#Augusnippets Day 20

[whumper-whimsy]

@augusnippets day 20

Homemade meal / Quenched thirst / Favorite treat

Past captivity, mostly just fluff

tried to do a dialogue-centered snippet :)

°

Whumpee sniffed the air, his mouth watering. Caretaker was cooking, and it smelled great.

He carefully ventured into the kitchen, kneeling at Caretaker's feet. "Sir?" He murmured shyly.

"Yes, dear? And remember— you can just call me Caretaker."

"Your food smells very good. What will I be eating?"

"Stir fry— same as me."

"Wait, what? But... what did i do? I mean, how do I deserve this?"

"What else would you eat, love?"

Water and bread— maybe milk if you thought i deserved a treat."

"Mmmh, so that's why you're so malnourished. Whumper was not feeding you well."

"..."

"No need to worry— i have plenty of meat and veggies here..."

"But why?"

"Because you're human, Whumpee. And you need to eat like one."

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Augusnippets Day 20: Homemade Meal

cw: implied past abuse, chronic pain

Penumbra Masterlist

for the @augusnippets challenge // word count: 676

=~=~=

By the time Cerus returned to the shared cottage at the edge of town, dusk had cooled the day to something pleasant. Often his work was complete long before sundown, but the village was readying for the midsummer festival, and he'd taken to staying later, assisting where he could with preparations.

How odd it was, to labor alongside others and not feel the shadow of resentment, hatred. To them, he was only another helper, a set of hands no one scolded or faulted or beat when his pains kept him slower than the rest.

Tansy was already home when he arrived, stirring a pot of something that made his mouth water with the smell of it.

“The hour’s late. What kept you?” It was more concern in their voice than anything accusing; the village had been kind to him, but they hadn't been here long. There was still the feeling that someone could decide he was no longer welcome here, and Tansy was still just as wary of it as he.

“I was helping the baker sort her lists. She has surprises at the ready for the festival.”

Tansy nodded, spooning broth into a bowl. “I did wonder who it would be today. The apothecary is still asking after you.”

Cerus carried dinner to the table one bowl after the other, cupping them in such a way it did not hurt his hands. The stew warmed his stiff fingers. “Tell her I am considering.”

“Still?”

He nodded, taking a seat and stirring at the golden broth. Soft grains and root vegetables swirled beneath its surface, along with something purplish he did not recognize.

“Is this a new recipe?”

“Maisy gave us some violet blush. It's a sort of wheat, I think.” They sat across from him. “Why are you still considering? You know healing.”

What did it matter what he knew? The people could never accept medicines from one who was a tyrant. Could they?

“It was long ago,” Cerus replied.

“You could learn again.”

“My hands won't allow for such fine work.” It was a partial truth. The healing arts he'd studied so long ago—before he was shaped into a king, before he lost everything—required precision. Even harvesting vegetables from the abbey garden was difficult on some days. Certainly he could shift his methods, help by studying and perfecting new remedies, or evaluating patients…

No. Even then, it could never be. The village would turn on him, accuse him of some wicked scheme. Why else would he seek to create new potions, to dabble in something near to alchemy? Why else would the shadow king help anyone?

“Cerus…”

He shook his head. “Their trust in me is fragile,” he said. “Who's to say they'll want me there?”

“Cerus, she asked for you. Someone already wants you there.”

“Why?” His mind insisted it was only a trap; a method to trick him into some crime or foul act, a way to remove the protection he'd been granted. But was that truth speaking, or only history?

“She's seen the interest in your eyes when you bring her herbs. And she knows you were given a king's education.”

“An education in death.”

They raised an eyebrow. “Among other things. She's been looking for a helper. Why not you?”

He could not deny a part of him wanted it. Could this not be good? He'd caused so much harm, was healing others not a form of penance?

“I am…” Afraid. “And what if I agree? Would the people accept remedies touched by me?”

Tansy sighed, taking their bowl to the washing basin. “I do not know. But they trust Phaedra, and she wants to trust you. Will you give her the chance?”

Cerus stared into his own half-eaten bowl. It did all come down to that; trust and chances. He could shy away from them, hide forever, or he could venture into the sun, take the risks, live, even if he still wasn't certain he deserved it.

Such a funny word.

“Perhaps I will,” Cerus said quietly. “Perhaps I will.”

[maybeitsalivescribbles]

DAY 20: Homemade meal/favourite treat

The crowd observed Superhero, still panting after their fight. There was this moment of incertitude that always came after a victory. In that brief, fragile instant, a woman took upon herself to break the silence. She was holding out a plate as proudly as she was carrying a crown:

“There,” she said to the winner, “as promised. You’ve finished your work, you deserved your reward.”

“Mooom-”

“What is it, darling?”

A wounded and vaguely worried expression appeared on the little woman’s face:

“ It’s still your favorite, isn’t it?”

“Well yes, but-”

Superhero threw a helpless glance at the crowd, then at the semi-conscious Supervillain’s body at their feet. After this fight, the villain wouldn’t be able to use their power for a while. It was a complete victory, a real triumph... and as if summoned, the second they thought they could take a deep breath, their mom had popped from the shadows.

Not that she had powers. She was just like that.

“I’m not quite finished,” they pleaded. “I have to tell people they’re safe, smile for the cameras-”

“Of course darling, you can do that, I won’t bother you. I’ll stand aside.”

She took a few steps away, but everyone was still looking at her. It had been years since Superhero was used to be a public figure, but for the first time since a while, they felt themself blushing.

Supervillain noticed. They were bleeding, they were powerless, but they noticed. Superhero could see their smirk amid the bruises.

“Momma’s kid,” they simpered. “You are pathetic.”

Superhero looked at the plate. Their mother was absolutely right: it was their favorite. A perfect French silk pie, full of cream and chocolate. Then they stared at Supervillain’s smug face, and the next course of events was obvious.

“Do you want a slice?”

“And this is only a temporary- what?”

Supervillain stared at them in disbelief, began to laugh- and then stopped. A little woman just had popped in front of them, a dangerous glint in her eye and a huge knife in her hand.

Supervillain took the slice. The evil monologue would have to wait.

*

Back to the Hero x Villain Masterlist

Whump/Horror Masterlist

[whumplump]

Day 20 of @augusnippets

Prompts used: homemade meal

Not used: quenched thirst / favorite treat

CW: recovery, just whumpee and caretaker spending time together

This one is a lot shorter and less elaborated as I'm very tired

Whumpee lightly tapped the egg on the edge of the bowl. The shell didn't break. They tried harder, but it was too much, cutting the egg in half. They poured the white and yolk into the bowl and threw the shell away with a sigh of frustration.

Seeing their friend's difficulty, Caretaker went to their side and held their hand.

"Try it like this."

They tapped the egg twice on the edge of the bowl, breaking it cleanly without much damage. Whumpee looked at their friend's face, fascinated. Caretaker smiled back.

"Okay, now add the flour."

Whumpee obeyed carefully, paying attention to Caretaker's instructions.

The two keep the atmosphere calm, just the sound of their voices every now and then. Like this, quiet, just enjoying each other's company…

[angstyaches]

Augusnippets Day 20

Prompt: Homemade meal, requested by anon

OCs: Shayne and Charlie

Word Count: 379

CW: food insecurity, disordered eating (recovery), food, sensory issues (loss of taste).

___

“Well? How is it?” Charlie gently nudged Shayne’s stomach with his fingertips. “And be honest. I won’t take it as a comment on my cooking if you can’t... you know.” 

Shayne frowned while Charlie trailed off. He absently reached for Charlie’s hand to protect himself from further poking or tickling while he frantically tried to think of something to say. 

The guilt that sat at the back of his throat was far more potent than the spoonful of sauce he’d just swallowed. He licked his lips, as though he would somehow find an explosion of flavour there.  

“I... couldn’t really taste anything,” he admitted. 

“That’s fine!” Charlie was already turning back towards the stove, placing the small metal spoon on the countertop. His hand flicked out to grab the shaker of chili powder, which was already next to the stove from having just been used. 

“Charlie...” Shayne grimaced. “Don’t.” 

“I can handle it.” 

“Your tongue hurts when there’s too much paprika on your chicken.” 

“That was one time, and that was a lot of paprika.” Charlie turned his head and nodded enthusiastically before turning back to the saucepan with the pepper. “A lot, a lot. Someone in that restaurant woke up and chose violence that day.” 

Shayne rolled his eyes, not at the story, but at the generous additional sprinkling of spice that Charlie had added to the pot. 

“And anyway, lovely,” Charlie shrugged as he stirred. “I'd rather risk a sore tongue than know that you’re not enjoying the food you’re eating.” 

An apology – for the way he was, for the space Charlie had to make for him, for existing – rose to Shayne’s lips, but he silenced it. Rather than feeding the shame, he focused on the warm flutter he felt as Charlie added one last pinch of chili. For him. He crossed his arms and folded slightly into himself, feeling somewhat overwhelmed and comforted all at once. 

“Thank you,” he said quietly. 

A smile twitched across Charlie’s face as they locked eyes. Shayne took the opportunity to lean in for a kiss, but their lips only touched for a couple of seconds before the saucepan let out a laboured bubbling sound. 

“Mmm! Okay.” Charlie reached for the metal spoon again. “Are you ready for another taste test?”

___

@augusnippets

[ronanziriano]

Augusnippets Day 20 - Quenched Thirst

Drip. Drip. Drip.

For a little while, Whumpee didn’t even quite register the sound as real. He wondered if it was a dehydration-induced hallucination, teasing him.

But when he peeled his eyes open to investigate, he spotted it. The tiniest little splash, right in the middle of empty concrete floor.

Warily Whumpee crawled toward it and looked up. When he squinted, he could see it: a thin, jagged crack in the ceiling, running from the outer wall and into the center, a dark, damp spot right at the end marking the source of the dripping water.

Whumpee brought his eyes back down to the floor, watching intently as another drop hit the floor. A small puddle was beginning to spread on the ground, shallow and far from wide, but a puddle all the same.

This was the first time he’d seen water in… days? How long had it been since Whumper had come through that door, now firmly bolted closed, with rations? Too long. His throat was raw, tongue like sandpaper, whole body exhausted and desperate.

Desperate enough to roll onto his back and position himself beneath the drip from the ceiling, letting his mouth fall open.

The first merciful drop went straight to the back of his throat, so he didn’t get a chance to savor it. For the next, Whumpee adjusted himself to ensure the drop landed on his tongue. It wasn’t exactly refreshing - the water was slightly warm, and there was a somewhat chalky feel to it. He wondered if some of the plaster from the ceiling was dripping down along with the water.

It didn’t matter, though. These drops were still much better than no water at all, and Whumpee gratefully drank up anything he could get.

@augusnippets

[deviant-doughnut]

Augusnippets: Day Twenty

Chosen Prompt: Homemade Meal

CW: mention of violence

The sizzling from the kitchen sounds almost like static. It buzzes against his skin as he surveys the room around him. His partner’s decor relaxes him instantly, the walls an enchanting sage. The shelves overflow with the older man’s plants, leaves growing proudly high or tumbling adorably downward. The air itself is easier here, weighted by love and not with suffering.

They found him in that basement a week ago, and by then the room was thick with pain. The stench of iron from staggering blood loss, the sharp tang of his terror as he’d waited for more. He got used to the feeling of being suspended, of his wrists turning raw from restraints. Now he rubs absently at them, peering at the rows of his partner’s books. Water bubbles as it boils in the next room, readying the fresh vegetables they bought from the market as they walked it today, slow and unhurried. Fresh air had been cleansing, the joy of mundanity as invigorating as it was exhausting. When he was suitably drained, Alderic slung his arm around his waist and supported him carefully to the car. He’d pressed a kiss into his hair, and Lee’s eyes had abruptly stung. This was everything he thought he’d lost. It swelled in his chest, too big for his body. He swallowed against the lump in his throat as he set the ingredients in his lap. If Alderic noticed, he simply smiled kindly, and climbed into the driver’s seat.

Six nights spent shaking in a hospital bed, fevered glances thrown at the doorway every time a stranger walked by. Alderic had noticed his easy panic, slept upright holding his hand every night. Lee was discharged from the hospital yesterday morning, and by evening the police had arrested his torturer. The shadows were merely shadows once more. The monsters inside them retreated.

Now his wounds heal slow beneath his myriad dressings. Their thickness keeps his posture perfect, keeps a different kind of tension in his body. The scent of cooked meat wafts towards him, fills his body with hunger — the kind that wont lead to starvation — and fills this space all around him with promise. He gasps in pain through his teeth, hobbles towards the inviting couch as Alderic whistles a familiar song. He sits down, lets his body sink down into the buttery leather. Crockery clinks, the fridge opens and shuts. The scent of fresh food wafts its way to him.

He’s safe. He’s safe enough to close his eyes, to let his healing body sag into the plump cushions beneath him. The draw of sleep is sweet and heavy. He lets it pull at him, drifting in and out of gentle unconsciousness — safe and warm — knowing that his heart belongs to Alderic, and that Alderic will wake him to hot food and warm eyes, and a life in which he needn’t be fearful, in which the normality of terror will ease from his body, will fade from muscle memory. A life, once again, in which everything will be okay.

-

Thanks to @augusnippets for this event!

[scratchandplaster]

Compromise

CW: toddler!Luke having sensory issues

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

A deep frown on his son's face let Shepard falter. Here he had been so thoughtful during every step of the way, yet some little detail seemed to halt dinner before it even started.

"Dig in! I made it exactly how you like."

All pitfalls were diffused: the yams puréed until no lumps could be seen, the plates heated up, his favorite cutlery meticulously arranged beside them. Shepard hoped to avoid more tension after this exhausting day of running errands in town.

Still, Lukas let out a low squeal of disgust, horrified at how the spinach lost a bit of sturdiness and collapsed towards the mashed yams.

Not again.

He desperately tried to shovel the purée away from the light green liquid spreading into it, but in vain. The damage was done.

"Stay calm, Luke."

"It's touching." He let his fork plop down on the plate, sharp clatter straining the boy's nerves further.

"It's just water, nothing more." Nine times out of ten, the father's placatory words made an impact.

"I'm not eating that."

Shepard rubbed his eyes. Obviously, his boy was not the only one tired from the previous hours: "I put a lot of effort into dinner and we have a deal, Lukas. Once a week, you try something new-"

"NO," he roared and shoved the plate across the table, spilling the hated spinach over the tablecloth, "you did it wrong!"

The flying fork missed Shepard by inches, enough time for Lukas to jump out of the high chair and sprint outside, tears streaming down his cheeks. With one swift step, his father had already picked him back up again, at the mercy of tiny legs kicking around. His only choice was to hold him close against himself; mad and confused, Lukas cried like his life depended on it.

Nevertheless, his dad hugged him tightly. One arm under his chest and one on his back, as if to panini-press all the anger out of the little guy. Shepard's pride and joy frantically dug his teeth into his father's sleeve, fussing about how much he hated the old man.

By and by, his screams turned into quiet mumbles. A five-minute tantrum, longer than usual, more than enough time for Shepard to ponder which side of the family his boy got this temper from.

The yams had already gone cold - like a mushy island swimming in a pool of duckweed. Suddenly, Shepard understood what Lukas found so offensive about their dinner. Some things are better kept separate.

"What you just said made me feel very sad, Luke. I know we had a busy day, but I tried my best. I hope you know that."

How else can I help you, sweetheart? More shushing tired cries, more back rubs. I would do everything.

"Sorry." From below, a quiet sniffle broke the silence. "I don't hate you, Dad."

"I love you too," Shepard snickered, "Wanna try again without the spinach?"

His son nodded, deeply embarrassed: "Or like, on the side. Please."

"How about you help me with clean-up first?"

"Okay." Luke's pout grew even more heartrending as he cuddled closer to his father. Maybe a hug would save him from the consequences of the odd moods that gripped him now and then.

"Great, I'll get the paper towels."

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thanks for reading 🤍 [Masterlist]

Prompt: homemade meal/quenched thirst/favorite treat

@augusnippets @whumpyourdamnpears

[the-rad-pineapple]

Day 20 of @augusnippets

homemade meal

part 1 | part 3

Whumpee aches a little less today, but he still groans when he sinks into one of the cafeteria chairs. He stares disheartedly at his plate filled with…well, slop is the only word that comes to mind at the visual before him. Rallying courage, Whumpee grabs his spoon and dips it into the…slop. He’s about to take a bite when Caretaker enters the room. His eyes light up when he sees Whumpee.

“Hello, Whumpee.” He’s not quite grinning.

“Hello.” Whumpee takes a bite and grimaces. Even worse than expected. 

“You’re not eating the cafeteria food, are you?” Caretaker sounds scandalized.

“What else would I eat?” 

Caretaker tuts then grabs Whumpee’s plate as he passes by. 

“Wha—!”

“I’m cooking you a meal.” 

Whumpee’s cheeks heat. “I’m not helpless.”

An amused look thrown over Caretaker’s shoulder. “I know.” 

Somehow Whumpee’s cheeks grow hotter. 

Caretaker unceremoniously dumps Whumpee’s slop into a nearby bin. He then enters the small kitchen and starts washing his hands. 

And, oh Jesus, he really is going to cook for Whumpee. 

It’s graceful, the way he cooks. It’s almost like a dance the way he easily moves around the small kitchen. He’s fast, but he’s not rushed either. In what feels like no time at all, he’s whipped up something warm and smelling like home.

“Here you are.” He’s almost grinning again when he sets the plate down.

“Thank you.”

Caretaker’s eyes sparkle as he sits across from Whumpee.

Whumpee scoops up some of the heavenly-smelling food and slips it into his mouth. It’s warm and fresh and comforting. 

“This is amazing,” Whumpee compliments.

Caretaker’s cheeks turn a delightful pink. “I’m glad you like it.”

Whumpee eats a few more bites in peace. “Are you alright?”

“Of course I’m alright. I should be asking you if you’re alright. You still seem quite sore.” 

Whumpee sets his spoon down, and then locks eyes with Caretaker. 

Whumpee has known Caretaker for years. He likes to think he knows Caretaker very well. They’ve gotten close. So Whumpee knows what it looks like when Caretaker is avoiding talking about something. And, usually, Whumpee plays along. Caretaker had been his superior for a few years after all. But not anymore. 

“I’ve never seen you drunk before,” Whumpee says. 

Caretaker’s cheeks flush in shame. His eyes flick down to the table. He rubs a hand down his face, pausing to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

“I’m fine,” Caretaker lies. 

“No, you’re not.” 

Caretaker begins to curl into himself but stalls when Whumpee slides his hand across the table, palm up, in a clear invitation. 

Whumpee says as gently as he can, “I’m not trying to upset you, but you’re not fine.” Whumpee clears his throat. “And I want to help.” 

Cautiously, Caretaker slides his hand into Whumpee’s. He interlaces their fingers. His eyes are pinned to their hands. “I…” Caretaker squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them, he looks at Whumpee. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Then let me help you. Please.”

part 1 | part 3

[evilwriter37]

The Flask

Augusnippets Day 20

Quenched Thirst

Rated: teen

Warnings: none

------

Hiccup reached for the flask with the only thing he could: his head. He was chained to the wall—sitting, luckily, but still chained—and couldn’t use his hands. The ship rocked beneath him.

“Ah, ah, are you gonna be a good boy?” Dagur asked, pulling the flask away. 

Hiccup glared, licked at his dry lips as if that would help. His throat was all scratchy. 

“And what do you mean by that?” Hiccup asked. 

“You gonna thank me first?” Dagur shook the flask. Hiccup could hear the sound of its contents: water. It was something he definitely needed.

Hiccup looked between Dagur the flask, tried to swallow, but there was no moisture in his mouth. It felt like his tongue was going to start bleeding from how dry it was.

“Th-thank you.”

“Didn’t hear that.”

“Thank you, Dagur,” Hiccup said, trying not to put any sass or attitude into his voice.

“Good boy.” 

Dagur uncorked the flask, and leaned forward, putting it to Hiccup’s lips. 

And he let him drink.

Hiccup swore he’d never loved water more. He nearly moaned with how good it felt in his mouth and going down his throat. It was cool, soothing, quenching. 

Dagur pulled the flask away all too soon. At first, Hiccup thought he was only letting him have that little bit, but no, he was just letting him take a breath or two.

Then he was drinking more. Oh, it felt so nice. 

This went on until the entire flask was empty. Hiccup was panting. He’d probably drunken that way too fast. Dagur turned to leave.

“Thank you,” Hiccup said, and he genuinely meant it. 

Dagur stopped. Hiccup expected him to say something nonsensical or demeaning to that, but instead he just dipped his head in acknowledgement, and left. 

Hiccup licked his lips, and this time there was moisture. With a sigh that could mean a million things, he let his head rest back against the wall.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Homemade

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

All Altair ever wanted is right here.

Thanks as always to @crash-bump-bring-the-whump and @that-one-thespian for letting me borrow their guys! For @augusnippets Day 20: Homemade Meal

Contains: Pure domestic fluff

~~~

The kitchen was warm, and smelled of all sorts of delightful things. Vegetables and meat and spices all brought together under Fletcher’s expert hand. Altair took a moment just to watch him. He loved Fletcher’s cooking. It tasted like the home he had always longed for.

Fletcher turned to him, a soft smile on his face. “It- it should be almost done. Just a few more minutes.”

“Wonderful.” Altair couldn’t resist taking a few steps closer to press a kiss to Fletcher’s temple. The small embarrassed squeak he let out made Altair chuckle. “Mariano and Bastian have set the table. We should be just about ready to eat.”

He could see them from here, just beyond the kitchen. The salad and rolls Elze’ith had made were already out on the table, a table set for all of the people he loved. Their boys were waiting for them, chattering quietly about someone Mariano and Bastian had met in the market that day and the new book Archer was reading and how Elze’ith’s plants were doing in the garden. The simple domesticity was one of the most beautiful things Altair had ever seen. They just needed Altair and Fletcher and the main course for everything to be complete.

A soft blush had spread across Fletcher’s face. “I- I hope it’s good.”

“Knowing you?” Altair smiled. “It’ll be amazing.”

[udaberriwrites]

A double drabble for @augusnippets' day 20!

Path of Comfort - Homemade meal/Favorite treat

Fandom: Scum Villain's Self-Saving System

Characters: Shen Jiu, Luo Binghe, Shen Yuan (mentioned)

Timeline: Cang Qiong - (altered) canon

Rating: G

“Little beast.”

Binghe abandons the axe and stands to attention.

He's the youngest disciple of the Peak. Outside of the tea ceremony, he hasn’t had many chances to draw the eye of its Lords, but he desperately wants to.

The Qing Jing Peak Lords are the sun and the moon. No, perhaps it’s more accurate to say that they’re a summer day on the riverbank and a cold night with wolves howling in the distance. They’re equal parts beautiful and deadly, and Binghe has been enthralled from the first glimpse.

“You were in the kitchens.”

“This disciple is sorry!” He squeaks, cursing internally when his voice breaks. "This disciple had finished his studies and didn't know it wasn’t permitted!”

Shifu frowns. "Do not waste my time. Do you or do you not know how to cook?”

“This one… was taught many recipes by his dear mother.”

“It will do,” pitch-black eyes pin him in place. "Master Shen is on mandatory bedrest. Luo Binghe shall make sure he eats and obeys Mu-shidi, otherwise this Master will be severely disappointed. Understood?”

“Yes, Shifu! This Luo is unworthy!”

Shifu dismisses him curtly, but Binghe can’t stop grinning for the rest of the day.

_

Full prompt list here

AO3 collection here

[inscrutable-shadow]

Augusnippets Day 20 - Path of Comfort - Favorite Treat

"Itadakimasu!" Rea chimed, splitting aer chopsticks. Thanatos couldn't eat sushi, but he had an excellent blood wine vintage in his thermos that he was quite enjoying. The purpose, for him, of going out for lunch was never so much the food as it was the expression of delight on his lover's face when ae ate it.

"Good?" he asked, by way of conversation.

"Mhm!" Ae nodded vigorously, remembering not to talk with aer mouth full. "I wish we could come here every day."

He laughed."You wouldn't like it as much if we did that. It stays special if you have it less often."

"I have you every day and you are not any less special." The way ae said it, so casually, while dunking a maki roll in soy sauce, made him blush all of the way to the tips of his ears. Ae noticed this, of course. There was that smile like a gentle dawn. "See? I could never get tired of that. You are just as cute to me as the day I found you, and I could spend ten thousand years with you and feel the same way."

Thanatos coughed and hid his face behind his cup, unable to express how much he agreed with that sentiment.

[angelic-writer]

(My) God's Not Dead - A Little Special Something

Day 20 of @augusnippets

Prompts: Homemade meal/quenched thirst/favorite treat

Fandom: Hail True Body

CW: Referenced hospitalization, mentioned stitches

It was quiet in the Owens household. The birds were singing their happy songs as the sun peeked through the trees. Cesar was over the stove, making his signature pancakes, although this time, he added a little something.

The days after Cesar was released from the hospital was nothing short of tense. He barely spoke, he barely acknowledged Mark's existence. He just laid in bed, staring at one spot on the wall, not saying a word. Mark didn't blame him. The argument they had a little while ago was still a sore topic for the both of them. He figured he would not be in the mood for talking, not to mention his mother's death.

Mark felt like the worst person alive. He tried to keep Cesar from leaving when he should've listened, should've kept his hot head in check. But against all odds, he got his second chance when he rescued Cesar. Even though their friendship might be a bit shaky for a while, even though things are still tense, he was still alive. And for him, that mattered.

The smell of freshly cooked pancake batter wafted through his nose as he walked down the stairs. He was surprised to see Cesar up and about, preparing breakfast for the two of them. "Ces, hey..."

"Morning, Mark. The pancakes will be ready soon."

"Mm." He sat down. "Are you sure you should be moving around so soon? I don't want your stitches to be torn open."

"Mijo, relax. It's mostly healed. There's still some pain, but it's nothing serious." He put the pancakes on a plate. After adding some maple syrup, powdered sugar and some sliced strawberries, he served it to Mark.

"Thanks, bud. Y'know, I should cook for you once in a while."

"Well, what can you make me?"

"I guess we'll have to wait and see." He cut into his pancake and took a bite. Along with its fluffy texture and maple syrup, there was a chocolate sweetness that flooded his mouth. "Ces, did you... put some Nutella in this?"

"Yeah. I found some in the pantry and it was still good so I thought 'Why not?'"

Mark smiled. "Thank you. I... I don't deserve this. After what I did..."

"Hey." He held his hand. "Let's not talk about it now. Let's just enjoy the morning."

Mark nodded and took another bite.

[lancedoncrimsonwings]

Augusnippets Day 20

Path of Comfort Prompt; Alt. "Gentle Touch"

Day 20 of @augusnippets August 2024 Whump writing challenge! (Augusnippets Masterlist)

Characters;

- POV: Lancelot - The Weeping Monk

- Caretaker: Gawain - The Green Knight

(Character Masterlist)

(Ao3 Link)

Wordcount; 607

TWs; Tending to wounds, referenced self-flagellation, lashings

"I can help, if you'd like?"

Lancelot looked up to see Gawain standing at the entrance of their tent. Too preoccupied attempting to fold himself like an origami bird in order to salve the wounds on his back, he hadn't noticed the Green Knight's approach.

"I can... do it..." Lancelot huffed, cheeks flaming in embarassment at being caught like this.

Gawain held his hands up in mock surrender, ducking past him further into the tent. Lancelot heard the telltale signs of water being poured into the washbasin, the methodical scrape of knife against cheek as the Knight began to shave.

After several more minutes of wishing he had eyes in the back of his head, or perhaps that he could detatch one of his arms, Lancelot had managed to smear salve on approximately four-and-a-half of the lashings, as well as into his hair somehow and all up one of his arms.

Lancelot sighed, raising his eyes to the heavens in a silent plea for mercy, glancing back when he heard the knife thud softly as Gawain placed it down and stood.

"Let me."

Lancelot sighed again, but begrudingly nodded permission, willing himself to relax though he found it nigh on impossible. It was strange, he thought, the difference in how willing he was to hurt himself unhesitatingly, yet waiting for pain given by another had him arguably more nervous.

As anticipated, Gawain's touch was indeed painful. Lancelot couldn't help but tense to keep still despite trying not to react at all.

Lancelot was, by nature, intimately familiar with pain. This sensation at a base level was indeed the same as ever, yet it had a depth to it most unlike anything he had experienced before, the gentleness of how Gawain tended to him... 

It was oddly comforting. Soothing even.

"Gods, I wish all my patients were as well behaved as you are..."

"Well... behaved?" Lancelot repeated slowly, raising an eyebrow.

Gawain chuckled behind him.

"Aye. They never stay so bloody still."

Lancelot heard a distinctly impressed note in Gawain's voice, unable to resist closing his eyes to the feel of Gawain's soft but sure touches. Unbidden, he wondered if Gawain had a lover somewhere. He'd certainly revealed nothing of himself despite being tortured, yet it felt too personal a question for Lancelot to ask, so he remained silent. He knew Fey had odd customs, not least that it made no difference to most if one was man or woman, or even both, neither, or somewhere in between. Perhaps his lover was a man, given the ease with which his hands roamed Lancelot's back...

"Is it nice where you are?" Gawain asked, mildly.

"I- What?" 

"Is it nice? In your thoughts. You look very... lost in them." 

Lancelot didn't have an answer for that, but gave a wry laugh all the same. Usually, the answer was a quite definite no. Sometimes he'd rather be anywhere but in his own head.

In this instance he certainly had zero intentions of admitting he'd been pondering whether or not the Green Knight was single... Yet the way in which he'd spoken suggested Gawain may have guessed at their subject. 

You're just being paranoid now...

Now that his mind had gone down this particular road, he couldn't deny Gawain's gentle touch was beginning to set a fire through his veins, something else he daren't say. He bit back an involuntary groan as pain mingled with pleasure.

"Sorry, Ashman."

Lancelot smiled slightly at the apology, as unneeded as it was it was nice of Gawain to offer it. Perhaps if he focused on the pain, it would stop his traitorous mind from wandering...

Whoops, posted this one REAL early, yes I was meant to put it in my drafts for tomorrow when I'm at work, no, I did not in fact click "save to drafts"... oops.

An alternate prompt because I was really struggling to write for the given prompts, but I had two ideas I couldn't pick between for Day 23 so I wrote one of them for today!

As always, thanks for reading, onto the next!

[when-jaguars-are-sick]

Augusnippets Day 20: Homemade Meal - Jayden

Here is my last Augusnippets entry. I have no idea how I feel about this one, it's given me so much trouble. It's been a struggle, we'll just say that 😂 But I think it turned out pretty good, and helps show how in-tune Jayden Alix and Keegan are with each other.

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Jayden woke up this morning with a deep desire for soup, and it’s fallen on him to make that happen.

You see, Jayden feels crappy. And not just the normal I’m-having-a-bad-day crappy, or the anxious kind of crappy. But the bone-deep-aches kind of crappy. The headache-pulsing-behind-your-eyes kind of crappy. The shivering-even-when-you’re-not-cold kind of crappy. The kind of crappy that makes everything fuzzy, until you’re certain you have a fever.

Ordinarily he wouldn’t be making dinner when he’s sick, but no one has noticed he’s feeling bad. He can’t exactly fault them for it, considering he has hardly seen Alix or Keegan all day; Keegan only just returning from work, and Alix busy with a consignment piece. Even he went to class today (Did he absorb anything during the hour and a half he was sitting there? No, no he did not.)

He’s feeling bad enough that he’s not mad they haven’t noticed, and is instead focused on stirring the soup on the stove without spilling it, a task made infinitely harder by the haziness of his vision and the fog in his brain.

He presses closer to the heat of the stove, as his body is wracked with shivers, despite burning up from the inside.

When Keegan comes out of his room and comes to Jayden’s side, he wonders if he’s noticed he’s sick, but if he does he doesn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he puts a hand on Jayden’s elbow, tugging him away from the stove. 

“I’ll handle the soup, Jay. You can go sit down,” Keegan says gently, but at the same time leaving no room for argument, taking the spoon from his hand and pushing him away.

Jayden can feel Keegan’s eyes on him as he moves towards the table without complaint, the couch just too far away even though it would be much comfier, and he slumps into a seat but he doesn’t say anything more.

Jayden loses track of time as he sits there, mind wandering. When Keegan suddenly places a bowl in front of him, he tiredly lifts his head, giving him a weak smile in thanks. He pulls the bowl towards him, and realizes that somewhere in the last 45 minutes he has entirely lost his appetite.

He knows it should smell good, and he’s hardly eaten all day so he knows he should be hungry, but he’s just not. He can hardly register the smell through the clouds in his brain, and he feels just uncomfortable. The chair is hard, digging into him in ways it doesn’t normally, and his skin is damp from sweating all day even as he sits there shivering.

The last thing he feels like doing is eating.

As he’s contemplating this new and unfortunate development, Alix comes out of their art room and mirrors his slumped position on the other side of the table.

“Hey Jay,” he mutters, sounding annoyed, and not seeming to realize his boyfriend’s distress.

Jayden doesn’t answer, too busy staring at the soup he no longer wants. Instead of eating, he unconsciously starts stirring the soup, much in the way he was earlier, but with much less care, soup spilling over the edges of the bowl every now and then.

Keegan glances between Jayden and Alix repeatedly, not sure how to step in. Earlier he worried that if he outright asked Jayden if he was sick, he would deny it, since he’s stubborn enough to pretend he’s not. Alix has always been best at breaking through his facade, but Alix doesn’t seem to be paying attention tonight either.

After minutes of silence, and nobody addressing Jayden’s obvious illness (honestly, that man should be in bed, with medicine and his boyfriend), Keegan eventually snaps.

“‘Lex, would you look at your boyfriend please,” he says tiredly but with enough force that Alix snaps to attention, glancing at Jayden in confusion, “I know your painting is stressing you out, but maybe tonight you could focus on Jayden, who’s very obviously sick, and hasn’t eaten any of the soup he made.” Alix knows his snarky tone is really his way of masking his worry, but he can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt at the idea that Jayden’s been sick and they didn’t know.

He shakes off his discomfort, and turns their attention fully to Jayden, who looks at him miserably with fever-bright eyes.