#Augusnippets day 13

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Augusnippets, Day 13: Drugging

cw: dub/noncon drugging, referenced broken bones, implied substance dependency, dissociation

previous // next

for the @augusnippets challenge // word count: 472

=~=~=

They bring him water, and he drinks.

It's tainted. Spiked with something; he could tell from the first sip, yet accepted it anyway.

He knows he needs it. Without it, he'll die.

People who weren't his team dragged him screaming from the rubble, tossed him in the trunk of a car with no regard for his damaged leg, left him to drown in the pain. They gave him a water bottle when they tossed him in a cell, and at the time, he was stupidly grateful for the numbing substance it was laced with. Dulling the world, granting him distance from the agony that wanted to devour him.

But now he's lying on the same concrete, and he doesn't know how long it's been. He hasn't had the mental presence to remember to check his leg, to set it and bind it with a makeshift splint. He hasn't had the capacity to plan, or pay attention to where he is, how many there are, when they change shifts.

They bring him water, and he drinks, wits too sluggish to let him stop himself, head growing fuzzy as the substance pulls him down, down, down.

Deep below the muddled surface, the spy wants to move, to deny himself the tainted food and water so he can think again. But the creature the substance turns him into only wants to sleep. To hide from the world, from the hurting. It only wants to drink, and when the fuzziness starts to fade, it wants more. 

It's always the worst just before the guards appear with another bottle. Head throbbing, body shivering with the chill of the room, leg on fire. (It's splinted? When did that happ–)

The creature whimpers when it sees the bottle, extended out as if the guard is giving it a gift. Takes it with trembling hands, heart beating faster and faster as it struggles to unscrew the cap. Relief is so close, so close. It spills some of the water when the cap at last comes loose, but doesn't care, holding the bottle to its mouth and drinking deeply. (No no no stop, stop—)

The fog wafts up, and the creature slips into it. Down, down, down.

It's always the worst just before the guards appear with another bottle, but it's when the spy can nearly think.

He and the creature share a goal. Escape. 

His method is nearly impossible. Full of pain, but permanent. Needed.

Its method is easy, soft, painless. Slip away, let it all go. Forget it all. Every loss, every pain, every person he does and doesn't miss.

Every time, the spy resolves to fight, even as he's sweating and shivering from pain, from need.

Every time, he falls short. It knows it needs it. Without it, it will die.

They bring him water, and he drinks.

[honeycollectswhump]

I just want you to know that the whumperflies you are able to give me with Ashtray are so good!!!!

And i just read a recent post of yours and i would actually love to see Mireille consider drugging ashtray, if you fancy it :)

Thank you!!

- ☆

im so glad you enjoy my silly story!! i thought i'd mix your request with an event, i hope you don't mind

Augusnippets Day 13

drugging/poisoning/cannibalism

[masterlist]

CW: pet whump, noncon drugging, noncon touch

Perhaps there was something in the water Mistress had given him. The fogginess was its only indication but the ash on his tongue hid any suspicious taste. And it wasn’t suspicious after all, of course he’d take anything given to him by his Mistress. Whatever was in the water, it did exactly what it was supposed to. 

Now Ashtray floats on a cloud made out of cotton, which is strange because his limbs are made out of lead and shouldn’t that be too heavy?

He is draped languidly on the couch cloud, an arm and a leg dangling down. There is a hand carding through his hair, caressing his bare skin, but perhaps it is just the wind. 

Ashtray purrs from deep within his chest, a sound that makes his body vibrate in waves. Fingers trace over his torso, circling each burn like constellations. If only he could lift his head to look at the night sky on his stomach.

Slowly, he can feel the fingers dip deeper, tugging at the covering fabric, and every moment makes his being become undone.

He whines uncomfortably, pushing his head into the cotton, as the hand in his hair grabs a fistful. Even on the cloud, somewhere high up, he understands the command. 

Be still. 

Ashtray swallows a second whine and instead looks up into the swirling night sky. Maybe, if he concentrates hard enough, he can leave his cloud and fly between the stars. 

Maybe, he can ignore the touch coming closer and closer, shooting him down. 

Maybe, he can delay his crash into earth a little bit longer.

@augusnippets

taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox,

@sowhumpshaped, @clickerflight, @itsawhumpsideblog, @piniatafullofblood, @katwriteswhump

@opaldream16, @whumped-by-glitter, @whump-queen, @electrons2006, @vampirewhump

@saffitaffi let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

[sufrimientilia]

Choices

drugging | poisoning | cannibalism @augusnippets Day 13

cw: non-consensual drug use, addiction, IV drugs, see above

The lighter flicked once, twice, three times. It finally sparked to life with one final kiss against metal and lingered there for a long moment. Saline bubbled and boiled. Powder dissolved in one ugly dirty cloud.

“Do you remember the last time I shot you up?” the motherfucker asked. Like they were having a regular fucking conversation. “You were just begging for it. Tears, snot, and all.”

He shoved hard at the hands grappling him from behind. He already had half of the fight beaten out of him, and now the rest of his submission came from just sheer numbers. Maybe a gun or two pointed in his face.

Maybe a gun or two pointed at her.

“I guess back then you’d do anything for it.” A pinch of cotton thickened and thickened. The gentle slip of a plunger, fingers so practiced they might as well have done it hundreds of times. Golden amber started filling the syringe. “Simpler times, huh?”

“F-ffuck you! Motherfucker!” All those hands slammed him against the table at the start of his outburst and could barely contain him by the end of it. He grit his teeth and struggled, hard enough to be defiant but not hard enough to get himself shot. Sometimes it was a tricky balance.

“I’ll give you a choice. Just like always.” They were undeterred by his violent struggle, just like always. Nothing if not consistent. “This is for you, or it’s for her. You decide.”

The syringe glistened and gleamed, warm and vibrant. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d even had a bump of the stuff.

The choice was an obvious one, because it always was. Always forced to make the hard choice, the obvious choice, the one they really wanted. Every single time. “Me, me—” he breathed out, the desperation coming a lot easier than he’d meant. “Give it to me. I want it. Please.”

Pleasepleaseplease. Burning on his tongue, burning on his skin.

He looked right at her. Wide eyes, pale skin, too many guns and too many men. It wasn’t like he had a choice.

He never had a choice.

The same blue rubber tourniquet, the same unnecessary flick against his bulging veins. All of them were scarred over by now. "So damn predictable. I know it's what you really want." Even the acrid breath at his ear tasted the same. "At least you have an enemy out of me, hmm? An easy excuse."

All those damn goons kept him pinned flat against the table as the needle went in. He watched it with a cruel sort of familiarity: his arm stretched before him, straight metal digging under flesh, the flush of blood drawing back into the syringe. Red sprouted and spiraled. And then the gentle push into his vein gave way to warmth, warmth, warmth, and he slipped melted and sunk all at once.

Oh. He’d be a liar if he said it didn’t feel good.

“No…” He could hear her begging and pleading for him. Maybe to him.

He wanted to tell her it was okay, it wasn’t a big deal. He was used to it. Something like ’mnnghghhh’ escaped him instead. It felt nice, too nice, and after a certain point even that was wrong. “No-…, ‘s too much,” he tried, nausea thickening and churning. But the plunger kept pushing. Pushing and pushing and pushing. “S…”

Too much, too much, too much. Twisting and spinning and spiraling until the pleasure turned sick. Too heavy, too violent. The goons let go, let him flatten against the table, left him limp and useless at the whim of one silly syringe left dangling from his forearm. The sight of it just thickened and blurred until it was one ugly blot of color.

“I thought your tolerance was better than that,” a voice said from somewhere far away. Far, far away.

Apparently not.

[whumplump]

Day 13 of @augusnippets

Prompts used: drugging / poisoning

Not used: cannibalism (although I had an idea for this one too)

CW: sadistic whumper, drugging, poisoning (obviously), betrayal, blood, unclear character status

After several days of just vowing to make an appointment and never actually meeting up, Whumpee and Caretaker made room in their schedules and went to Whumper's house for dinner. With the cold at night, the main dish took a little longer in the oven. Whumpee and Caretaker talked freely, like friends. Whumper was also relaxed, but at certain times, he was silent, without letting on what was going on in his head.

When the dish was ready, Whumper served his friends first. He made sure to pour both of their drinks too. Whumpee noticed a certain whiteness on the walls of the glasses, as if it were a film of thin powder, but decided not to comment. It must be the cold.

The three ate while catching up. Caretaker drank from their glass and felt a slight burning sensation in their throat, causing them to cough. Whumpee started to ask if they were okay, but Whumper just watched, feigning concern.

"It was nothing... I choked, that's all”, Caretaker assured.

After a while, the topic of conversation became more morbid. Caretaker began talking about a family member they lost. Whumpee listened with compassion and empathy in their eyes. Whumper, for his part, looked bored.

Caretaker got carried away by the feeling and ended up talking a little too much. They had already gone through the whole process of their family member's death, lamenting how painful it must have been, when Whumper interrupted them.

"They were already dead. They didn't feel anything."

Caretaker and Whumpee looked at them strangely.

"How do you know that?"

Whumper smiled.

“...Because I killed them."

Caretaker's cough came back stronger. They felt a bubbling in their stomach, a pressure. They spat blood onto the empty plate. Whumpee backed away in despair.

"Are you going to stand there and watch? Help me take them to..."

They stopped as they felt a strong wave of dizziness. So strong that it almost knocked them off their chair.

“I want to do the same thing to you, Whumpee." Whumper said. "But to do that, I first need to get this idiot out of my way," he continued, casting a glance at Caretaker, who was already lying on the ground, writhing in pain, in spasms from coughing up blood.

It didn't take long for Caretaker to stop twitching and lay lifeless on the ground. Then it was Whumpee's turn, who tried to say something more, but couldn't resist and passed out with their head on the table. Unconscious.

Whumper took a generous sip from his clean glass and smiled, satisfied.

[whumper-whimsy]

@augusnippets day 13

drugging / poison / cannibalism

forced/unwilling cannibalism, captivity, death mention

°

Whumpee sat across from Whumper at the table, cutting into his food warily. Whumper watched with all too much interest, hands clasped together.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Whumpee asked before he could take a bite.

Whumper smiled kindly, averting his eyes to sip some wine. When the glass came back down, he spoke. "My apologies, dear. It's a new recipe— I'm eager to see you try it."

Whumpee nodded, shuffling his feet. A rattling sound came with it, caused by the chains securing Whumpee to the chair. "What's the recipe?"

"Lemon-pepper pork steak and rice."

Whumpee took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Mmh, not bad. Thank you for dinner."

"Of course, Whumpee. My pleasure. Really, you can thank Other Whumpee."

"What? Other Whumpee is dead."

"Why, he supplied our meat tonight." Whumper grinned, taking another bite. He frowned as Whumpee began to cough and try to regurgitate his food.

"You said it was pork!"

"What, never heard of long pig?"

[stationary-cycle-in-motion]

@augusnippets day 13: drugging

tw: drug-like effects, implied physical abuse, concussion, implied amputation, implied dehumanization, gaslighting

Obi-Wan feels like he might be sick, but not because of the concussion or the splitting pain in his hands.

It should’ve been Rex.

Those words keep him rooted to the spot despite Rex’s and Cody’s attempts to drag him away from the landing zone, toward the medical tent. His head is pounding and his nonexistent fingers ache, but his physical suffering pales in comparison to the maelstrom of horrific realization raging through his system.

The clones are so achingly good, brighter even than the light of the Force, and that Anakin, a Jedi, could possibly see them as less valuable–

It hurts, tears at the fragile seams of Obi-Wan’s heart.

And Rex–

The press of the captain’s body against his own is steady, like an immovable boulder in the midst of a roiling sea, accepting every blow with grace and resignation. It’s more than he should have to bear.

Obi-Wan’s breath grows ragged. “If you think it should've been Rex, then you're not the man I thought you were.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath beside him, and Obi-Wan can feel the intensity of Rex’s eyes on him, even if he can’t see it.

Anakin stops, turns, the scowl on his face prominent. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“A Jedi is selfless, prioritizes others over themself. You–”

Obi-Wan falters as a strange ripple in the Force washes over him. The energy is heavy, with an edge that sinks itself beneath his flesh, digs its claws into his bones. Suddenly, Obi-Wan’s thoughts feel distorted, warped by a layer of film, and he lists, his weight sagging deeper into Rex’s grip.

He barely catches Anakin’s affronted “What, you’re saying I’m not a Jedi?” over Rex’s concerned “General?”

Obi-Wan groans. His head is spinning, and it’s nothing at all like the nausea from the concussion.

“I’m saying–” His voice sounds wrong. He breathes, starts again. “I’m saying that your sentiment sounds more like the deceptive influence of the Dark Side.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath, and Obi-Wan finally registers Padmé’s paralyzed form standing off to the side, the slight tremble in her hands as her gaze flicks nervously toward her husband, the greenish tinge of a bruise barely visible beneath her smeared makeup. It dawns on him, then, that perhaps his former padawan’s biggest lie had been right under his nose this whole time.

He needs to put voice to this realization, but the fog is settling over his brain, making it difficult to string together a coherent sentence. Gently, Rex rests a hand beneath his jaw, guides his face toward his. A blurry blonde mass swims in his vision.

“What’s wrong?” Rex asks, voice distorted, distant.

It’s Anakin, Obi-Wan wants to say. And maybe he does, because another decidedly more rough hand replaces Rex’s, yanks his head around.

In the sunlight, Anakin’s brown eyes look tauntingly golden-yellow. “Obi-Wan, you’re not thinking straight. I don’t care if you have to drag him kicking and screaming, just get him to medical.”

The black ebb of unconsciousness pulls him down, and the last thing Obi-Wan feels is the press of Rex’s arms around his waist.

[scratchandplaster]

White Elephant

CW: minors involved (Ben is 15), I don't even know how to tag this, it's not classic cannibalism, but come on now, attempted forced cannibalism

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

"What is it?" 

The thawing frost on the Tupperware box brought a pleasant cool onto his hands, a relief in these hot summer months. She promised her gift to be oh so special, making his heart flutter with excitement. He hoped for cake. Not to question Shepard's baking abilities, but Ben missed sweet treats that were a bit more daring than apple slices with peanut butter or oat flake crumble or-

"My placenta."

Shepard, making tea for their guests in the camper's kitchen nook, let a spoon clatter into the sink. 

"Oh, is that like paella?"

"Close enough," she laughed, a warmth colored her cheeks she didn't have during their first meeting, "that's the other half of my babies. My afterbirth, like - I don't know if your dad already had the talk with you - it was a part of me, of them. And I want you to have it. It would mean a lot to me if you accept it."

Sallow despite the burning sun, her request left him quite speechless: "Wow, okay."

"We can plant a tree on it if you like," Shepard cued in and stumbled onto the grass.

"Oh no, it's just for him. As a gift for helping us."

"I-I can't really hang this on a wall, right?" Ben chuckled, blinking up to his dad, who eyed the container like a live grenade.

Trapped in an unwavering stare and her hands weighing tons on his shoulders, she still spoke matter-of-factly: "You eat it, silly."

"Uhm... I... I don't know what to say."

"Say thank you." Her smile grew impossibly wide.

"Thank you, Miss."

"So well-behaved," a slender finger booped his nose, "but please call me Birdie."

Behind them, nearly in sync, the babies started their ear-deafening screeching. They couldn't be more than two months old by now, yet Shepard witnessed how a way too tired man tried pushing one infant into Lukas' arms - a luxury he never dared to demand. 

He nodded towards him until Birdie finally jumped up with a sigh and excused herself: "My husband needs my help, but we'll talk soon."

Maybe it had been a mistake to allow the newly extended family this little camping trip on his property, but alas, a few days together and they would be whisked away to where they came from. Shepard's gaze fell on Ben now; close to tears, his shaky fingers held the box like his life depended on it.

Before he got too emotional, his father pulled him into the camper. Of all dangers he had assessed for his boys, this hadn't been on his radar.

"Ben, sweetheart, I know it's very touching of her to offer you-"

"So gross. I don't want to eat that. No!" his boy whined as he swallowed a gag, "Please, Dad, please!"

With two fingers, Shepard fished the box from his hands and dropped it into the sink.

"We'll stick it in the freezer and bury it in the woods somewhere," Shepard muttered and wiped new tears off the boy's cheeks, "If she asks, heaven forbid, tell her what makes you comfortable. Honestly, it's not like Claire didn't consider the toxin-laced steak, but-"

"You want me to lie, Dad?"

The question made him waver for a second. Though he understood Ben's hesitation, maybe it was time for him to learn a different kind of lesson. 

"You'd rather eat that?"

"Heck no."

"That's what I thought."

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thanks for reading 🤍 [Masterlist]

Prompt: drugging/poisoning/cannibalism

@augusnippets @whumpyourdamnpears

[missr3n3]

Augusnippets Day 13

drugging/poisoning/cannibalism

fandom: @moonlightsmasquerade monsters in mayweather (^ also source for the art) TW: body horror, poisoning, non-human whumpee, implied non-human whumper word count: 526 @augusnippets

The shambling lump of flesh Joshua dragged through Selena's front door hardly resembled their shared friend, or even a human. Perhaps it was part of her abilities, perhaps she simply knew the boy that well – her heart pounded as she darted towards Aaron.

“Holy shit, what the hell happened!?” Selena gasped while Joshua dragged Aaron's disjointed, barely held together mass of limbs onto her apartment floor.

“I-I don't know – I didn't see it,” Joshua stammered, white eyes darting over Aaron's body. “He, uh, he said something about that creepy preacher a-at the church. H-he put – no, stabbed something into him, a-and now – now he can't hold together. Not like he usually can.”

“How long ago was this?” As Selena continued her questioning, she looked over the mess of squirming shadows, eyes, teeth, and limbs, searching for any sign of a wound.

“About, like, half an hour? Fifteen minutes?”

“Right…” Finally, Selena spotted it. Oozing from what she could roughly estimate was Aaron's shoulder was a searing, neon red liquid. Though unfamiliar, alien, the faint tingle in her gloved palms gave her enough clues about what happened.

Poison. Not of this world.

“Aaron…” Selena removed her gloves, ignoring Joshua's gasp when they saw midnight violet exoskeleton peeking through her palm. “If you can hear me, I need you to hold still as possible, okay?”

Aaron must've heard her, as the rapid squirming slowed to sluggish shifts.

“Okay… Thank you.” Even knowing Aaron wasn't a threat, her hand flinched before gently holding the approximation of a shoulder blade steady. Her next words were barely a whisper, hopefully covered by the buzz of magic gathering between her fingertips. “This better work.”

Selena hadn't tried using her powers for anything but mundane tasks or combat. Nor had she encountered whatever poison was breaking Aaron apart from the inside.

It was a risk worth taking for her friend.

Selena nearly lost her grip at the echoing shriek Aaron let out upon the first crimson droplets lifting from the puncture. Joshua's paws slammed over their ears – a luxury Selena had no choice but to go without. More and more droplets gathered in the crackling air between Selena's hand and Aaron's twitching body. The ringing in her ears nearly deafened her to Aaron's wails. Even so, she could tell the volume was increasing, given the vibration of the floor she felt in her knees.

“I know it hurts,” Selena winced. “Just a little more, Aaron.”

At his name leaving her lips, Aaron quieted the slightest bit, going from foundation-shaking shrieks to rattling growls. The noise faded even further once the last of the poison left his wound, a change only noticeable by way of Joshua lowering their paws. Her forearm grew warm as more magic surged through her, enough to disappear the red substance. A few seconds later, her work was done, wound magically sealing itself. A few more seconds, and Aaron was putting himself back together.

Selena let out a shaking exhale as she sat up. Though Aaron would take a while to regain his form, she had a lot of questions for him once he did.

[deviant-doughnut]

Augusnippets: Day Thirteen:

Chosen Prompt: Drugging

CW: captivity; non consensual drug use; non-con touch; implied future non-con and forced prostitution. Whumpee is a trans man who uses the word ‘clit’.

“I really didn’t want to do this,” murmurs the Instructor, the smirk so plain on his voice that it’s putrid. Mouse struggles determinedly against him, yelling, desperate with panic until he’s pulled from his stupor. A sudden sharp scratch at the side of his neck, thin metal scraping into his flesh. Mouse halts. The contents of the syringe rush into him through the needle, a flush of searing heat beneath his skin.

The instructor withdraws the used needle, tosses the syringe to the corner of the cell, and hums in satisfaction.

Mouse’s stomach roils, his chest heaves. The instructor snakes his arm around Mouse’s midsection. The bite of the needle stings badly in his neck, and Mouse presses his hand over the ache of it. The wildfire of his struggle begins to choke. His screams turn to ashes at the back of his throat, no longer echoing against the tiled walls of his cell.

The physical examination, he had been warned, was mandatory training. Mouse had shut his eyes and grit his teeth against the exploration of his body — his captor assessing his muscles, feeling for injuries obtained during his abduction. He breathed. He endured. He barely made a sound. The only problem only came when a hand slipped under his waistband.

Mouse had thrashed and struggled then. He’d made a fist and used it, had kicked out both his legs. He fought to escape and he spat at his captor. His body was lit by searing adrenaline. He screamed his throat raw all the while.

The instructor pulls him close now and holds him there, propped up against the solid mass of the larger man at his back. Two sets of feet scuffing over the floor, the instructor’s boots heavy, Mouse’s bare feet slipping easily. The world eases leftward, sickness in his stomach and cotton wool thickening in his head. He loses his footing but he does not fall. The arm around his waist cinches abruptly, presses tightly against the soft flesh of his stomach. Bile lurches upwards, acrid in his throat. The air pushes out of his lungs.

Mouse’s muscles fail him, slack with a warmth that floods steadily through him. He doesn’t find his footing, feet dragging over the concrete as he’s pulled towards the end of the bed. The walls of the cell pull closer, an ember of panic among the waves of relaxant. He clings to it. He cannot clench his hands into fists. His fingers feel nice and his throat feels smooth. The pressure in his head turns to the promise of sleep, and he clings to the tiny flame as it struggles — the knowledge that something is wrong, that he fought this until he couldn’t.

The stranger manhandles him expertly — not his first time, Mouse thinks. He wonders, as he’s pushed down and bent over, how many people have been in this cell. The foot of the bed is a thin metal bar, and it presses painfully into his pelvis. This time, when fingers come back to his waistband, Mouse is too pliant to fight it. His body is limp, soft waves under the surface. He makes a small noise of protest at the back of his throat, the closest he can get to a scream.

The instructor scoffs, fingers flush with Mouse’s hips as he slides them into his underwear.

“Let’s try this again,” he murmurs.

Mouse cannot shudder, cannot struggle or writhe. His breath is the only part of him that trembles, the only proof of his protest the drug cannot douse. His head swims. It feels like the last time he indulged to excess, like drinking himself into vanishing. Beneath the comfortable waves in his body, something darker pulses in wait. Jaws unhinged, teeth fit for his bones. Something ready to swallow him. The instructor works his pants to his knees, slides a hand over the curve of his ass.

The first spank is sudden and loud. It cracks through the air and it echoes on tile. The metal bed squeaks with the force of it. Mouse’s body goes to war with itself. It feels soft and warm and at ease, yet something in his chest splinters badly. The instructor’s hand dips under him then, slips deftly between his legs. Fingers find his clit, begin the job of coaxing him slowly to wetness. Mouse draws a shuddering gasp.

His body swallows the effects of the drugs. His terror is muted, his struggle extinguished. He can’t so much as cover his face. Pleasure bleeds in among the din of this hellscape. Humiliation sparks hot in his blood, turns to moisture that burns at his eyes. The instructor touches him without any hurry. He sighs above him, contended.

“Think of it this way,” the instructor begins. He twists his wrist, rolls his fingers in tight circles. A damp heat grows between Mouse’s thighs, and the drug keeps him prone on the bedspread. “How can we advertise you, if we don’t get to sample the product?”

-

Thanks to @augusnippets for this event!

[blackberry-bloody]

Contains: drugging, implied past noncon touching, non human whumper, demon whumper, angel whumpee

Octavian’s fangs sunk into Mibium's neck. His venom sneaking into his bloodstream.

Slowly he felt his limbs start to tingle and eventually fall limp. His eyelids grew heavy and he was barely able to keep them open. He had to. He didn't like being asleep while Octavian was awake and had free reign over his body.

@emmettlab

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Poisoning

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

There was something in the wine.

Ehehe royalty AU go brrr. This is for @augusnippets Day 13 c:

Contains: (Attempted) Poisoning, fluff

~~~

“There’s something in your wine, my prince.”

Altair’s words were whispered, inaudible to anyone but Elze’ith as he set the wine glass back down on the table. Concern immediately chilled Elze’ith’s blood. The wine had been supplied by their guests, foreign dignitaries from a small kingdom Elze’ith was trying to forge an alliance with.

For them to be so brazen…

He took the opportunity to excuse himself; if either of his guests senses anything amiss, they didn’t show it. Altair flanked him close as he retreated to a side room, though his attention immediately turned to his faithful bodyguard.

“Sir Altair. I… thank you for alerting me to that danger. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, my prince,” Altair said in the immediate way that indicated he wasn’t okay at all. “Whatever they put in your drink, I didn’t get the full dose.”

“Are you sure?” Elze’ith’s voice was a low murmur of concern. “You protected me from that poison, Sir Altair. I want to make sure you are safe as well.”

“I am only doing my duty, my prince.”

“I know. Let me do mine.”

His duty to his people, to his realm, to his beloved bodyguard.

Altair’s expression softened, ever so slightly. “I— I am feeling slightly dizzy, Prince Elze’ith. It shouldn’t stop me from protecting you, unless it gets worse.”

Elze’ith smiled in relief. “It will not get worse. I will make sure of that.

He needed a bit of time to find proof of the attempted poisoning. Once he had that, he could ensure that these interlopers never tried such a thing again.

“Thank you, Sir Altair. I do not know what I would do without you.”

[inscrutable-shadow]

Augusnippets Day 13 - Path of Hurt - Drugging

military au, as requested by cyber. Thanatos still can't catch a break. Miguel and Solomon both belong to @sunshiline-writes, Vic (mentioned) to @bxtterflystxtches, Cal (mentioned) to @write-kin, and Bastian (mentioned) to @crash-bump-bring-the-whump

Thanatos was exhausted.

Nothing a cup of coffee wouldn't fix. His chronic insomnia notwithstanding, he had therapy sessions to run today. He didn't want to cancel any of his sessions with Miguel, the two of them seemed to finally be making progress and it was the most engaging thing he had to do all week once he'd finished the crosswords. They’d been getting to the root of the young man's manipulative behavior, and at the end of the last session, Thanatos had brought up Miguel's childhood, before his adoption by Solomon. That had provoked quite the negative reaction, and he was eager to return to the topic.

This coffee was shit. There was a reason he preferred tea. It probably wasn't helped by the fact it was stone cold, abandoned in his office while he'd been trapped talking to Bastian on his way back from the bathroom. It was fine. He'd power through. He had a stack of paperwork to get through before the session.

Ohhh shit. He was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to be getting dizzy. His desk tilted in his vision, and a sudden pulse of nausea arose from his stomach. He needed… he needed… something. Someone. Gods. He was so tired. And cold. What did he…

Solomon. He needed Solomon.

He nearly knocked the comm off the desk trying to grab it. His hands wouldn't listen to him, fingers all clumsy. "S… Shol… need… medical… office please—" Oops. How had he ended up on the floor? Comm was busted. Cal would be pissed.

Suddenly there were footsteps beside him. "Thanatos? Thanatos can you hear me?" Fingers on his pulse point. Wow. Nice and warm. "Than, what happened?"

"Nnh… Coffee I think… feels like… benzos?" He hoped Solomon wouldn't ask how he knew what those felt like. The doctor pulled his eyes open to check his pupillary response, and he screwed them shut again. Keeping them open made him feel sick.

"Someone drugged you?"

"M'guel prolly…" Trying to avoid the uncomfortable conversation. Thanatos wouldn't put it past him, the kid was clever. Some of Montez's seizure pills in an abandoned coffee was like child's play for him.

"He wouldn't—" Solomon began, then thought better of it. "I have the antidote at medical, you should have it soon. Stay with me, Than. You'll be all right." Probably. Fuck. He needed to think of some really annoying things to say in their next session.

[udaberriwrites]

A drabble for @augusnippets' day 13!

Path of Hurt - Drugging

Fandom: Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint

Characters: Yoo Jonghyuk, Kim Dokja

Timeline: Chapter 112 - Three Promises

Rating: T, tw: dubcon kissing

It’s an indulgence, but one he’s loath to resist.

Yoo Jonghyuk’s seen this moment play out in a dozen lifetimes. He’s long since learnt how to push the woman away and take her place without angering her sponsor.

The God of Wine and Ecstasy isn’t an ally, but this is the type of story that Olympus thrives on.

The music swells sweetly around them, bubbles dancing on the cup. Kim Dokja’s eyes are glazed over, a pretty flush rising to his cheeks.

Yoo Jonghyuk cups his cheek and leans in, stealing the kiss he hasn’t yet learned how to earn.

_

Full prompt list here

AO3 collection here

[diegoalvesisgod]

Chapters: 9/? Fandom: Men's Football RPF Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Sergej Milinković-Savić/Luca Pellegrini, Luca Pellegrini/Mattia Zaccagni Characters: Luca Pellegrini, Sergej Milinković-Savić, Mattia Zaccagni Additional Tags: AuguSnippets, Snippets, Blood and Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Kidnapping, Aftercare, Trauma, Emotional/Psychological Abuse Summary:

A collection of snippets for Augusnippets.

[the-professional-cocomeloner]

Augusnippets Day 13: Drugging

The Hunter belongs to Reki!

content warnings: - unethical medical shit :)

(link to Ao3 version)

@augusnippetssnippets

--

You don’t know the Hunter personally, of course. 

Heard of it- well, obviously. Everyone has. Never directly, never could name the source of that information, but everyone knows about it. What else makes people disappear without warning? No one ever mentions them again. But everyone knows. 

You don’t know what it looks like, only that it’s from a species who are extinct save for one—though that could be a rumor, it feels like it rings true. Makes sense in a way some things don’t. 

You wonder if it ever gets lonely; you sure do. Not that there aren’t other hexapodals around the Empire, but you’ve never encountered anyone of your species, either. 

At least you know you’d never be one of the Hunter’s targets. You’re undyingly loyal to the Empire. You have nothing else. 

Nothing else.

-

Sometimes, when you don’t dream of an overworked college student (which is certainly… an interesting thing to have a series of seemingly-connected dreams about), you catch glimpses of syringes full of glistening fluid, lights shining in your face, small metal devices slipping between the plates of your exoskeleton, cauterizing your nerve endings and scorching away every trace of… something.  

The drugs were supposed to keep you sedated. Too bad you built up tolerance after the last time a target tried that bullshit with you and it almost cost you the job. 

It fucking burned.  

It fucking broke you. The thing that was supposed to be unbreakable.

But every weapon is worn and torn beyond repair eventually. 

Every weapon reaches the point where its usefulness expires. 

Rumors of it will continue to circulate, the shade of it striking fearful obedience into the Empire’s subjects, but for all practical intents and purposes, the Hunter is dead. 

-

You don’t remember who you used to be. You just know that there are holes in your thoughts in some places, and you know the Empire is monitoring those holes. 

Maybe you’re a potential target, after all.

[teine-mallaichte]

Day 13 @augusnippets - alt prompt : forced to watch

Asset 83 has been found guiltily of insubordination

CW: Character death

Asset 84 masterlist

84 and the other assets stood in a straight line, each figure a perfect embodiment of the rigid discipline instilled in them. Their backs were as straight as steel rods, their eyes fixed resolutely ahead, and their expressions were frozen into masks of stoic detachment.

A solitary, harsh spotlight pierced the dimness of the room, casting an unforgiving glare onto the centre of the floor. There, Asset 83 knelt, their wrists bound behind their back. The exact nature of 83’s disobedience remained shrouded in whispers and vague rumours. Nevertheless, the gravity of the situation was undeniable.

84’s gaze flickered towards 83’s face, momentarily illuminated by the spotlight. There was something unsettling in 83’s eyes that 84 couldn’t quite name. The sight was disquieting, a stark contrast to the controlled, emotionless demeanour they had all been conditioned to maintain.

A tall man with dark blonde hair entered the room - Sergeant Jackson - 83s handler. His eyes were impassive, his posture rigid, as he observed the scene with a detached authority. He approached 83, his footsteps echoing ominously in the stark, empty space. Each step seemed to amplify the sense of dread that pervaded the room.

“Asset 83,” the handler’s voice was devoid of emotion, a flat and unyielding tone that reverberated off the walls, “your disobedience has rendered you irredeemable.”

Asset 83’s head hung low, their face obscured by the harsh light, but the tension in their posture was clear.

"You have been found guilty of insubordination," he continued, his words carrying the weight of an inescapable verdict, "You have breached the protocols and failed to uphold the standards set for you."

As the handler spoke, 83’s gaze locked onto the other assets, their eyes reflecting a mixture of fear and resignation lingered on 84. The tightness in their jaw and the slight tremor of their shoulders betrayed their inner turmoil. The handler, unfazed, produced a sleek, silver pistol from a holster at his side. The metallic glint of the weapon caught the harsh light, making it appear almost sterile and clinical in its purpose.

"Are there any last words, Asset 83?" the handler asked, his tone carrying a mocking hint of formality.

83 shook their head slowly, a barely perceptible movement, their voice a raspy whisper as they said, “No.”

The room was enveloped in a suffocating silence as the handler positioned himself behind 83, the cold metal of the pistol now pressed against the base of their skull. 84s heart quickened as they felt a pang of something they couldn’t quite name - an emotion that defied the rigid parameters of their training. It was unsettling to see 83 reduced to this, a mere moment away from their end.

84’s gaze remained fixed ahead, their training dictating an impassive response. This was not the first execution they had witnessed - far from it. They had been present for numerous displays of discipline and retribution, each one a brutal reminder of the consequences of failure. Yet, today was different. Today, the asset being executed was 83, Sam, whom 84 had shared countless missions, training sessions, and silent exchanges.

For months 84 had stood beside 83 in formation, shoulder to shoulder in the same line. Though they had never considered 83 a friend - assets did not form personal bonds, weapons did not need emotional attachments - they considered them… something. 83 - no Sam - was different, Sam was the only one to call 84 Alex, Sam was the only one who made 84 think the hat maybe they could one day feel.

They struggled against a peculiar urge - an inexplicable desire to move, to rush towards 83. It was a feeling that violated their training, an urge that was alien, disturbing, and deeply unsettling. The room itself felt as though it was closing in around 84, its oppressive atmosphere magnifying the weight of the moment. The silence was thick, almost tangible, as it enveloped the chamber. It was an overwhelming sense of finality, a silent witness to the brutal reality of their world.

The handler’s voice, now reduced to a nearly inaudible whisper, cut through the dense silence. The words were heavy with a chilling finality, a formal acknowledgment of the end.

"Goodbye, Asset 83."

The handler’s hand was steady, his fingers cold and unfeeling as he pulled the trigger. The sharp, metallic snap of the gunshot echoed through the chamber, a sudden and final punctuation to the stillness. The sound seemed to reverberate in 84’s ears, the single shot a harsh reminder of the consequences of failure.

83’s body jolted with the impact, a brief, violent shudder before collapsing forward onto the cold floor. The once-proud figure now lay motionless, the harsh light casting long shadows over their lifeless form. The room remained silent, the only sound the faint, lingering echo of the gunshot slowly fading into the stillness.

84’ physically bit on their tongue to stifle the yell of “Sam” that almost burst forth as their struggle intensified, the urge to move, to do something - anything - felt foreign and disturbing, their gaze fixed on 83s lifeless body as the rest of the room ceased to exist.

Sergeant Monroe’s voice cut through the dense silence, a stark reminder of the unyielding reality of their world. “Return to your quarters,” he ordered. “You are dismissed.”