#Augusnippets - day 15

[whumper-whimsy]

@augusnippets day 15

Bonus prompt: Relapse

SELF HARM TW, manic episode, destructive behavior, flashbacks, toxic and abusive relationship, lots of unhealthy stuff, sex mention

(lmk if im missing a tag!)

°

Whumpee was breathing quick, hardly aware of where he was. His hands shook, his body shook— he shook.

His meds... where did his meds go? He stumbled into his bathroom, pulling open his medicine cabinet and grabbing the orange bottle. Empty.

Whatever. He didn't need those anyway! Great, just fucking great.

Chucking his bottle at the wall, Whumpee closed the cabinet, looking into the mirror on the door. He was a mess, his hair ruffled, pupils dilated, eyebags dark. He was a mess. A mess.

"You're a mess."

Whumpee physically winced as his ex-boyfriend's words rang in his head. He tried to block it out, but it was too late.

"You're a mess. Look at you!" Whumper had pushed Whumpee to the ground, his eyes dark. "What do you think you're doing, huh? Running away like a little bitch? You were supposed to be home an hour ago!"

Whumpee groaned, clutching his head. He didn't need to think about Whumper. Not now. Especially after Whumper had texted him again.

"I'm sorry, okay? I forgot to check the time and‐"

"Probably letting yourself get passed around that club, huh? Stupid whore."

Maybe it didn't hurt to read his text this time? Maybe he was in a better mood than the last time they'd spoken.

Maybe Whumper wanted him again.

He unlocked his phone, opening his messaging app.

"i miss you, baby. come over, please?"

Whumpee stared at the text, running a hand through his hair. Adrenaline flushed through his system— Whumper wanted him again! He typed back hastily, breaking out in laughter to fight the tears welling in his eyes.

"be there in 20. i miss you too."

"dont be late. Bring lube."

oh.

Whumpee sunk against the wall, leaning on his bathtub. Why did he need Whumper like this, even though he knew he was going to get hurt again? Why did he like it so much?

His eyes latched onto his razor. Without thinking, he grabbed it and began to dismantle it. Slipping out a razor blade with shaky fingers, Whumpee pressed it to his wrist. He sighed as he drew a line into his skin, watching blood dribble down his wrist.

He dragged it over his skin again. He had forgotten how great this felt.

How long had it been? Weeks? Months?

Whumpee didn't care. He'd sink into this pain and let it consume him until he was okay again.

And he'd go to Whumper's house looking like a mess.

[jamiesfootball]

Augusnippets Day 15

Alternate Prompt: whipping

cw: brief moment of implied violence, but actually zero violence and 100% nonsense

Summary:

Roy receives a text from Jamie that's either very concerning or very stupid.

Here on AO3

[Prick]: Hey coach, I’m not gonna make it to training this morning

[Prick]: My arm is completely dead. Can’t barely move it from the shoulder down to the wrist. My back got it bad too

[Prick]: I’d push thru but last time I did that you yelled a lot, so technically if you yell at me now you’re a hippocrit

[Prick]: and yes I already sent a message to the physios. I’ll check in later this morning

[Roy]: You’ll check in with me right now

[Roy]: Was it the weights?

[Prick]: what weights?

[Prick]: oh

[Prick]: no

[Prick]: It’s nothin

[Prick]: It’s nothin bad

[Prick]: I fucked up

[Roy]: Fucked up how?

[Prick]: didn’t think it looked that bad when I cleaned up last night, but this morning the bruising came in

[Roy]: Bruising from what?

[Prick]: Relax, grandad. I’m not like injured-injured

[Prick]: It was just a bit of whipping

Typing…

Typing…

Typing…

[Roy]: Don’t fucking move. I’ll be there in ten

Half of Roy’s mind knew this was probably a misunderstanding. Not only because the annoying little prick had cartwheels and roundoffs where normal people had straight-line logical thinking, but also because Roy was dead certain if there was something wrong with Jamie – something actionably, seriously wrong – Jamie would never just come out and tell Roy what it was.

He’d come to him, maybe. But he’d never say it.

Half of Roy knew this.

The other half had him driving too fast through stop signs on the way to Jamie’s house, his mind turned grimly towards what-ifs and contingency plans and late night wake up calls to his sister if there was a need for off-the-record medical attention. The other half was hardly awake, roused by the chime of his phone before his 3:30 alarm had a chance to sputter, the same way he’d been dreading for months. And if the other half demanded that he get eyes on Jamie and assess for himself that the idiot was in one piece, that that was his own fucking business.

He didn’t trust this rehab bullshit, he didn’t understand how Jamie’s father had wormed his way back into his son's life, and he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. There was always another shoe.

Of course then he arrived at Jamie’s house, and aside from dark raccoon circles under his eyes and an ice pack pressed to his shoulder, the muppet was fine.

The unneeded Roy-half packed up its contingency plans and took its leave. This left room for pure, incandescent annoyance – annoyance that was not relieved when Jamie showed him the reason for his injury.

“It’s a cake!” Jamie claimed, gesturing at the lopsided blob on his kitchen counter. It sure didn’t look like a cake. It looked furry – or rather like it’d started out furry before getting caught in the rain. The ‘whipped’ cream was practically liquid, dripping down the sides in streaks. It looked like someone had snuck into Jamie’s house in the night and left a sopping wet Yorkshire Terrier in a baking tray as a prank. Or an Ugg boot; it sort of looked like a Ugg boot. A flattened, sopping wet Ugg boot.

Jamie, who come to think of it was a bit like a Yorkie, continued yapping away in defence of his flat Ugg boot cake.

“I followed the recipe exactly like Simon said!” Jamie waved his iPad in Roy’s face. His finger slipped on the screen, and the screenshotted recipe swiped to photo of Isaac kissing a puppy. “I got through the cake part easy, but then the instructions said I needed whipped cream, and ‘e told me I couldn’t use the pre-whipped stuff from the store ‘cause that’d be cheating.”

Jamie snorted; as if asking for extra effort for a fucking gift was the height of unreasonable expectations. “Easy for him to say. Simon’s got one of those fancy stand mixers. Don’t see how that’s not cheating.”

Privately Roy agreed, but Jamie didn’t deserve words of affirmation for this level of stupidity.

“So you whisked it by hand?” Roy asked, side-eyeing the travesty. How had his life had come to this: rotating his star player’s arm to assess the blotched bruising bursting along the jointline because he’d attempted baking unsupervised.

Jamie grimaced in pain as Roy thumbed what he thought was a bruise; it was cocoa powder. “What? No, I used a spoon.”

“You-,” Roy cut himself off, pinching the bridge of his nose. He could feel cocoa and flour rubbing off on his skin. “Why didn’t you just use a whisk? Big fancy pre-loaded fucking kitchen, and you’re telling me it didn’t come staged with a whisk?”

Jamie’s mouth opened, then closed. He had that guilty, prey animal look in his eyes that meant Roy was about to hear something truly, godforsakenly stupid.

“Um. You know.” Jamie mimed stirring something with his hand. “It’s upstairs.”

“What?”

“You know.” Jamie made that cursed stirring motion with his hand again. “Upstairs.”

“Stop that,” Roy pleaded. Jamie stopped that. He didn’t want to know, but like a train travelling at two hundred kilometres per hour towards five innocent nuns on the tracks, or however that maths problem went, his mouth ran on ahead of him and refused to pull the lever that would put the other person out of his misery. “What the fuck do you need a whisk upstairs for?”

“You know,” said Jamie. “For my bath bombs.”

“Your bath bombs,” repeated Roy.

Jamie nodded excitedly.

“You….whisk your bath bombs.”

“Um, yeah, obviously,” Jamie snorted condescendingly. “What do you do? Whisk them in by hand?”

The reality of the situation settled in. Roy was standing in Jamie’s kitchen, a little after four in the morning, still in his fucking house slippers because he hadn’t bothered to put shoes on when he was racing out of his house, fear in his heart and images of vengeance in his head because he thought that he was racing headfirst into learning yet another reason why James Tartt Sr was a living shitstain of the earth who didn’t so much as deserve to breathe oxygen, let alone be a part of his son’s life, court-mandated rehab be damned.

And instead he’d arrived to find out that the only danger to Jamie was the lad’s barely existent reading comprehension and his knack for innovating parts of the human experience that were better left untouched.

A whisk for a bath bomb. Jesus fucking Christ.

With more Schadenfreude in his heart than Ted would ever approve of, Roy watched Jamie try and fail to fill the kettle without moving his limp, deadened arm. A cup of tea was the least he could do

“Do you think I should buy a second whisk?”

“No,” answered Roy.

“But if I only had another whisk–”

“If you only had a fucking brain. No.”

Jamie sulked. He traded his tea for his ice pack, hissing as he pressed it against his shoulder. “What do you think I should do with the cake then? I was gonna give it to Sam as a taste test-”

“Don’t kill Sam.”

“-but it’s all-,” Jamie wrinkled his nose, “-Goopy. I don’t want to give Sam a goopy cake for his birthday. That’d be illegal or sommet.”

It was goopy. That would be illegal. He didn’t want Sam to die.

Roy sighed. “Give me a fork.”

That wattage on Jamie’s face should be illegal at 4am. Most things should. But maybe it was worth it. The training and the false alarms and the misuse of cooking utensils when normal people were asleep – maybe there were worse things to suffer for.

Jamie turned around with the plates and-

“Is that a carving knife?”

“This?” Jamie held up what was, in fact, a carving knife. “No? I’m pretty sure it’s for bread.”

Then again, maybe there weren’t. Didn’t matter.

Roy would have his boot-shoe cake and eat it too. For Sam.

As far as disasters went, it didn’t taste too bad.

[evilwriter37]

Solidarity

Augusnippets Day 15

Alt Prompt: Flashbacks

Rated: teen

Warnings: graphic depictions of an injury

------

Viggo hadn’t meant to set fire to what he was attempting to cook, but it had happened anyway. Now, Hiccup was here and the fire had been dealt with, but it had left some damage to the kitchen. Viggo just sat hunched in a chair nearby, head in his hands.

“Hey, it’s not that bad,” Hiccup said, coming on over. Toothless cooed in agreement. 

“It’s… not that,” Viggo told him. No, it wasn’t necessarily the fire that he was so upset about. It was what had caused it. 

Viggo didn’t want to admit to panic, to flashbacks, to trauma, but he’d felt the heat from the pan on his face, and he’d fallen into a nightmare he hadn’t been able to shake himself from until there were flames to deal with. That hadn’t helped either.

Heat just made Viggo think of the volcano, of his fall, of his burns. He rubbed fingers over the scars. He hated them. They looked like his skin had melted and cooled, like candle-wax, almost. And he couldn’t see from his left eye anymore. His ear was so mangled that he had a hard time hearing from it. 

And the heat from the pan just shoved him back in that instant, shoved him back into the pain, the daze, the confusion, the defeat. He’d wanted to die. 

And maybe I should have.

“Then… what is it?” Hiccup asked. He took the chair across from him, their knees touching. “Do you need to talk about it?”

Viggo sighed, lifted his head to look at Hiccup with his one good eye. His heart pounded a little at the sincerity and kindness on Hiccup’s face. 

“I… get flashbacks,” Viggo admitted. And why couldn’t h e admit this to Hiccup? He was his lover, after all. “The heat from cooking triggered some.” He shook his head. “It was like I was back there, in that volcano, like life hadn’t moved an inch since it happened.” 

“I’d say it’s moved several feet,” Hiccup said with a bit of a smile. He got a serious look on his face again though. He put a hand on Viggo’s thigh, gave it a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay, Viggo.” 

“But—”

“You really think I don’t get flashbacks too?”

Viggo blinked at him in shock, but then thought about it. Hiccup getting flashbacks made sense. He’d been through a lot, despite being so young.

“I suppose we have solidarity in that, then.”

Hiccup gave him a warm smile. “I suppose we do.” He looked around the house. “Now, we should open some windows. It’s kind of smokey in here.” 

Viggo nodded, and rose to help, feeling a little better knowing he wasn’t alone.

[deviant-doughnut]

Augusnippets Day Fifteen

Chosen Prompt: Throwing Up

CW: Vomiting, blood, prior consumption of human flesh

When the full moon has faded, and pale morning dawns, Hale is lost to all the world until there comes a sudden lurch. From the depths of unconsciousness pain claws at his body, the teeth of it caught at his stomach. Its sharpness jolts him from the thick black of sleep, leaves him blinking skyward into the branches.

It’s autumn now, and the morning is cool. Hale stares up into the sparsely dressed branches, the leaves falling more by the moment. The branches bounce idly in the soft of the breeze, leaves spiralling downward to the hard forest floor. This is a moment that ought to be peaceful, but the cold touches Hale in a way that feels vulnerable, and he cranes his neck to peer at his body, holds his breath like a curse. He’s naked, brown skin marred with fresh scratches, blood dried onto his flesh. A flash of a memory — leaping forward through thorns and persistent thickets, snarling in pursuit of the creature before him.

Hale cannot recall what he hunted, the prey to which his wolf form gave chase. All he knows is his teeth taste like iron, his tongue coated with the blood of some creature.

This happens, sometimes, on the nights he escapes. He’s had birds and small creatures, knows the tang of their blood. He remembers their bones after a while too, when he’s safe in his bed and at the mercy of flashbacks. The wolf is always alive inside him, and it takes a sick pleasure in displaying its memories.

The pain in his stomach grows brighter. It’s the pale white of winter, tinged yellow like bile, and it roils through his gut until it threatens to rise. Hale gags, makes the mistake of closing his eyes. The gesture mutes the morning light, propels him back into darkness. When Hale’s eyes are closed, he sees as the wolf. His breath trembles badly as he watches.

The creature before him was large — not a bird, not a woodland creature gone astray. He sees it in flashes of crimson and black, its long legs, its dark hair. He hears the sharp pitch of its cries, sinks deeper into the memory and remembers its panic — its fear. Delectable flashes of terror gone sickly, the wolf as entranced as Hale is abhorred. The creature looks quickly over its shoulder, eyes wet as it screams and it begs. This, the wolf shows him, was its crucial mistake. The creature, looking backwards, loses its footing. It meets his eye and it crashes to the ground. It bleeds before the wolf is upon it, knees scraped by rocks and arms snagged on branches. The wolf sets about it and it begs for its life. It —

Hale forces his eyes open and his stomach lurches, a pain more insistent than any he’s known.

A human. The creature the wolf took its teeth to last night was a person, no different than Hale now.

Alone and naked on the forest floor, birds chirping endlessly overhead, Hale retches. His muscles contract, a painful warning, the walls of his chest pulling tight. His oesophagus burns and his mouth tastes like bile. He rolls onto his hands for the coming expulsion, but nothing emerges just yet. His arms shake and something writhes deep inside him, his stomach contracting and the agony clawing deep. The pain is dull and incessant, suffocating as he gasps uselessly for air. Every blink sends him back to the night, to the euphoria of the wolf as it reigns. His arms turned to legs that pin its prey by the shoulders. His hands turned to claws that rip easily through skin. And his mouth — become a weapon — teeth slick with hot blood, vibrating with the timber of his victims screams until they fade, until the blood doesn’t pump so much as it spills, slick and warm and delicious and sickening.

Hale’s body lurches violently, his back arched painful and quick. The contents of his stomach draw upwards. Iron hits the back of his throat, thick and wet and red to the taste. His chapped lips part. The contents of his stomach flood into his mouth, paint the forest floor crimson when they spill from him. He groans and gags and chokes on the liquid. His body aches sharp from his throat to his stomach, and the panic goes straight for his eyes. They well, wet and aching as he vomits. One incident immediately followed by another. This one leaves fragments of bones in the leaves. Everything is red and wet, putrid as it pours from his mouth. The third brings up masses, pulpy and pink, strings of muted blue shot through them. Veins.

Each instance of vomiting eases his stomach, like his body’s way of purging its wrongs.

He sobs through the worst of it, gone dizzy from shock. He stops peering down at the things he brings up, squeezes his eyes shut tightly instead.

His body trembles badly, his memories gradually reconstructing a face — the features of the person he murdered. Hale doesn’t pray — not since his infection — but this morning he pleads to the gods. Don’t let this be the remnants of a member of his team. Don’t let it be someone he loves.

He hangs his head when it’s finally done, weeping at the memories that pull at him. Blue eyes, dark hair, someone taller than he is.

In the back of his mind, the wolf laughs lowly. Hale promises himself that they’re not the same being, that his soul and the wolf’s are distinct. But when the horror fades he remembers the glee of it, ghosting through him as if it were his. It’s not, he tells himself.

It is, argues that voice, as dreadful as the taste of internal organs that coats the roof of his mouth. He shudders, spits pink bile onto the ground. And all the while, the wolf’s voice sounds more and more like his own.

-

Thanks to @augusnippets for this event

[udaberriwrites]

A drabble for @augusnippets' day 15!

Path of Whumperless Whump - Food Poisoning

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Characters: Wyll Ravengard, Karlach, Astarion

Timeline: Act 2 - Waning Moon Tavern

Rating: G

“You’re the most foolish man I’ve ever met,” Astarion chides.

Wyll groans. He’d make a witty retort, but he’s too busy feeling his guts trying to burst out of his belly.

“Don’t listen to him,” Karlach says, cleaning the sweat off his brow. “He wouldn’t have outdrunk Thisobald and he knows it.”

“I would’ve known better than to poison myself—”

“Though you should have let me do it, Wyll.”

“...were injured,” Wyll manages, lifting a hand to the barely healed wound on Karlach’s side.

She sighs. “Foolish man.”

Their words are belied by their caring touches.

Wyll drifts to sleep.

_

Full prompt list here

AO3 collection here

[blinded-and-bloody]

Day 15 of @augusnippets

Prompt: Throwing Up

WC: 219

Between the after taste of yesterday’s dinner and the burn of stomach acid in his throat, Glenn was pretty sure he was going to throw up again.

Someone was running their fingers gently through his hair, brushing it back.

“You’re okay.”

Glenn groaned. The nausea was still there. He didn’t have anything left to give. He hiccuped.

“I thought being dead was supposed to protect me from bullshit like food poisoning.”

He heard the material of Henry’s shirt shift as he shrugged.

“I told you it was a bad idea.”

“I know, I—“

Glenn retched again, as he pulled the trash can closer. The wracks went up his entire body, mixed in with the shivers he already had.

Nothing but bile and spit came up. His stomach was empty, despite how hard it was trying to come up with more.

He put the trash can back on the ground and let his head hit the pillow. With the shivers and the wracking, Glenn almost dealt like he was on death’s door a second time.

“I hate this,” Glenn mumbled. “This is what I get for my first death being so easy. Ten seconds, then boom, over.”

“Longest ten seconds of my life,” Henry told him. “You’re just sick, it’ll pass.”

Glenn shuddered, and reached for the trash can again.

[astaldis]

Augusnippets Day 15 - Food Poisoning, Augustofwhump Day 20 - Contaminated

Don't Despair, Friends

@augusnippets @augustofwhump

Fandom: The Witcher

Rating: General, no archive warnings

Characters: The Hansa: Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier, Regis, Milva, Cahir

Words: 400

Summary: On their journey to rescue Ciri, the members of Geralt's Hansa have to eat all kinds of grub. One day it has rather unpleasant consequences. Luckily, they have Regis.

[angelic-writer]

Monsters in Mayweather - Something in the Ambrosia

Day 15 of @augusnippets

Prompts: Food poisoning/starvation/throwing up

Fandom: Monsters in Mayweather by @moonlightsmasquerade

CW: Emeto

"Hey Aaron? You hungry?" Joshua called out from the kitchen.

"Hmm... Now that you mention it, I kinda am."

"Well, you're in luck cause I made you something!"

Aaron sat up from the couch. "Oh really? What's that?"

Joshua smirked and walked over to the fridge, opened it and pulled out a bowl of assorted fruit. Aaron's eyes widened, almost jumping out of his seat in joy. Ambrosia. Joshua always made the best ambrosia.

"Well, don't just sit there. Dig in!" They said, smiling.

Aaron was already grabbing a plate and piling the fruit mixture on. Joshua chuckled as they watched him vibrate like a child on a sugar high. "Whoa, calm down there! I just mixed some fruit."

Aaron's wide eyed stare met his friend's. "Dude, it's literally called the food of the Greek gods! And you, Josh, absolutely killed it as usual!" With that, he took his first bite.

Within a matter of minutes, the ambrosia bowl was completely empty. Joshua and Aaron continued to banter about what was happening until the brunette suddenly gripped his stomach. A wave of nausea was starting to creep up on him.

"You okay?" Joshua asked.

"Yeah. I uh... It's probably nothing. Must be the gods fighting inside me. Maybe I shouldn't have ate that fast... I'm sure it'll pass."

Joshua continued to stare at him, concerned.

An hour later, Aaron was leaning against the toilet, vomiting up the food he just ate while the enby rubbed his back, apologizing profusely.

"I'm sorry! I-I should've paid more attention! M-Maybe the fruit I bought was bad. Maybe something got in there while I wasn't looking. I-"

"It's... It's 'kay. N-Not your fault. I guess I couldn't handle it." Aaron leaned his head in his arms. "They won this round, but I will come back stronger than ever."

Joshua got their friend up to his feet and hooked his arm around their shoulder for support. "How about I just make you a sandwich? And give you some water too."

[darling-writings]

Maybe there had been something off about the keese wings Link had cooked into an acrid, watery stew. Maybe it was simply one monster meal too many. Either way, nausea had hit soon after he ate, twisting and churning and aching and thoroughly distracting him as he attempted to listen to Purah’s update on the landing.

@augusnippets day 15. Food Poisoning/ Starvation/ Vomiting. There is explicit vomiting in this fic, be aware.

[shyday-ao3]

@augusnippets Day 15. Prompt throwing up. This one's Bruce Banner.

Consciousness sparks with a crashing roar, the sound of angry surf battering an ancient cliff. A noise that drowns out all thought, fills his head with confusion and breathlessness and primal animal fear. Now the familiar pain; muscles, organs, bones bulging and twisting and shrinking as they fight with the equilibrium to fit themselves to a new shape. For an instant he can feel himself in that huge body, see through those eyes to the ground a disorienting distance away. Trees. Dirt. The pain blinds him again, and there’s nothing left but the roar.

He’s Hulk. He’s Bruce. He’s both. He’s neither.

The roar rushes away with a whoosh as he settles back into himself, thoughts muddled and muscles sore and his heart beating way too fast. His skin feels stretchy, loose, his joints fractionally misaligned. An experience unmitigated no matter how many times he goes through it. Slowly his body and mind finish knitting themselves back together, and his sluggish brain begins to take note of things like his sprawled angles, the gritty dirt pressing into his bare skin. He pries open his eyes. Slams them closed again when a headache announces itself with a shout against the backdrop of a bright cloudless sky.

A surge of nausea and he shoves himself up onto trembling hands and knees just in time to empty his stomach. His thoughts are dull and difficult to pull together as he sways on hands and knees over the shallow puddle. Shivering, sweating. There’s a persistent humming in his ears and mind-numbing ache to his bones. He can feel his pulse jumping under his skin. His stomach convulses again.

Someone accustomed to this ritual, likely Nat, waits until he’s done before draping a blanket over his shoulders. He doesn’t open his eyes, not yet; the lingering tendrils of the Hulk’s presence ripple through him, settling gradually into his cells. Moving is always a laborious and sickening effort for the first hour or so after the change. 

When a grounding hand comes to rest on his shoulder, he forces himself to look at her, to shape his tingling lips into a reassuring smile. “Hi,” he croaks.

“Hi. You ready to get up?”

“Gimme a mmm– ugh –” His gut twists and he turns quickly away from her to gag, cough up bile from his empty stomach. “Sorry,” he chokes.

“I’ve seen worse,” she says.

“Still. I feel disgusting.”

“You’re not disgusting. This is just part of it. Believe me, it doesn’t bother me.”

“That makes one of us,” he grumbles. He clears his throat, spits. For as much as he doesn’t want to move, he wants his clothes on more. Wants to be somewhere he can sleep. “Okay, I’m ready.” 

She stands, extends a hand down to help him up. He needs it, just like he needs her support trying to balance on these colt-shaky legs. There’s no room for pride as he wraps the blanket more tightly around his nudity, following her lead to the quinjet. 

[inscrutable-shadow]

Augusnippets Day 15 - Path of Whumperless Whump - Throwing Up

obvious tw for emeto, though it's not particularly graphic. thanrea fluff because i can :)

"Ohhh… Thanatos, my stomach feels strange…" Rea was watching videos and eating takeout, as ae often did in the evenings if Thanatos didn't cook or take aer out. He was nearby, reading, but they hadn't been talking to each other. He needed the time to de-stress from work and ae wasn't much of a conversationalist while eating.

Thanatos huffed and didn't bother looking up from his book. "You've eaten too much."

"No, I don't think that's it…" Rea put another dumpling in aer mouth.

"You've eaten too much. Stop doing it."

Another dumpling down the hatch. "I just feel a little odd, that's all. Hic!"

"Stop fucking eating then!" It came out a bit more annoyedly than he'd intended, bit he could tell by the green cast to aer cheeks and the quiet clicking sounds in aer throat that disaster was imminent. "I swear to the divines, it's like having a toddler. You have no impulse control."

"It's not my fault, the body is new…"

"Bathroom. Now." He took aer by the elbow and attempted to lead aer to the ensuite, but ae swayed dangerously and leaned heavily on him.

"Ughhhh I don't feel good… Maybe one more…" Unbe-fucking-lievable.

"Not one more! You're already close to vomiting, you need to learn to listen to your body's signals." There was a considerable margin from pleasantly full to uncomfortably full to overfull, in his own experience, but Rea never seemed to know when to stop. He sat aer down on aer knees in front of the toilet and pulled aer hair back, setting a gentle kiss on aer neck.

Ae panted heavily, sending ripples over the water. "I really think I'm— hurk—" Thanatos rolled his eyes.

"What have we learned?" Nothing, most likely.

Rea spat nauseatedly into the bowl. "Maybe stop after the fourth bento box next time…"

[teine-mallaichte]

Day 15 @augusnippets - prompt : starvation / throwing up

84 is struggling with Sams death. Character: Asset 84

CW: grief, vomiting, self destruction.

Asset 84 masterlist

The food was bland and unappealing, as it always was. But now, it seemed worse. The seat opposite at the table was still empty, a glaring reminder of the absence that had permeated every aspect of 84's existence recently.

84 had not been given a new pairing yet, which was fine by them. They didn’t want a new pairing. If Sam were still here, they would likely have laughed at that, then made a teasing joke that 84 wouldn’t understand, but Sam wasn't here to explain or laugh anymore.

Their appetite had been entirely absent since Sam’s execution.

At first, they had managed to force themselves to eat, mechanically lifting fork to mouth, chewing without tasting, swallowing as if it were a duty. But the effort had become increasingly futile. The act of eating now made them nauseous. The smell of the food, the texture in their mouth, everything about it turned their stomach. They would find themselves retching in the corners of the training yard or hunched over the toilet in their quarters, the bitter taste of bile burning their throat.

They could not understand it, but their body seemed to be betraying them. Sleep was becoming a distant memory, their dreams constantly invaded by images of Sam’s death. Focus was becoming harder, their mind wandering at the worst possible moments. And food... they looked at their tray again, their stomach twisting at the sight.

The mess hall was a sterile, oppressive environment, with rows of identical tables and chairs, the walls a dull grey that seemed to absorb all warmth and colour. The other assets, their faces masks of stoic detachment, ate mechanically, their movements synchronised like machines. 84 had always found some comfort in the predictability of this routine, but now it only amplified their sense of isolation.

With a strained sigh, 84 pushed the tray away, the metal clattering loudly in the silent mess hall. Their breath came in shallow, ragged gasps as they fought to keep the bile down. The room spun. Memories of Sam’s final moments flashed vividly—each scene a painful stab, each recollection an insurmountable wave. They stumbled to their feet, making their way unsteadily to the exit. They were painfully aware that they were unravelling, and that it was getting harder and harder to hide. But hide it they must; these signs of instability, these emotions, were a defect. If discovered by the handlers, then 84 would be executed just like Sam.

They made their way to their quarters, each step feeling heavier than the last. The corridors were labyrinthine, a series of identical, cold passageways that seemed to close in around them. Their vision blurred, the edges of their sight darkening as they fought to maintain their composure. They couldn’t afford to break down here, not where they could be seen.

Finally, reaching their quarters, 84 stumbled through the doorway and practically collapsed onto the cot. Their body felt heavy, as if weighed down by an invisible force, and they closed their eyes tightly, trying to will the spinning room to still. Each breath was a struggle, the air feeling thick and oppressive, and they fought desperately to suppress the rising wave of nausea. The cold, sterile environment of their quarters did little to comfort them, its harshness only amplifying their sense of isolation and disorientation.

As they lay there, trembling and exhausted, the events of the past weeks played in an unending loop in their mind. Sam's execution, the empty seat across the table, the taste of bile in their mouth after forcing down food that now seemed repulsive – it all melded into a chaotic, tormenting reel that they couldn't shut off. Their body ached with a deep fatigue, not just from physical exertion but from the constant, relentless effort to maintain control. The tightness in their chest grew as they struggled to keep their emotions at bay, knowing that any sign of weakness could be their undoing.

Their stomach churned violently, and they barely made it to the small sink in the corner of their quarters before vomiting again. The acrid taste of bile burned their throat, tears streaming down their face from the sheer force of it. They clung to the edge of the sink, their body trembling, each heave a painful reminder of how far they had fallen from the emotionless weapon they were supposed to be.

The room spun around them, the sterile walls and flickering lights blending into a disorienting blur. Their legs buckled, sending them crashing to the floor, feeling utterly defeated. The acrid smell of bile lingered in the air, mingling with the sterile scent of the quarters. The hum of the ventilation system was a constant, oppressive presence, adding to the sense of confinement and despair.

Images of Sam's execution played relentlessly in their mind. They could still hear the deafening crack of the gunshot, see the way Sam's body had crumpled to the floor, lifeless and still. Sam's final, resigned gaze haunted them, a stark reminder of the fragility of their own existence. 84 had always known that disobedience would be met with swift and brutal retribution, but witnessing it happen to Sam had shattered something deep within them.

The room felt stiflingly hot and unbearably cold at the same time. Their stomach churned again, but there was nothing left to expel. The dry heaves wracked their body, leaving them gasping for air, each convulsion a painful reminder of their failing grip on the facade of stoic detachment they had worked so hard to maintain.

"I am 84," they whispered weakly, the words barely audible. "I am a weapon. I will endure." But even as they repeated the familiar phrase, they knew it was a lie. They were no longer the emotionless asset they had been trained to be. Sam's death had shattered the already cracking facade, leaving them exposed and fragile.

[catnykit]

KIIIITYYYYYY

@augusnippets day 15: food poisoning/starvation/throwing up cw: sickfic, fluff(…???) masterlist!! ——

“Uughdh…” Roux continues to roll about, eyes filled with tears as he throws snow on top of himself. “‘m— I’m… everything hurts.” Spooks watches helplessly, idly swaying from side to side. “Yeah, um… that’s.. that’s no good. Do you have any ideas? Cause, um, I don’t.” “I can— I can heal.” “… Why haven’t you?” Roux presses his hands against his blotchy and itchy skin, dragging at the sides of his face. “Can’t hunt good.” “It can’t be that bad. You’re as red as an apple, and you won’t be able to hunt regardless.” Roux sniffles loudly, shaking the snow from his hair. “Uggh… ‘kay.” Wrapping his cloak around himself, obscuring his face, he… disappears, leaving only the heap of clothes in his place. …Spooks stares at the clothing. He’s heard stories of mages and witches botching spells, causing them to suffer horribly as a result, but Roux doesn’t seem like a witch or a mage in his eyes. If anything, he’d be an apprentice to a mage, but that seems… incredibly unlikely. He groans, floating closer to the clothes as a muffled mewl escapes them. Spooks freezes. Another meow soon follows, progressively getting louder as a tiny bundle of greyish-brown fluff staggers out from beneath the cloak. It stomps closer to Spooks, meowing once more as it stumbles and sinks into the snow. “Roux?” He asks daftly, kneeling down to meet the kitten’s height. There’s no way this is happening. “Mmreo..” The kitten— no, Roux— paws at the ghost’s nose. …It’s happening. —— taglist!! let me know if you wanna be added!! ^_^ @loonybun @catnykit @bitchaknso

[jamietarttsnorthernattitude]

cw injury recovery

Jamie watches Manchester City win the Treble while recovering from an injury on Roy’s couch.

Day 15 of @augusnippets - alternative prompt - forced to watch

Read on ao3

[whumper-whimsy]

@augusnippets day 16

Humiliation / dehumanization / conditioning

Continuation of Day 15

Self-harm, abusive relationship, unhealthy/toxic behavior, nsfwhump, dubcon, shaming of sex work, domestic violence, drugs mention

(Lmk if I'm missing a tag!!)

°

Whumpee knocked on Whumper's door, trying to dry his tears as he waited. Maybe Whumper would be having a good day. Maybe he would comfort Whumpee.

The door opened, and Whumper looked down at Whumpee for a moment. He scoffed and signaled him in, looking rather amused.

"You look like hell," Whumper murmured, shutting the door as Whumpee made his way to the couch. "Couldn't at least pretty yourself up before coming to see me? And here I was thinking you cared."

Whumper's words bit into Whumpee, and he averted his eyes. "I- I'm not doing good right now, I kind of had a breakdown earlier, and-"

"Over what? What in your pampered little life has gotten you so worked up that you did all that, hm? Run out of cigarettes again?"

Whumpee squeezed his thumb. "Whumper, you know I've been clean six months."

"Oh? So what have you taken up instead, hm? Smoking weed now? Maybe you're selling your body to get your rocks off, huh?"

Whumpee subconsciously grabbed the sleeve of his sweatshirt, keeping his eyes on the floor. "Whumper, I'm not —"

"Ohhh, don't tell me," Whumper broke out in laughter, grabbing Whumpee's arm. "You're cutting? Really? What are you, a thirteen year-old girl?" He rolled the sleeve back, revealing the barely-scabbing cuts. He ran a finger over them, looking smug. "Christ, what a charity case you are."

"Listen, I��"

"Pfft, that's just pathetic. God, I don't know why I bother wasting time on you." Whumper rolled his eyes, reaching to pull off Whumpee's shirt. "At least you're a good fuck, huh?"

"Can you stop interrupting me?" Whumpee bit back, getting frustrated.

"Oh, could you just shut the fuck up? Jesus Christ." Whumper slipped his t-shirt off, grabbing Whumpee and pulling him to the bedroom. "All you do is talk."

Whumpee bit down on his lip, following Whumper into the bedroom. He sat back on the bed, looking up at Whumper. At least the sex was usually good.

Whumper pulled Whumpee's pants off, looking down at his thighs. "Seriously? Here too?" He mocked Whumpee's cuts, pushing his legs apart as he took his own pants off.

Whumpee said nothing, shame burning his face. He fought back tears, watching Whumper approach.

The taller man reached down and kissed Whumpee in his rough, dominant way. His hand threaded into Whumpee's hair, tugging him into place as Whumper's tongue dominated his mouth.

Whumpee sunk into the kiss, relaxing and wrapping his arms around Whumper's shoulders. He was lowered onto his back as Whumper straddled his hips, pinching at his injured thighs.

Whumpee squirmed, wincing. "S- stop that, it hurts..."

"Well, you obviously like pain if you're willing to do this to yourself."

"I don't like it!"

"Tell me you do." Whumper pushed into Whumpee, stretching him out.

Whumpee cried out, biting his lip, "I don't!"

Whumper smacked Whumpee across the face. "Tell me you do, or I'll hit you harder."

Whumpee pressed his face into Whumper's shoulder, trying to cover up his tears. He clung to Whumper, losing himself in the rhythm of his thrusts. "I like it," he murmured against the man's sweaty neck.

Whumper pulled out his phone, the flash shining in Whumpee's eyes.

"Say it again."

"Whumper—?"

"Again."

"...I like it."

"Good boy," Whumper purred. "I'll save that for later, baby."

Baby.

Whumpee held onto the petname for the rest of the night, glad to have pleased Whumper.

[jamiesfootball]

Augusnippets Day 14

Prompt: gifts

cw: implied/referenced child abuse

Summary:

Sometimes gift-giving ain't all it's cracked up to be, and sometimes it is. - A series of moments from Jamie's life.

Here on AO3

Age 4

Gasp! “Is this for me? Did you make this? Oh, Jamie, it’s beautiful, I love it. Come on, now, give mummy hugs.”

Age 7

“Oh, thanks baby. That looks wonderful. No, I do, I do like it! I do! Mummy’s just really tired today, I promise. Soon as the holidays are over, I’ll go back to working my normal shifts.”

Age 9

“Did you make me breakfast in bed? That’s so sweet! Thank you so much, love. …Was this by any chance the last tin of beans in the cupboard?”

Age 11

“What the hell is this? Did your mum put you up to this? Bit cheap, innit?”

Age 12

“No, of course I’d love to come to your match, Jamie. But you know with this new job I started, it’s not a good look if I ask for time off so soon.”

Age 13

“Did you think that I wouldn’t already have the new kit? Huh? You think I’m broke? Is that the kind of garbage your mother’s been filling your head with? Teaching you how to disrespect your old man?”

Age 14

“Look, junior. I know things got a bit heated between us last time I came around. Just the way it is with us men sometimes, am I right? I’m sure you said some things you regret too. But your mom and I, we’ve been talking, and I think I’ve got a shot there. Make us a proper family again. Now, what do you say you and me, we celebrate the occasion by taking ourselves a little father/son bonding trip? Ever been to Amsterdam?”

Age 15

“We can make a day of it. Get lunch, maybe go to the cinema? Oh. Oh, no, that’s all right, love. I didn’t know that you’d made plans with your friends already. Right. Right. Well, if you think you’ll be home in time for dinner-“

Age 16

“-right. Uh huh. No, I know you’re busy, love, but I was thinking. I know how stressed you’ve been lately and how hard you’ve been working. Maybe later this year, you and I can take a trip, hm? Around New Year’s? Just the two of us. Get away for a little bit before you skyrocket into superstardom.

“No, you don’t have to help pay for it any of it, Jamie-”

Age 17

“-No, I know you’ve got a match, Jamie. It doesn’t have to be this weekend. I told you, whenever you’re free-“

Age 18

“Now that you’re making money, I think it’s only fair you treat your old man to a drink.”

Age 19

“New fancy contract, and you’re telling me you can’t afford to do something nice? For your own dad? C’mon, son, I’m not asking for a Porsche here-“

Age 20

“I’m not saying you have to like him, Jamie! But Simon’s important to me, and I’d like you to actually meet him before-“

Age 21

“-lazy, uninspired, waste of fucking space on the pitch! Is it any fucking wonder that Pep’s got you warming the bench for the real players when you’re out there bottling penalties? Hey. Hey! You fucking look at me when I’m talking to you-!“

Age 22

“I know you’re still screening my calls, but I just called to thank you for the flowers. I’d ask about your birthday, but I’m sure you already have plans.”

Age 22

SMACK.

Age 23

“Oh, babes, I wish you’d told me. I already promised my mum I’d go ‘round hers for the holiday. Only she’s just moved down here, and she hasn’t been able to meet anyone yet- no, you do not want to meet her, trust me. But hey, you have fun in Spain- wait you didn’t already buy the tickets, did you?”

Age 24

“Would you look at that? City wins on my son’s birthday, and he ain’t even here to see it. All because he let some stupid yank make him soft, and now he’s too much of a pussy to stick it out when things get tough. What’s wrong, junior? Did Roy Kent calling you little bitch on TV hurt your widdle feelings? Huh? You gonna cry? You gonna cry about it?-”

[“Dad”]: Don’t you fucking hang up on me

[“Dad”]: Jesus Christ, no need to be so sensitive

[“Dad”]: Did you sort my tickets for the next match?

Age 24

“Yeah, but, you know, some folks might also consider that buying affection, you know.”

Age 24

“Jamie? Oh… we didn’t expect you to call. No, it’s fine, we aren’t going anywhere; Simon’s tinkering around in the kitchen… You tried them? Really. That’s- ahem, of course. Of course I’ll let him know.

“SIMON! Jamie tried your gluten free lemon pound cake! He said it was ‘fucking tasty’! His words!

“Jam, Simon would like to know what your nutrition guidelines say about – love, is this a list?”

Age 24

[Isaac]: Alright, everyone. Jamie’s birthday is coming up, so it’s time to start making plans.

[Sam]: Did you remember to remove Jamie from the group chat before you sent the text?

[Isaac]: Shit

Age 25

“...and this is going to sound so weird, but I promise I am not a stalker. I’m Roy’s sister. Yes, that Roy. Uh, you may be aware that he has a niece – Phoebe, yes – and she has something important she would like to ask you.”

“Hi Jamie! It’s Phoebe! Would you like to come celebrate Uncle’s Day with us?”

Age 25

“I love it.”