, a subtle sound, but Izzy follows it out of bed, padding on awkward long legs in her short pyjama bottoms and sweatshirt into the hallway, arms crossed in front of her as if trying to disappear into the dubious safety of her own body and the oversized cotton she wears.

Her mother's fingertips brush the back of her neck. Even after waking, Savvie is still reaching for her, wailing why ever did you cut off all your beautiful hair?

Izzy steps out of the dark hall and into the soft yellowed light of the kitchen, searching for her father to chase the memory of her mother away. 

Kieran, glass of water in hand, turns to look at her with crinkly wrinkles starting at the corners of his eyes and a soft smile. He wears a jumper in dark forest green over black pyjama bottoms, has some gray in his hair, and everything in him is love. "Hey, Izzy. Did I wake you?"

"No." Her voice is still husky and deep with sleep. "I woke up and then heard you."

Izzy swallows and stops in the doorway, leaning towards him but the memory of her nightmare keeps her from holding out her arms. She's fourteen, she's too old for this, but...

She had a nightmare, she is still trembling and frightened, and she wants one of her fathers to hold her. 

A much smaller Izzy Gallagher wakes with the tiniest whimper, throwing herself from her blankets and fleeing the dream on her hands and knees. She crawls across the living room. past where her father and brother lay on the makeshift bed on the floor.

Jamie, already nearly as big as his sister even though he's three years younger, curls against Jax's side, making little snuffly noises with his nose, still stuffy from a cold he's getting over. 

Izzy can be very, very quiet, when she needs to be. 

She can be as silent as a mouse, moving quick as a blink. Her daddy's sleeping face stays relaxed, and his body isn't all blocky like wood, how he is sometimes when he hears something and has to remember Mommy isn't here. 

Her dream keeps trying to grab her back, to make her think about the big long table, her itchy lace dress and too-tight shoes, plates and plates of food all around that she isn't allowed to eat. Her dream tries to make her remember her mother's hands closed tight around her arms, keeping her in Savvie's lap, suffocating her with hair while her tummy rumbles but the food is grown-up food, too good for children, and Savvie won't let her eat. 

Izzy won't think about that. 

She sees the sofa across the room and remembers there's a space between it and the wall behind it, the perfect amount of space for a little Izzy to curl up in. 

It had been a great hiding spot earlier during hide-and-seek. Jamie hadn’t found her at all and she’d had to come out when he got scared and thought she’d run off and left him alone looking for her.

Izzy would never do that, but he doesn’t know that yet. He’s too little, and it’s her job to teach him. So she had come back out and said, here I am, you were so close! You were so close to finding me! and he had laughed, relieved, his tears drying as fast as they appeared.

Izzy's daddy and her daddy's-... friend… Kieran, who her father promises is not like her mother and never will be, had looked at each other and smiled, a little. Or maybe only Kieran had. 

Izzy had been watching him. 

Kieran nods, slowly, taking her in as she watches him right back. Her sleep-rumpled short hair sticking up in spiky angles, her eyes all brown like her father's, her face all angles and lines. The girls at school are soft and pretty in ways that make Izzy's stomach twist in knots when she tries to talk to them, fingers buzzing with every brush of fingers, but her own face has never seemed soft to her. 

Izzy thinks of herself as always looking like a frightened deer or something. She feels like one now. 

"Tea?" He offers, in his gentle voice. Izzy shakes her head and hugs herself more, her lower lip trembling a little before she bites down on it to stop it, bites down with her top teeth until it hurts. 

His expression shifts, then. He understands what she isn't saying, what she can't make herself say, and he holds his arms out to her.

Izzy runs into them, bare feet slapping on kitchen tile, and he catches her. 

"Do you want to tell me about it?" He asks in a murmur against her hair. 

Izzy can be very small, when she needs to be. She curls into the tiniest ball she can manage in the space between the couch and the wall. She knows hiding, she learned how to be invisible when her mother didn’t want to see her, or when she was angry at Jax and Izzy had to disappear until her mother's rage passed like the Big Bad Wolf. Then she could come out and see Jax, her daddy blown apart like a house made of sticks.

Izzy can read the little pigs book. The other kids read faster than she does, and they read better, but she’s trying. Sometimes they laugh at her but not because of reading. Because she is Izzy Fraidy-Cat, who jumps at every loud sound or has to not cry on purpose when the teacher gets mad. 

But not the reading. No one minds she is slow at reading, and she is always trying to be better. 

She hears the door down the hall open, and freezes in place, brown eyes wide as saucers in the darkness. 

It must be Kieran, her daddy’s-... boyfriend. Not friend, not really, he is something different than that. Kieran is like kissing and holding hands more than friends, he and Jax like-like each other, but he is not another mommy.

There won't be another mommy, not ever ever again. Jax promised her with pinkie swears and crossed his heart and she is sure he means it. He wouldn’t have promised so hard if he didn’t mean it. Izzy's daddy keeps every promise, now that he is allowed to. 

Kieran isn't a new mommy, but he is a boyfriend, which is scary. But… if Kieran is what boyfriends are, then maybe those aren’t so bad.

He moves to the bathroom, and she listens intently. Her knees are almost at her chin and her hands pressed against the sides of her own neck. She doesn’t breathe except in thin quick inhales, lighter than the air she pulls into herself, exhaled all at once.

There’s a pause. Sound of water moving through pipes, running out of the sink. The bathroom door opens again, and she waits for him to go back to bed.

But he doesn’t.

Kieran walks with her back to her room, reassuring warmth beside and behind her. When Izzy climbs back into bed, he pulls the covers down and then up again to cover her. She watches his face, cataloging every bit of warmth he shows that pushes back the nightmare's final touches. 

Then he climbs into bed beside her, seated on top of the covers, ankles crossed at the end. He turns to look at her, leaning against the headboard. She shifts herself up and leans against him, tipping her head until it rests on his shoulder. 

His smile is still in his voice. "Talk to me, love."

Kieran's feet - she can see them moving - carry him to the kitchen. Her own legs are starting to hurt and she closes her eyes shut tight and tries to breathe even less, even though it makes her dizzy. Like hiding from her mother, when she had to be so, so quiet. She and her daddy played the quiet game over and over and Izzy was always the best player, a good helper, keeping hidden until he said it was safe for her and Jamie to be seen again. 

There’s a little light over the sink he turns on, dim as the nightlight Izzy has to have so she can go to sleep. Her mother’s shadow is in the dark, and the nightlights chase her away. 

She and Daddy have talked about how monsters lose their power if you turn on the light to show everyone what they really are. 

Her legs are starting to hurt, all bent like this for so long. Her toes wiggle where they stick out the bottom of her pyjama pants, trying to find a way to be comfortable without being seen.

Water runs again.

She hears her daddy moving in the little floor-bed they made of pillows and blankets. “Kieran.” His slightly rough voice isn’t a question, but it is a question, too. 

“Just a glass of water,” Kieran replies, a voice soft like the rose petals that Izzy runs her fingers over when they bloom outside her mother’s house, and there are roses here, too. No one here thinks it’s funny when she pricks her fingers on the thorns. “That’s all.”

“Okay. Wait." A pause. "Izzy."

“Izzy?” Kieran sounds puzzled, moving closer. She sees his shadow moving along the floor, where he leans over, looking at the puddle of blankets where she had been before her mother found her in dreams and made her say please and thank you but she never says it right, she never has, and she isn't allowed to eat until her mother says she's earned it.

She chokes on her mother’s hair in dreams, it goes down her throat and steals all the air for Mommy and none for anyone else. 

Kieran hums. “Oh. I just came from the bathroom…"

“Fuck,” Her daddy whispers. He's already moving, hands searching almost blindly until he finds Jamie, who makes a little whimpering sound. Her daddy's hands move over his soft straight hair, his warm face, find his back. But his eyes are still on the empty place where Izzy had been. His face doesn't show it, not right away, but Izzy knows how it sounds when he is afraid. “Shit. Where is she, where-"

“I’m here!” Izzy pushes frantically forwards, guilt driving her to wriggle like a worm to get out faster. Her pajamas catch on something at the edge of the sofa-back and she feels it tear but shoves out anyway. “I’m right here! I’m here, Daddy!”

Kieran startles, almost spilling his water, looking at her with slightly wide eyes. Then he relaxes, and smiles. "Oh, thank God. Right here in the room with us."

Izzy doesn’t answer him. He is not her daddy and it is her daddy she has frightened. It's Jax who needs her to help him. 

She crawls right back to him, sees his eyes catch hers in the dim middle-of-the-night mix of moonlight and the soft kitchen light whose shine just barely touches them all here. She sees his shoulders relax, a little, one of his hands start to uncurl fingers from palm. “Hey, kiddo,” He says, a soft exhale sound of relief. 

“I’m so sorry, Daddy.” Tears strike but she tries not to cry them outside of her, embarrassed that Kieran might see. 

Izzy is very, very good at not crying, when she has to be, so that the grown-ups won’t become angry and scream or lock her up or laugh at her. Even though Jax promises they won’t do that here. “I was having a dream, Daddy. I, I-" She swallows back all the things she wants to say. That there was so much food but she couldn't have any, that her mother held her so hard it hurt her, that she was in trouble and scared of being put in the room for time out all night again. Kieran isn't their family. She can't tell him this, can't say it in front of him. Instead, she says, "I… woke up and I wanted to hide. I am so sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

Jax’s eyes flicker up to Kieran and then back to her. He knows there are things she doesn't say in front of other grownups, grownups who aren't her doctors or her grandpa or daddy. 

“Makes sense,” Is all Jax says out loud, and opens an arm for her when she makes it to him, sliding it around her shoulders and holding on tight. 

“Good thing tomorrow’s a Saturday,” Kieran offers, kind as can be, his voice gentle and soft. He has a voice like a hug, and she doesn’t like to admit it but she likes him very much. As long as he stays this way and doesn't turn mean later. Maybe he won't. Izzy has started to hope that he is always kind and they can stay friends and boyfriends and whatever forever. 

Not that she'll say it out loud. 

Izzy smiles - she isn’t very good at smiling, but sometimes like now she can’t help it. He sees her smile, and smiles right back at her until she hides her face against Jax’s side and listens to him walk back down the hall to his room, closing the door when he and his glass of water go inside. 

"I dreamed about her," Izzy murmurs, barely speaking. Kie hums, a sign that he's listening, but he doesn't ask for details, just waits. After a pause, she keeps talking. Her throat feels tight. "I dreamed I was back in the house, running and running from her, but every door I opened was the monster room… my, uh, my time-out room-"

"Mhmm." Has she told him about it before? Right now, in the fuzzy middle of the night, she can't remember. If she hasn't, he doesn't ask. 

It helps.

"I couldn't find my way out. It was all cobwebs and dust, and the cobwebs kept turning into her hair, sticking to me, and I couldn't-..." Her voice hitches, and he has an arm around her shoulder and holds her close. He smells like his cologne, and he and Jax smell like home in a deep-down way that she loves. "I couldn't get outside. And I knew… if I could just leave, she couldn't follow me out, but I couldn't escape and she kept getting closer and louder and... she was, she kept grabbing at me..." She swallows. "Then I woke up, just as she caught me."

"That does sound pretty frightening." He doesn't sound like he thinks it was a silly dream, or she is silly for being a fourteen year old still scared of the dark, who still has a little light plugged into the wall. 

"I was so scared when I woke up, but then… I heard you." 

"I'm glad I woke up thirsty, then," He teases, gentle and loving. Kieran rests his cheek on her hair. "A well-timed middle-of-the-night water break."

“I’m sorry,” Izzy whispers again. She is very good at apologizing right away. “That I scared you. I am, Daddy. I am so sorry…" 

“Nah,” Jax replies. "I get it." When he shifts to lay back down, so does she, watching his wide-awake eyes, just like hers, as he looks towards the ceiling. Jamie has never even blinked his eyes open. “Might do the same, if I could, but I can’t fit behind the couch."

He looks at her, and they have the same eyes, and his have a gleam of moonlight and humor and his love for them both. "I’d get stuck. You'd have to put butter on my head to get me out."

She giggles behind her hands at the idea of him stuck back there with his feet out and his hair all covered in butter from the dish. His smile is tired, but she loves it better than any other smile in the world. 

She isn’t very good at going back to sleep after bad dreams, but tonight she lays in her daddy's arms and her bad dream fades away. The rest of her dreams are good ones. 

"Thanks for sitting with me." Izzy's voice is blurred now, lips barely moving. "Sorry for burying you in my mom shit at three in the morning. I know you have work tomorrow."

"That's all right. Maybe I can sneak a nap, hide under my desk and put a sign up that I'm out for lunch."

Izzy smiles at the unimaginable idea of Kieran skiving off without even leaving his office, and snuggles in close. "Hey, Kie?"

She's barely still awake, and it's the only reason she has the courage to say exactly what she is thinking out loud, here, in the dimly-lit dark. 

"Hm?"

"You're a really good dad. Love you." 

"Love you, too," He murmurs back to her, and if his voice sounds a little tight and he blinks his eyes rapidly, she is too nearly back asleep to either hear or see it. 

She feels him press a kiss to the top of her head as he eases her back to lying down under the covers. She misses Jax in the doorway and the question in his eyes. She doesn't see the look they share, the way Kieran smiles and puts a finger to his lips before the two men head back to their own bedroom together. 

The rest of Izzy's dreams that night are good ones. 

@whumptober day 20: Found Family

[firstdegreefangirl]

Keeping Jamie Warm

Jamie wiggles his toes back and forth and tries to be subtle about the way he’s brushing his hands up and down his arms. He doesn’t want Roy to notice, so he keeps the movements slow in case it jostles Roy where their bodies are pressed together.

Across the room, there’s a marine life documentary playing on Roy’s TV. He’s dozing next to Jamie, legs propped up on the ottoman and one arm slung along the back of the sofa. It creates a space where Jamie is tucked against his side, head resting somewhere between Roy’s shoulder and his chest.

It’s nice, easy and domestic in a way Jamie’s never really had before. Even his previous relationships were always focused on doing things together, never just being together. But as much as he gives Roy a hard time about being a Granddad, he’s not actually all that opposed to quiet nights in front of the TV or playing checkers or baking cookies together.

Roy is trying to teach him the rules of chess, but apparently his pawns aren’t allowed to jump over Roy’s pieces, and there’s no way to turn any of the other characters into kings, so Jamie thinks it’s pretty boring.

Tonight, they’d thought about an action movie, or maybe some sitcoms, but when Roy scrolled past a program about the coral reefs, they ended up settling on the gentle, soothing content to wind down the day.

In these quiet moments, Jamie marvels at how well he and Roy are fitting together. It’s only been a few weeks, sure, but the transition from friends to something more and better has been almost seamless – even if they haven’t found the right label for it yet, or been able to tell their friends. His mum knows, and Roy’s sister and Phoebe, and that’s perfect for now. Somehow they’re able to spend every day together, from morning workouts – it's not training, not like it used to be, now that Roy is the head gaffer and has to worry about the optics of favoritism, but they both like to start the day with a run, and there’s no sense in not doing it together – to team training and then back to Roy’s house for the evening, unless they have something else planned.

It’s maybe the best thing Jamie’s ever had.

The only way it could be better would be if Roy kept the place a couple of degrees warmer.

Read the rest on ao3 here!

[rose-of-pollux]

Title: You Can’t Go Home Again (2/?) Fandom: Scooby-Doo [13 Ghosts of Scooby-Doo, post-series] Rating: K Summary: Daphne wants to believe that the whole Blake family situation isn't affecting her. Even if that's not true.

For @whumptober Day 20: Shoulder to cry on

[hero-of-the-wolf]

Chapter Summary: At the end, Time thinks back on his life

[aria-bun]

20.| we laugh until we think we'll die (barefoot on a summer night)| WHUMPTOBER 2024

Emotional angst| Shoulder to cry on -Robin Buckley Title from Home by Edith Whiskers Word count: 0.63k

Robin should be asleep. She knew this. She also knew that she shouldn’t be standing outside Steve’s house in the middle of the night, which was a twenty-minute walk in the pouring rain.

She also also knew that Steve wouldn’t be asleep. Every unexpected midnight call, early morning pick up, or late night shopping run, he was always awake somehow.

Another thing to add to the list of Things To Talk To Steve About At A Future Point In Time.

She rang the doorbell to the Harringtons house, which was massive by her standards. Way too big for three people, nevermind one, since his parents never seemed to be around.

One car in the driveway.

One placemat at the table.

One bedroom without dust on the duvet.

A minute later, the door unlocked and opened to show Steve, who was wearing a long sleeved shirt and plaid sweatpants.

“I was half expecting you to still be in jeans.” Robin admitted, shaking her arms off slightly, water coming off the sleeves of her jacket.

Steve pursed his lips, taking one look at her before speaking. “Come in.”

——————————————————��———

“Coffee or tea?” Steve asked, pulling two mugs from the upper cabinet. Robin sat on one of the stools at the island in the kitchen, which was easily the size of half her house. She had a towel wrapped around her shoulders, trying to dry herself off from the rain.

“Tea, please. Decaffeinated, if you have any.”

He nodded, pulling out a small box of tea bags and a pod of instant coffee.

“Do you ever actually sleep? I swear I’ve never seen you sleep.”

“Sometimes.” He shrugged. “Sleep’s been hard for the past few years, so I just… stay up, I guess.” He went to the sink and filled up the kettle before putting it on the stovetop. “So, what brings you here at..” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “1:24 A.M.?”

Robin exhaled shakily, pulling the towel tighter around her. “My parents kicked me out.”

He paused halfway through closing the coffee maker. “They what.”

She nodded. “Um, yeah. They found out I was queer somehow. They won't tell anyone, if not for me, for their image.” She leaned her head against the table, tears pricking at her eyes. No matter how much she had braced herself for this moment in her life, it still stung so much.

She heard the stool next to her slide out, and felt Steve’s arms wrap around her in a hug.

Steve was one of the few people that she came out to, in an inconvenient situation, and he was the only one that actually stuck around. In the beginning, she was sure that he would leave. 

But he didn’t.

She pressed her face into his shoulder, sinking into the hug and letting out a shaky breath.

“You can stay here if you want.” Steve rested his chin on top of her head. “You practically already live here anyways.”

Robin sniffed, pulling away slightly “Really?”

He nodded. “It’d be nice to have another person in this stupid house anyways. Too much space for just me.”

She leaned back against him. “Thank you, dingus.”

He laughed, and the kettle whistled, the water now ready for her tea.

Steve got up from the stool and took it off the stove, turning it off before pouring it into the mug. As he put the tea bag in, he poured the coffee from the pot into the other mug.

After watching him dump a seemingly unhealthy amount of creamer into his mug, he walked back over, sliding the tea over to her.

“Your coffee is 90 percent creamer.” She wrapped her hands around the mug, warming her hands.

“I know.” He sipped from his mug

“You’re weird as shit, dingus.”  

He laughed. “I know.”