#Augusnippets Day 11

[whumper-whimsy]

@augusnippets day 11

escape/ breaking the conditioning/ safe and sound

Implied alcoholism, references to past kidnapping/noncon surgery/abuse, escaped Whumpee, death mention

°

Caretaker was home alone again, just like every night since Whumpee went missing. The routine was the same each night— he laid back in his recliner, chugged can after can of whatever alcohol he could afford, and passed out thinking of Whumpee.

Caretaker sat back, pulling the case close to him and pulling a can out. Tonight, it was a cheap beer from the gas station he'd never heard of. He dug his nail under the tab, about to crack it open when he heard a knock on his door.

It was quiet enough that it could have been somebody knocking at his neighbor's door. Caretaker got up with an irritated sigh, pausing his show and going to the door.

His motion-activated light was on, but through the peephole, he couldn't see anything.

"Those fucking teenagers," he murmured, opening the door to shout at the ding-dong-ditchers.

When he opened the door, however, he was shocked into silence.

Whumpee was here. His Whumpee. Albeit they had longer hair and were pretty bruised up — and were those stitches up their chest?— they were here!

"Wh– Whumpee! It's you, it's really you!" He crouched to the floor, eyes tearing up. "Oh my god, you're here... oh, baby, I- I can't beleive— we thought you died," Caretaker rambled, cupping Whumpee's cheek tenderly. "Where have you been? Are you okay? Ohh, I'm so happy you're alive!"

Whumpee clung to Caretaker, their bony fingers grasping Caretaker's shirt. They sniffled, looking up with teary eyes. "Caretaker... oh fuck, I missed you... I- I got kidnapped, a- and it was terrible, but I escaped and you're here and-"

"Shhh, let's get inside. You're freezing. You can tell me everything once you're patched up..." Caretaker soothed, bringing them inside and into the bedroom. "It's gonna be okay, baby. You're safe with me."

[dragyouthroughthewhump]

Augusnippets Day 11 : Breaking the Conditioning

I kinda like this one a lot? I can totally make a part two to this if there's interest.

CW : It as a pronoun, conditioned whumpee, living weapon whump, implied team whump

It stood there, staring out the window. The others were running back and forth, kicking some ball between them. It didn't know the rules of the game but could tell there were two teams and by the happy shouts when points were made.

It was analyzing their moves. Second needed to tighten their core. Fifth needed to stretch their legs more. Eighth needed to relax their shoulders and breathe deeper.

It continued with mental notes as it watched. Though it knew that these comments weren't to be made aloud. They would stay as notes. The group wasn't training. They weren't acting as weapons. Despite what it would call a war game, this was just only a game.

It didn't react as Caretaker walked up beside it, having heard the soft telltale footsteps of their house-shoes. It knew and cataloged each one's footsteps. Whether firm, soft, loud, short, even the cadences across the hallway and stairs. Even though the group was no longer at the compound, it had kept up its observational skills.

"You're analyzing again, aren't you, First?" Caretaker's face was in their peripheral now, their tone not accusing, just curious. It nodded, "They would not be acceptable like this. Before." Caretaker nodded, "The teams are uneven, have you considered joining them?"

"It-I. Had not considered joining. They would not act this way if I were involved." It knew that it had not made as much 'progress' as the others and usually it's presence alone made them all act in accordance with their training. It didn't know if it would ever learn to be a person.

"You're can't know that for sure, First. My recommendation is to try." It glanced back as Caretaker went back towards the kitchen, the smell of lemon flavored powder and cut citrus rinds were likely snack preparation for after the game. It disliked Caretakers 'recommendations'. It wanted orders, corrections, tasks, a mission. It wasn't supposed to think about going outside for 'fun'. It wasn't supposed to grapple with the decision to stay and watch or participate. It wanted to go back so often. To something familiar.

It blinked and glanced around as it was no longer looking at the game from behind the glass but had stalked it's way out the door in frustration. It wasn't supposed to be frustrated at all, it wasn't supposed to think or feel; but here it was letting thoughts run rampant because Caretaker wouldn't give it an order.

The others had paused their game, taking the chance to catch their breath, each set of eyes looking at First. But, their stances remained casual, no one moving to attention or straighting their posture. "It. I would like to join. If that would not be intrusive." The others glanced at each other, then Second smiled and nodded, "We needed one more to make it even. Need a brief of the rules?" It nodded and moved over to the smaller team as the rules were listed. It was surprised for so few rules, just manipulate the ball with your feet, no excessive force, keep the ball in the set perimeter, and two small sections were the targets. The game would end when they tired and the most target hits would win.

It glanced at the others and nodded to start the game again, a small bit of hope that it's presence wouldn't change the dynamic. The difficult part was refraining from using combat when it ran up to Third, who had the ball. It paused slightly as it adjusted to just using it's feet and Third grinned at the opening, taking the chance to run pass further down the field.

It immediately turned and went to grab Third's shirt. At the last moment it left it's fingers open, realizing that the action wouldn't be considered fun. Instead, it ran faster to catch up. It felt uncoordinated as it tried to kick out for the ball, only for it to be sent down the field towards Fourth.

Third smiled, "That wasn't proper footwork at all. Perhaps you can have fun." First flushed a few shades of red and glanced over. "Perhaps, I can. With all of you."

[jedi-lothwolf]

Augusnippets Day 11: Whumpee wearing Caretakers clothes

Fandom: The Clone Wars

Summary: While in a mission on a frozen planet, Cody falls into a lake. Obi-wan knows it's important to keep him warm.

    "Cody!" Obi-wan sled over to him as he fell under the ice. The thickness of the ice was hard to see under the snow. One of the men helped the jedi grab a hold of Cody and pulled him back to the surface. They dragged him away from the opening.

"Are you alright?" Kenobi asked. Cody didn't answer at first. Suddenly being submerged in freezing water had taken his breath away. He just listened to Obi-wan talk. Talking to the men, he told them to find a place to shelter them from the harsh and cold winds. They agreed and went to find a place to set up camp for the night.

As Obi-wan wrapped his clock around the man, Cody finally snapped back to reality. "Obi-wan?"

"Yes love?"

"You're going to get cold" he shivered.

"Oh I'll be alright. Let's get you someplace a little warmer. Then men are.teying to find cover."

Cody pulled the cloth closer to his body. It made him feel a little better. While he couldn't feel the clock's soft texture, he knew it was there. After all, he had felt it many times before.

Helping Cody stand, Obi-wan pulled him close. "Let's find the men."

[whumplump]

Day 11 of @augusnippets

Prompts used: escape / safe and sound

Not used: breaking the conditioning

CW: escape, rescue, blood, hurt/comfort, caretaker-whumper, perhaps?

This one is poorly written because I'm unmotivated.

Sorry it's a few hours later than usual.

Whumpee came to with the sound of something heavy falling. They slowly lifted their head from the ground, looking around. The blood that ran from their forehead, injured in the fall, made it difficult to see in their right eye. They turned back. Whumper was there. But he was on the floor, motionless. His eyes were dull, expressionless... Whumpee looked down to the gunshot marks on his chest. Blood dripping down, forming a puddle on the floor. Whumper was dead. Whumpee didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified. Their kidnapper's death was the relieving part, but if he was shot to death, someone shot him. And could shoot them too.

They got up and ran to the exit. That building, to which they were taken after the kidnapping, was the scene of their last terror. The dust from the abandoned walls, from the roofless scene, created a thin layer of dryness between the floor and Whumpee's feet.

They ran a considerable distance. They felt two strong hands come from behind and grab them by the arms. Whumpee resisted, crying and screaming.

“No, let me go! Let me go!”

"Whumpee, it's me!" A familiar voice said.

Whumpee stopped for a moment to listen to the voice. They saw that person's face. A dear person, Caretaker. They had a worried expression on their face, but their eyes held the same gentle glow that Whumpee knows.

"It's me, Whumpee. It's over." they repeated, more calmly, to the frozen state of the newly rescued captive.

Caretaker wrapped Whumpee in their arms and let them cry with their head on their chest. Whumpee held them tightly, adjusting their arms again and again, trying their best not to let go and not to leave any space between them.

Caretaker bent their knees to keep Whumpee's hands from bumping into the gun in their holster.

"It's okay... You're safe now... He'll never hurt you again..."

Caretaker's voice was comforting, but their face, now that Whumpee could no longer see it, expressed the strongest hatred a human could feel.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Augusnippets, Day 11: Safe and Sound

cw: referenced beatings, fear

previous

for the @augusnippets challenge // word count: 370

=~=~=

Benji couldn't suppress a flinch when the door swung open, enough force behind it that it hit the opposite wall with a crash. His knees curled into his chest, his chin tucking in as if he had any real means of protecting himself. The bag over his head muffled his breathing, his own rapid exhales coming back hot and damp on his face as footsteps pounded around him. Fuck, fuck, what did they want from him now? Were they here to hurt him again?

It sounded like so many people, but he couldn't tell. That was the worst part about the bag. Not knowing how many, not knowing where the first hit was coming from or when. All he could do was wait, trying not to hyperventilate, trying to keep himself from pleading. His captors didn't like it when he begged. It annoyed them. Made things worse.

Someone above him was talking, but he couldn't hear anything above his own heartbeat. Then suddenly there were hands on him, hefting him up, pulling at his arms. He couldn't keep from crying out in fear.

Please don't touch me, please don't—

“Hey, hey, Benji.”

That word, his own name, cut through his panic. They didn't know his name. They didn't, so who?

Hands at his throat, hands at his arms, the fear was coming back but then…

But then his arms were free. Then the bag was being lifted, gently. A hand stroking his hair, a voice hushing him.

“Shhh, you're safe now. It's okay.”

Jericho?

It took a second for his eyes to adjust; he'd been in the bag for so long, but there he was, strong arms wrapping Benji in a hug as sobs tore free from his throat.

“Let's move. We don't have long.” There was Joy, and Benji was crying. They came for him, they found him.

Jericho scooped him up, cradling him against his chest, and despite the stuffiness of the room, Benji snuggled into him like he was freezing to death.

“I-I didn't…” he hiccuped. “I wasn't sure if you'd…”

“Hey. It's okay. We got you.” Joy ran a thumb over his cheekbone, wiping away tears. “We'll always come back for you.”

[jamiesfootball]

Augusnippets Day 11

Prompt: breaking the conditioning

cw: past emotional/psychological abuse and manipulation, overworking, control issues, diet control

Summary:

Life after Zava. During a workout with Roy, Jamie struggles to keep count.

Follows after this one

Here on AO3

After thirty-five reps, Roy tells him, “You don’t have to count out loud.”

Jamie stiffens, his arms fully outstretched as he holds up the weight bar. Roy’s palms are out, ready to catch if Jamie drops it, but he doesn’t dare take the bar away from him – not after the last time he doubted Jamie.

“What?” His arms begin to shake, and he adjusts his grip. It’s a heavy load.

“You count your sets out loud,” explains Roy in that low, growly voice that Ted advised him to think of as patient. Coach sure doesn’t look patient. “I don’t need you to count them out for me. I trust you to do the amount I tell you to do.”

Icy uncertainty runs through his veins. It’s not like he hasn’t noticed that he’s the only one who counts out his sets in the weight room during training. The rest of the team, they mostly chat or listen to music, but Jamie had assumed that was ‘cause he was better than they were, more serious where they preferred to slack off under the weak demands of an inexacting coach.

Never occurred to him it might be a rule.

“Sorry,” Jamie says automatically. His face burns. Hopefully the flush of exertion hides it; after all, the weight is really heavy. “I’ll- yeah. In my head from now on, Coach. Please?”

The ‘please’ adds itself on out of habit. Even Jamie doesn’t know what he’s asking for, but Roy must figure it out. After a moment of staring at Jamie with dark, intense eyes, he nods at the bar, a clear gesture to get on with it then.

Jamie gets on with it, this time sure to keep the counting in his head. He reaches forty, nods to Roy, and Roy tacks on the next set of weights. Too easy.

Jamie resumes pressing, all the numbers shut up behind his teeth where they can’t get on anyone’s nerves. He focuses on his form. Good form is paramount, otherwise he risks rendering the exercise useless.

….five….six….seven….eight….eight….eight….

Fuck. No, wait.

Jamie tries to replay the count. The numbers smear together in his head.

He realises belatedly that he’s stopped mid-press. Perched above him, Roy cocks his head like a vulture, waiting to descend at the first sign of weakness.

Jamie keeps going.

He still doesn’t understand why it has to be Roy who trains him – even Zava had trusted Jamie to do whatever the personal trainers told him to do after the first six months. But ever since Jamie’s knee gave up that one time, the man’s insisted on following Jamie to every appointment he has with a trainer or physio. Mental behaviour, the kind Jamie should definitely put a stop to. And he would, if it didn’t take his mind off the yawning abyss growing in his head every time he goes home to his empty flat and remembers that this is it for him now. His own fucking life, with no steel-fisted grip to guide him.

His heart clenches. What fucking number is he on?

He remembers getting to nine. He’ll add five. Add five to nine, and do five extra at the end, and if Roy asks, he’ll lie and tell him that he felt like it. That the training regime at Richmond is shit, and that Jamie expects a real challenge, the kind where you can’t even lift your arms when you’re done. That’s what Jamie deserves. Jamie is better than this.

He picks up at fourteen and keeps going.

At twenty-three, he feels like he’s already done twenty-three so that can’t be right. At twenty-eight, he gets distracted by how similar threes and eights look when he draws them in his head, and at forty-three, he can’t figure out if he skipped thirty-three or just thought about it too hard, so he goes back and does it again.

A memory rises unbidden: those first few months of rehab under Zava’s care, one of the few times he drove the man past any reasonable level of frustration. Too distracted. Unfocused. No more music at the gym, until Jamie learned to be present in the here and now. Until he learned to appreciate the opportunity he’d been chosen for.

Equally unbidden, Roy’s face the week before last when Jamie had used the word ‘unbidden’ in a sentence. How his mouth had curdled at the corner and how his brows drew together. The way he’d sneered, exasperated, “Do you actually talk like that?”

Then Beard, almost equally mocking, when Jamie had flubbed the word ‘philistine’: “You’re gonna want to look that one up.”

Then Ted, frowning and unhappy in a way that Jamie couldn’t grasp, when Jamie refused his book recommendation because he’d already read Fitzgerald before, it’d been on the improving books list Christina made for him a few years prior. Was fine with him if Ted had any other books he wanted to recommend, but his list at home was pretty long, so he’d probably need to let Jamie know if he had a deadline.

He didn’t tell Ted that the list was years old by now. That Zava had grown disillusioned with him once he realised how slow Jamie took to anything off the pitch.

Ted had given him a disappointed smile like he’d heard it all the same. “Maybe what we need is a different approach.”

He still hadn’t given Jamie a different book.

With a start, Jamie realises that he’s forgotten to count at all. Daggers have etched their way into the stone of Roy’s face. All sense briefly flees Jamie’s mind, and he finds himself sacrificing his picture-perfect form for the sake of doing the last twenty reps as fast as he can just so he can be free of that hard look.

By the time he gasps, “Stop,” his eyes sting with frustration. Roy grunts as he lifts the barbell free from Jamie’s sore hands. With an apocalyptic expression on his face, he drops the bar onto the rack with a heavy clang.

Neither of them say anything. Roy, because fuck if Jamie knows why; and Jamie, because he knows without having to be told how shit that was. 

It isn’t his turn to talk.

He inhales sharply through his nose, trying to downplay his nervousness, which feels as transparent as the windowpane to the coaches’ office that separates them from Ted. His tender hands ball into fists, and Jamie resists the impulse to speak out of turn, to bite first and draw blood before Roy takes a swing at him, to shout for help instead of accepting whatever discipline is given to him.

He knows in his nature to argue – Zava always said so – and since day one, emotional regulation has been his biggest weakness. Too willing to snap back, too sensitive when it came to petty slights, too willing to egg on his opponents instead of focusing on the ball, too abrasive, too loud, too needy, too much too much too much. Despite Zava’s best efforts, he could never quite break Jamie of his defects. Maybe that’s why he finally threw in the towel. He could see the front Jamie put up for the sham it was. Could see the ugly acid boiling inside. Could see the Tartt lurking under the surface, the shadow of his father tattooed under his skin.

In the seven years since he’s seen his father, Jamie’s failed to cleanse himself of the flaws he inherited when the only brand he should carry was Zava’s. 

He doesn’t even have that anymore.

Jamie needs to do better. Without Zava, Richmond’s all he’s got left.

With his shirt sweat through, he feels glued to the bench. So he stays there. He doesn’t sit up. He doesn’t push himself into Roy’s face. He doesn’t argue. He keeps his expression blank and he tries to draw up a ‘non-confrontational aura’ and he readies himself for Roy to bring the hammer down.

“Right,” says Roy gruffly. He won’t look Jamie in the eye. “We’re done for today. Go hit the showers.”

Jamie stares at him. The fight disappears out of his chest in a puff of smoke, like someone’s gone and blown out the match.

It takes Roy tapping him on the shoulder for Jamie to sit up. Then Roy tugs at his arm until Jamie’s on his feet. Then he starts towelling off the bench and setting the weights back into place.

That’s Jamie’s job, and the sight of someone, of his coach, of Roy Kent doing his job makes his breathing go ragged. Makes him feel lightheaded and unsteady on his feet. He’s not sure if mentioning it is something that could be construed as arguing – just the thought has him rocking back on his heels, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over the tattoo on his arm.

When he feels like he might actually die if he doesn’t say something, he snaps with more force than he means to, “That’s it?”

Roy doesn’t mention his tone. He raises an eyebrow and asks cooly, “What, that isn’t enough?”

Aren’t you gonna tell me where I fucked up? Criticise me for letting my mind wander and losing count? Tell me what I’m supposed to do next, because training might be over but if I want to be better, I need to stay late. Where’s the extra sets? How bad did I do? How late do I need to stay before I can eat dinner?

Quit playing mind games and tell me what to do next.

But that’s not the right response, not with Roy. Until he figures out what his coach is looking for, Jamie bites his tongue and doesn’t say anything.

When Jamie stands for too long with his teeth grit together tight, Roy gives him an assessing look and just. Nods.

“Hit the showers,” he repeats, gentle in a way that makes Jamie want to scream.

After Roy leaves the weight room, Jamie waits another minute to see if it’s a test. After standing there for five minutes, he figures he’s running the risk of disobedience by not listening to that last command, and he hustles to the showers.

Cold showers are best for athletes, and if he’s supposed to do something different, then someone will tell him.

Roy’s never told him otherwise, so the shower stays cold.

The shower is always cold. 

He’s used to it.

[stationary-cycle-in-motion]

@augusnippets day 11: escape

tw: implied physical abuse

“You need to leave.” Obi-Wan’s voice vibrates against Padmé’s side, quiet but urgent. “Get as far away from Anakin as you can. I can help you disappear, find somewhere safe for you to lay low until his anger blows over. It’s bound to eventually.”

He doesn’t quite sound like he believes that last part.

Padmé’s stomach turns at the idea of abandoning her responsibilities, her people, for something so selfish.

“I can’t,” she says, and her throat burns with the effort. “The Senate–”

“Will keep slogging through bills without you, whether you’re in hiding or dead.” The brutal honesty is gutting, but it’s true. “Better to simply be in hiding, I think.”

Padmé’s head is spinning, and she can’t quite get her thoughts to focus on anything beyond the cold air scraping against her raw throat with every breath, the throbbing of the bruises on her neck and face. Maybe the change in Anakin was a long time coming, but it doesn’t feel that way. The shift feels sudden, leaves her reeling, floundering in the uncertainty of the unknown. Yesterday, she was a senator aiding her husband and the GAR on a special assignment. Today, she’s a victim desperately trying to escape her husband’s—well, former husband, if she’s being honest—abuse.

Beside her, Rex clears his throat. “I think you should go with her, General.”

“Though I wish I could stay close–” Padmé’s heart skips a beat at Obi-Wan’s admission. She would feel better about the situation if Obi-Wan were with her, she admits. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. The Council will notice.”

“Forget the Council,” Rex growls, low. He pauses, as if weighing the cost of speaking, the sighs. “I overheard Fives and Jesse talking. General Skywalker purposely waited to send patrols out for us, and considering what he’s just done to Senator Amidala, I wouldn’t be surprised if there had been malicious intent behind that decision.”

Padmé can’t seem to get her lungs to work as her gaze fixes on the bandaged hand curled around her waist. A shuddering breath grazes the back of her neck, and when she looks up, Obi-Wan’s face is contorted in a grimace, a weary sort of resignation pulling at the creases.

Anakin’s choice words to Rex echo through Padmé’s mind, and she realizes with absolute clarity that absolutely everything Anakin has ever done has been perfectly intentional, designed to trap.

“We’ll all go,” she decides, resolute.

And it’s not abandonment, of her people, of the Jedi Order, of the war’s cause. Because someone needs to make it out of Anakin’s trap in enough pieces to expose him, to find some sort of evidence that will convince the Council to remove him from the Order and the GAR, from the power he’s been abusing.

Rex shakes his head. “I have to stay.” Padmé opens her mouth to argue, but he cuts her off. “I’ve been lucky so far, haven’t had it as bad as you. I don’t need to get out, at least not yet. Besides,” he says, a little rueful, “maybe if I stick around, he’ll direct all his anger at me and leave the rest of the boys alone.”

The thought makes her shiver, both the idea that Anakin would hurt anyone else and that Rex will suffer three times as much if he stays. But the look in his eyes is all guilt and vicious determination, and Padmé knows there’s no convincing him otherwise.

With a heavy sigh, Obi-Wan pushes himself to his feet, wavering slightly. “Anakin’s coming. I can feel the cloud of rage moving through the square.”

“Then you’d better get going,” Rex says. “I’ll distract him long enough for you to jump.”

Padmé extracts the hidden comm she keeps on her at all times. “My emergency comm code’s embedded in the encryption,” she says as she presses it into Rex’s hand. “Even Anakin doesn’t know the frequency.”

And she realizes as she says it that maybe she did always know his true nature; she simply refused to believe it.

Rex nods, hand curling around the comm, and he makes to move away, but she tightens her grip, slides her thumbs along his wrist. “Just be careful, alright?”

Rex squeezes back. “I promise.”

Reluctantly, they break apart, Padmé moving to peek out the tent’s flap to make sure the coast is clear. Obi-Wan slips his own hand beneath Rex’s, raising it up so he can bow and press a kiss to the back of his hand before following after Padmé. She can’t help but think the gesture looks disturbingly similar to when he’d offered Rex a glass of champagne not twenty hours ago, back when their world hadn’t yet fallen apart.

[missr3n3]

Augusnippets Day 11

escape/breaking the conditioning/safe and sound

fandom: cabin tales TW: restrains, implied apocalypse, past child abuse, isolation word count: 600 @augusnippets

What did Brandon have to do to convince Dr. North he was better? At least, better enough to no longer stay at the estate full-time, to no longer be confined to the Room.

No matter how much better they said Brandon was doing, he was always sent back again. Back to his tomb of a bed, to the nightmares, to leather restraints biting into his wrists and ankles. It was surely some form of punishment, just like last time. If only Brandon could figure out what he was doing wrong.

But there was nothing to learn, nothing to witness. Only all-consuming terror. Decaying walls closed in around Brandon's under-stimulated mind. The rodents had returned, skittering in the wall behind his head. For a moment that could've been a few minutes or a few hours, only the pests and Brandon's own whimpering kept him company.

He thought he'd jump out of his skin when a new noise joined the anxiety-inducing cacophony. A sound an awful lot like screaming.

Brandon had enough wiggle room to face the small window above him. Normally, he saw either darkness during his sleepless nights, or pale morning sunlight. He wasn't sure how to process the fiery orange glow creeping into the Room.

Tremors shook through Brandon as the screams grew louder, as an all too familiar, dull heat followed the orange light. His body tried to instinctively curl up, his efforts resulting in rattling chains which only further sent him spiraling.

I tried to be good. I really tried!

Then, a new sound. Somehow even more terrifying than the slew of grim reminders.

Footsteps, heavy footsteps. So heavy Brandon couldn't tell his shaking from that of the Room.

“Please,” Brandon whimpered, as if begging himself to wake up. “Please, please. Someone, help me…”

Much smaller footsteps rapidly approached – not from the window, but from the hall in front of the Room's door. Another victim being dragged down to their demise. Brandon flinched; his eyes squeezed shut with a whimper as the door was thrown open.

“Holy shit,” a voice that definitely wasn't either of his parents gasped.

Brandon's teary eyes snapped open. The familiar owner of the voice flinched as well, their bespectacled, golden eyes darting towards him.

“Dr. North?” Brandon rasped around the lump in his throat. She twitched at his words, as if she were scared too.

But… They're never scared… What’s happening?

Even more unusual, Dr. North was the one backing away from him, as if he were a threat.

But if Dr. North came back, then…

“Please,” Brandon weakly begged. “Save me.”

Dr. North's expression softened. Brandon must've said the right thing, as after another look towards the door, Dr. North slowly approached him.

“B-Brandon…” Dr. North softly spoke as she reached the head of Brandon’s bed. “Do… do you know what's going on out there?”

“N-no?” Brandon muttered, biting back a sigh of relief as Dr. North undid the first leather cuff around his wrist.

“Okay.” Once again, Brandon assumed he gave the correct answer as he watched Dr. North's shoulders relax. “That… Well, it's not completely good. But I can work with this.”

With the last of his limbs freed, Brandon scrambled to sit upright.

“B-but, um… I-I thought… uh, I think I heard something outside,” Brandon tried to explain, tried to warn.

“Yeah, you did…” Brandon's eyes widened at Dr. North's words.

They… believe me?

“But we're gonna find a way out.” Though Dr. North smiled at him, Brandon could sense uncertainty in their misting eyes. “We'll get through this.”

We'll get through this… We will survive this.

[udaberriwrites]

A double drabble for @augusnippets' day 11!

Path of Comfort - Escape

Fandom: Scum Villain's Self-Saving System

Characters: Shen Jiu, Shen Yuan

Timeline: Qiu Mansion

Rating: T, tw: murder

The flames rise high into the night sky. It's hard to take a full breath in the smoke, hard to hear over the screams, hard to keep a hold of the sword with bloodied hands.

"A-Yuan!” His voice breaks into a cough, but it’s nothing compared to the way his meridians are boiling and the distorted shadows claw at his sanity. “A-Yuan!”

Where are you, I won't lose you too—

"Jiu-ge,” a whisper, only heard because of the qi burning in his ears. Xiao Jiu bursts into the room, expecting the worst.

A-Yuan kneels, unharmed except for three thin wounds on his cheek. Qiu Haitang lays on the floor, glassy eyes fixed on the crumbling ceiling, a scarf wound tightly around her neck.

Xiao Jiu’s heart stutters at the sight. He's sweating from the heat, but he feels chilled.

"I had to,” A-Yuan whispers. "She’d have… I had to.”

The sword clatters to the floor.

Xiao Jiu gathers his brother in his arms, holding him close until their hearts are beating as one again. The storm in his soul slowly abates.

"We survived.”

They flee hand in hand. Behind them the fire rages on.

By dawn, only memories will remain.

_

Full prompt list here

AO3 collection here

[whumperwithwings]

Augusnippets Day 11: Escape/Breaking the Conditioning/Safe and Sound

Content: Minor protagonists (They aren't being whumped), Fear, Mention of Serial Killers

Corrine felt small as she walked down the hallway of the library basement. Her sister next to her, meanwhile, was staring into space with the world's most vacant expression on her face.

"Eleanor, I have a really bad feeling about this. Do you know who's leading the event?" She asked Eleanor, praying that she wouldn't say something that would be cause for concern.

"No clue, supposedly they're cool. I don't care, Corrine. Why are you so worried?" As if she were oblivious, Eleanor pulled a chewy candy from her back pocket and started chewing it.

"I'm worried because the person running the event might be bad, like, what if they're a serial killer? I don't want either of us to get hurt." Corrine's body trembled, her eyes darting around looking for a way to avoid this potentially horrible situation.

"Well, if you're that stressed, why not just bounce? Climb out that window there and hang at the playground for a few hours, I'll pick you back up when I'm done and we'll pretend like you were here all along. Not like anyone would double-check. They don't take attendance." Eleanor paused in the hallway to point at a tiny window near the ceiling, boxes conveniently stacked underneath in a stable tower.

"W-what about you, though? You'll still be in dan-" Before Corrine could finish, she was cut off by her twin sister.

"Ssh, Corrine. I'll take my chances. Just take these and go, okay? I won't go to the event until I know you're not gonna be scaring yourself half to death." With that, she gave Corrine a chocolate bar, a few more chewy candies, and a pack of skittles. Corrine didn't even know how or why she had that large an amount of candy on her person.

Corrine slipped them into her bag and looked up at the window, the setting sun illuminating her face as she gulped. "Okay."

[ronanziriano]

Augusnippets Day 11 - Safe and Sound

Whumpee had been moving furniture last night again. He was getting sneakier about it. Caretaker hadn’t even been woken up this time; it wasn’t until morning, after his alarm clock had forced him up and he’d ventured out of his room to start getting ready for the day that he discovered that the armchair had been moved from its normal position in the den and in front of the front door.

Caretaker sighed and took the needed couple of minutes to haul the armchair back into place before addressing Whumpee over it. He went to the door of Whumpee’s room, right across from his own, and tested the knob. Locked, naturally. Caretaker knocked, tapping out a shave-and-a-haircut rhythm with his knuckled, and was met by a sharp, “Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” Caretaker said. “Mind opening up?”

He heard a scrape against the door and a shuffling sound before the door opened and Whumpee poked his head out, his expression as wary and exhausted-looking as ever, eyes wide and darting and ringed by dark shadows. “Something wrong?” Whumpee asked.

“Any reason the front door was barricaded today?”

“Oh.” Whumpee shrugged. “I heard a noise.”

“Yeah?” Caretaker peeked over Whumpee’s shoulder and into the room. It was dimmer than his own, due mainly to the metal grate bolted over the window. That had been Whumpee’s idea: this way even if a potential intruder were to shatter the glass of the window, they wouldn’t be able to climb in. The room in general was in a state of disarray - bedding dropped onto the floor; wastepaper strewn on ground; the desk chair on the opposite side of the room of the desk, which had been placed on its side as if a child were using it as a play fort. Caretaker decided just to focus on one thing at a time, and gestured toward the chair. “Were you blocking this one too?” he asked.

“Uh-huh.”

Caretaker let out a slow breath. “You know I’ve got the burglar alarm set up, right?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“And the cameras. And the bats.” He nodded toward the baseball bat leaning against the wall near the head of Whumpee’s bed. There was an identical one in Caretaker’s room, at Whumpee’s insistence. The latter had been very insistent that they should be armed in case of danger, while the former absolutely refused to allow any gun in the house; this was their compromise.

“I know,” Whumpee said again.

“So - ”

“You can never be too safe,” Whumpee interrupted. “I was just, you know. Making sure.”

“We’re safe already. I promise, we are.” Whumpee’s expression was unmoved, so Caretaker went on. “And, well, if there’s something to worry about, you can wake me up, and we can check it out. No need for barricading anything.”

Whumpee shrugged and mumbled, “Didn’t wanna bother you. Probably was nothing.”

“Then why - ?”

“I dunno. Just felt safer with, like, some more defense in place.”

“Right.” There was an awkward second of silence between them, before, unsure what else to say, Caretaker simply said, “Well, I’m heading to work. Do you need anyth-?”

“I’m good,” Whumpee said, then he rapidly withdrew and shut the door. With a sigh, Caretaker turned away, trying to ignore the sound of the chair being replaced under the door handle behind the door. He had been doing everything he can to reassure Whumpee, to show him that he was safe and sound, and that what had happened before would never happen again.

He wished he knew how to make Whumpee believe it.

@augusnippets

[evilwriter37]

Hearing His Heart

Augusnippets Day 11

Hearing His Heart

Rated: general

Warnings: none

------

Toothless wanted to be this close to Hiccup forever. He wanted to be pressed against him, feel the beating of his heart and capture it, never let it go. 

It seemed Hiccup wanted that too. It was the night after defeating Drago and his Bewilderbeast. After hours and hours of work making sure his people were okay, Hiccup had collapsed into his father’s chair in his house. The chair was big enough for him to curl up in with a blanket, and so Toothless had dragged a fur over to make sure his friend was comfortable.

There was an awkwardness between them, a hesitation. Or, there had been. But, feeling one against the other now, it was gone. They knew they loved each other.

Toothless had curled himself around the chair to the best of his ability, his head resting on Hiccup’s side. Hiccup had his arms wrapped around his head, though one began to fall as he slipped into a doze. 

Toothless repositioned his head so Hiccup would be more comfortable. And, knowing his soulmate and himself were both safe and sound, he closed his eyes to rest.

[deviant-doughnut]

Augusnippets Day Eleven

Chosen Prompt: Breaking The Conditioning

CW: Past captivity; mention of past violence; nudity (non-sexual)

Half a block shy of the apartment, Davis begins to feel sick. It’s a byproduct of his anxiety, a nervousness that ricochets all through his body and then settles in the pit of his stomach. Waves of dread pull at him as he walks, turning him cold and close to dizzy. The sky overhead deepens like a bruise, dark blue turning steadily black. Davis has never felt the draw of religion, but in moments like this he understands why people pray. In the absence of a deity to harbour his pleas, Davis simply keeps walking. He closes the distance between himself and his home, and hopes something different awaits him this time.

He slides his key into the lock, pulse pounding in his ears. His breath hitches at the sound of the handle, the latch giving way when he pushes down. This door has never been quiet, announces his presence plainly. He shuts it behind himself and walks slow to the living room. He’s supposed to be casual, to feign daily routine, but he can’t help the fresh trepidation. His sneakers squeak on the hardwood floor as he approaches with involuntary caution. He doesn’t know what awaits him on the other side of the door. He pushes it open with the tips of his fingers, lets it creak as it retreats from his touch.

Davis holds his breath. He lets himself nurture a whisper of hope, but it vanishes from his chest all too soon.

There, in the centre of the living room floor, Oliver is naked and kneeling.

“Welcome home, sir,” says Oliver, monotonous and glassy-eyed, his back as straight as a rod. “What would you like me to do?”

Davis’s shoulders drop, a sigh torn from aching lungs.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, crossing slowly towards Oliver. The pet name draws Oliver out of the stupor. His body jolts. He gasps. His eyes blink rapidly until they land on Davis, and they well with recognition and shame. Davis pulls his jacket off, drapes it softly over Oliver’s legs, covers his thighs and his groin. He kneels slowly before him, reaches out for both of his hands. Oliver looks down at the jacket, reciprocates weakly when Davis squeezes his fingers.

“I did it again,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry. I’m trying to stop. I promise I’m trying.”

“It’s okay,” Davis tells him, as if his heart isn’t aching, as if he doesn’t lose sleep every night to the fact that Oliver’s mind has been altered like this. Davis spends half his nights with his blood running cold, watching Oliver sleep, shivering at the thought of what his captor has done to him. His body is marred by angry scars, and the sound of a key pressing into a lock means he’ll be beaten if he’s not on his knees in time. Oliver was saved, but Denton’s reign over him is deep and far reaching. Sometimes it’s as though he’s in the room with them, laughing cruelly, mocking their attempts at Oliver’s recovery. Davis strokes Oliver’s hair where they kneel together, swallows against the lump in his throat.

“Do you want me…” Oliver starts, cheeks hot and red as he steals a glance, “to…to try again? I’ll do better. I promise. I’m sorry.”

“Shh,” Davis soothes him. “It’s okay, you haven’t done anything wrong, sweetheart. We’re doing this together, remember. We’ll get there together. Do you actually want to try again?”

Oliver hesitates. Davis cards his fingers through his hair, and smiles softly at him, hopes that it serves as wordless reassurance that it’s still safe to be honest in this space.

“Not tonight,” Oliver whispers. “Please. I..I don’t w-want to.”

“Then we won’t,” Davis tells him. “We can try again another day, baby.”

“Another day,” Oliver echoes. He leans into Davis then, tension easing from his body as he sinks in against Davis’s frame. Davis wraps his arms around him, trails his fingertips down the length of his spine.

“I love you,” he whispers. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

“I love you,” Oliver whispers. He keeps slipping downwards, as if his muscles are dissolving to liquid; relaxed beneath Davis’s touch. He ends up curled on his side on the floor, his head resting in Davis’s lap. One hand grips at Davis’s thigh, clings to him as Davis strokes him between his shoulder blades. They stay like this, together on the floor, until the sky outside is black as onyx, and Oliver’s breathing changes. Oliver’s breaths turn long and deep, his eyes closed now when Davis peers down at him. Relief swells in his chest.

His own thoughts begin to spiral already, easing their way towards the same descent he’s been locked in for weeks. How long does recovery take? How painful does it have to be for them? How does a person measure something that seems so intangible? Is he doing enough to help him? Would Oliver know how to tell him if he wasn’t?

“Stop it,” he whispers — to himself, to his wandering mind. At what point, he wonders, does overthinking become a form of self harm? He shakes his head, tries to shift his mind towards some sort of reprieve. Nothing else matters, he thinks, as Oliver shifts softly in his sleep. He holds Davis’s thigh like an anchor. Oliver is safe, and he is sleeping, and so far the nightmares haven’t taken hold. He’s still, and quiet. He might wake up later feeling a fraction more rested than before.

For now, Davis thinks, that might just be enough.

-

Thanks to @augusnippets for this event!

[re-whump]

Augusnippets Day 11 - Escape

cw: pet whump (not any particular universe), multiple whumpees, physical abuse mention

Something was happening. She had never seen that door open. She hadn’t ever thought much of it, just one of the many things on the property she was not supposed to touch.

She looked over her shoulder for the master, but he was nowhere nearby, so she crept forward to look out at where it led. As soon as her head passed over the threshold, she heard the master’s shrieking. She staggered backwards as if shocked, horrified at the realization that this may have been a test and she may have failed it.

Two figures thundered down the stairwell at the end of the hallway and froze when they saw her there. She knew one of them. Her fellow pet. The prized show dog to her own role as the guard dog. Her lesser. He wilted at the sight of her, cowering behind the stranger and with a slight whimper.

She fell naturally into a defensive stance as she sized up the stranger. They were a head taller than she was, possibly armed. But their eyes were hesitant and emotional. They gave the other pet and an encouraging, affectionate rub on the shoulder. Her eyes narrowed as the master drew closer and called her name.

“Stop them! Where are you, dammit, stop them!” he shouted.

She and the stranger locked eyes.

“That’s not yours,” she said levelly.

The stranger held out their hands as if in surrender—no, they were faced the wrong way for that—in offering. They stepped closer to the door, guiding the fool along behind them.

“He shouldn’t belong to anyone,” the stranger said, eyes sparkling. “And neither should you.”

“She won’t, she won’t understand, she’s not—she’s been here too long,” the other pet blubbered.

Her lip curled in disgust. What did he know about her? She knew obedience was the best way to avoid a beating and beating someone else was the most cathartic way to obey. He was pathetic.

The master stormed down the stairs.

But she’d never seen this door open. She’d never seen anyone make it this far onto the property without getting shot. It could be her best chance.

She held the door as they all ran through. It wasn’t over yet, she knew, but this was farther than she’d ever gotten alone.

[angelic-writer]

The Mimicry Project - Escape the Hellfire

Day 11 of @augusnippets

Prompts: Escape/breaking the conditioning/safe and sound

(Spoilers for Vol 2)

"Julius, come on!!" Carter shouted, reaching his hand out.

All he could do was stare. Why is he being so nice? Didn't he want nothing to do with him? After what he did...

"I..."

"We'll talk later!! C'mon, the building's gonna explode!" The look in his brother's eyes said it all. He is sorry for what he did. Where he expected malice in his voice, he found none. Despite his crimes, he still valued him as someone very important.

Carter and Micah... And everyone else he met... They all valued him as their friend. For Carter, his long lost brother. For Micah, his lover.

Julius took his hand and they both ran down the hall, the flames growing behind them. He could smell the smoke from a mile away. This is not good.

As they trailed behind the stretcher that contained a barely breathing Mavis, he could only hope that everyone else gets out okay. If there is, he'll make sure they get out safely.

If the building does explode while Julius is inside, he won't die. No matter what life throws at him, he will never die.

[when-jaguars-are-sick]

hey so Ik you haven’t written anything but I was looking through your OCs and charlie seems real cool . Could you maybe write a fic with Charlie for one ?

Hi! I'm so glad you're looking forward to a Charlie fic. This is a situation that revolves around Charlie, and while she's not technically in this fic, there will be more focused on her later, tied to this.

Augusnippets Day 14: Celebration - Charlie

This fic is different from anything I've written so far, but I love how it turned out. It's short, but I have almost three full fics about this situation, that will be coming later.

------

Jamie glances around the sea of people nervously, thankful for Keegan’s steadying presence at his shoulder.

Of course Colin would have lots of people at his birthday party, and the crowd, along with the humid April air is making Jamie feel slightly on edge.

He and Keegan are both content to remain on the outskirts, neither needing to be in the center of the action. They are among the last people sitting down, and so they are the only ones to notice the continuous buzzing of a phone sitting a couple seats down.

Jamie frowns in confusion, recognizing the phone as Charlie’s. He looks around for her, but he can’t see her. He walks closer to her phone, wondering why it's ringing so insistently.

His heart drops when he sees the alerts from her glucose monitor. His eyes dart around the room one more time, looking for her, or Colin, or anyone he knows, really.

Keegan must have noticed a change in his expression, or the way his body tightens as he flicks through the notifications, because he places a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“Charlie,” Jamie answers roughly, handing the phone to Keegan, “Her blood sugar’s low. That’s why it was buzzing.”

“Oh shit,” answers Keegan. He spots Charlie’s purse, and opens it, looking for the glucose tablets she should have, but it’s not her normal purse, and they're not where they should be.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, catching Jamie’s eye, and they both turn to look at the room full of people, knowing Charlie is out there having a diabetic crash.

“Go look for her, I’ll wait here in case she comes back,” says Keegan, “Text me when you find her.”

“‘Kay, if you see Colin, tell him what’s happening, I need him.”

“Alright,” replies Keegan.

So Jamie starts weaving between partygoers, dodging out of their way, scanning the room intently.

He targets the crowds of people, figuring that either Charlie or Colin will be in the center.

As many people as there are, the room isn’t that big, and it’s not too long before Jamie spots Colin’s red hair, immediately hurrying towards him.

“Colin!” he shouts over the noise, and he sees the minute Colin notices him, his grin dropping into a frown, as he takes in Jamie’s pallor and his frantic expression.

“Jamie? What’s wrong?” he asks, and his voice is enough to calm some of Jamie’s panic.

“It’s Charlie. We need to find her, now.”

“Okay…,” Colin starts, sounding confused, until it seems to dawn on him, “Oh, you mean… oh crap, you mean she’s…” he trails off, his mind running through the different possibilities.

Jamie’s already grabbed his hand, pulling him across the room, and he answers over his shoulder “Her blood sugar’s really fucking low.”

It’s this moment that Colin realizes just how worried Jamie is, having rarely heard him swear.