#augusnippets - alternative prompt

[jamietarttsnorthernattitude]

Jamie hadn’t meant to do it. He was trying to be good was the thing. He was really fucking trying, but everywhere he turned, something was fucking testing him.

Day 21 of @augusnippets - alternative prompt - relapse

Read on ao3

[jamiesfootball]

Augusnippets Day 15

Alternate Prompt: whipping

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

Summary:

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

Here on AO3

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

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

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

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

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

[Roy]: Was it the weights?

[Prick]: what weights?

[Prick]: oh

[Prick]: no

[Prick]: It’s nothin

[Prick]: It’s nothin bad

[Prick]: I fucked up

[Roy]: Fucked up how?

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

[Roy]: Bruising from what?

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

[Prick]: It was just a bit of whipping

Typing…

Typing…

Typing…

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

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

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

Half of Roy knew this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

“Your bath bombs,” repeated Roy.

Jamie nodded excitedly.

“You….whisk your bath bombs.”

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

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

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

A whisk for a bath bomb. Jesus fucking Christ.

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

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

“No,” answered Roy.

“But if I only had another whisk–”

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

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

“Don’t kill Sam.”

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

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

Roy sighed. “Give me a fork.”

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

Jamie turned around with the plates and-

“Is that a carving knife?”

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

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

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

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

[whumping-in-the-dark]

~Augusnippets~

Day 31: forced to watch | whipping | stalked

Prompts for Stalked:-

The classic whumper stalking whumpee before kidnapping them

Figuring out their every like and dislike along with every single detail of their life that they can capture

Either providing twisted version of 'heaven' for whumpee, deluded enough to think that they are whumpee's savior

Or forcing whumpee into the worst version of hell that they can come up with, specially designed for them

Alternatively, slightly-fucked-up whumpee stalking whumper because fuck they're kinda cute and whumpee definitely has a crush on them

Whumper pulling the uno reverse on them and kidnapping them because of course they noticed (Killing Stalking vibes)

Caretaker stalking whumper because they (rightfully) suspect them of having kidnapped whumpee

But no one believes caretaker because whumper pretends to be a nice lil member of society so caretaker is the one looked down upon for it

How far will caretaker go for that sweet sweet evidence?

Oh and whumpee stalking whumper even while living with caretaker because they've been conditioned so fucking bad that shit maybe they do miss them

Feel free to add more~

[udaberriwrites]

A drabble for @augusnippets' day 25 (alternate prompt)!

Path of Hurt - Forced to watch

Fandom: Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint

Characters: Kim Dokja, Yoo Jonghyuk

Timeline: 46th scenario - Hell on Eternity

Rating: T, tw: possessive behavior

「You’re weak, Yoo Jonghyuk.」

The echo of his 41st regression holds the spear with one hand. The other tangles in Kim Dokja’s hair, keeping him close.

「Did you think your fumbling wouldn’t have consequences?」

There are hundreds of voices beyond the Wall, pressing against their worldline. Blue sparks of probability dance between them.

「How could we not notice? Rather… how could we not desire?」

Another Jonghyuk appears. He puts a proprietary hand on Kim Dokja's shoulder, ignoring 41st’s outrage at the gesture.

「 Let's start a new scenario, Yoo Jonghyuk. This time, winner takes it all.」

_

Full prompt list here

AO3 collection here

[lancedoncrimsonwings]

Augusnippets Day 9

Path of Whumperless Whump Prompt: "overheating"

Day 9 of @augusnippets August 2024 Whump writing challenge! (Augusnippets Masterlist)

Characters:

- POV/Whumpee: Lancelot - The Weeping Monk

(Character Masterlist)

(Ao3 Link)

Wordcount; 228

TWs; Hallucinations, Fever dreams, fire/burning alive, POV character is religious.

Direct Continuation/Alternate POV of Day 5

Fire.

Somewhere above his sweatslicked body, cloth after sopping wet cloth was tirelessly wiped across a feverish brow, pulse pounding neck, bare panting chest. Icy water dripped over hot, bruised skin. A familiar, soothing voice echoed in a distance too far away for him to reach it before it faded beneath the sound of snarling flames.

He was on fire.

These were the fires of hell that lapped at his flesh, devouring it. An inferno that flowed into his lungs as he dragged in each breath, scorching him. Embers dripped across his cheeks and set his markings alight, smouldering them.

He was on fire and it was going to burn him alive.

He opened his mouth to scream but naught sounded save for a crackling roar echoing in his ears. His body thrashed helplessly against the surging flames, writhing in agony desperate to escape them but they were everywhere, everywhere and the panic siezed his frenzied heart, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't--

He was on fire and could do nothing at all but give in, blazing ferociously into the night.

Starved of air, his mind shattered away from his ailing body, succumbing into the depths of Hell, letting it claim him. He was but a single flickering light burning in the darkness.

What would be left of him when he went out?

Naught but Ash.

Continued on Day 18

Lancelot's horrible no good very bad day continues. I actually came up with this idea as part of the feverish caretaking prompt, then decided it worked better split!

I tried to link back to the previous snippet though. Some "fun" fever and delirium induced dreams for our poor boy... At least Gawain is still there to help him through it, even if Lancelot isn't necessarily aware of it.

[teine-mallaichte]

Day 31 @augusnippets - write what you want.

Escape plans do not always go to plan.

eugh, so many options!!!! Ok, so I picked a prompt of "sole survivor" and this is the first peice for my new "on the run" series which is an alternative timeline to Asset 84 where 84 and 83 escape from the facility. 44 is a character they end up meeting later.

CW: violence, character death, living weapon.

On the run masterlist Complex 27

44 rushed down the hallway, desperately trying to ignore the blaring alarms and flashing lights. She glanced back to ensure 32, 45, and 39 were still behind her. Relief mingled with dread as she saw them, but there was no time to dwell on it. They had to keep moving.

The escape plan had been carefully crafted, with every detail meticulously laid out by 32. The medic had always had a flair for organization, making sure every possible scenario was accounted for. But even the best-laid plans could falter when faced with the full might of the facility—the very people who had trained them, who knew their every move. How had they ever thought they could escape?

44 shook her head, shoving the creeping doubt aside. They could still make it, they just had to keep going.

A sudden explosion tore through the corridor, sending a wave of heat and debris crashing toward them. 39 was the first to react, instincts kicking in as he shouted, “That all they’ve got?” A teasing grin crossed his face, his way of keeping the tension at bay, even now.

"39! Focus," 45 barked, his tone sharp and commanding.

39 turned to smirk at 45, but the expression faded in an instant as a jagged piece of shrapnel ripped through his torso, sending him crashing to the ground.

44 skidded to a halt, her breath catching as she saw 39’s teasing grin wiped away by the cold hand of death. For a split second, she was frozen, her mind struggling to process the loss. They had been so close—how could it all be unraveling so quickly?

“39!” 32 shouted, her voice a mix of fury and desperation. She dropped to her knees beside him, her hands moving with the precision born of countless hours in the facility’s training rooms. But even as she worked, 44 could see the truth in 32’s eyes: there was nothing she could do.

“No, no, no…” 32 muttered under her breath, her meticulous nature clashing with the chaos around them. She had always been the one to keep them on track, the one who never let emotion cloud her judgment. But now, her hands trembled as she tried to stop the inevitable.

"We have to move!" 45 shouted, standing protectively behind them, his rifle raised and ready, his eyes scanning for their pursuers.

44 hesitated, torn between the urge to stay and the brutal reality that they were running out of time. Her gaze lingered on 39, who had always been the one to lighten the mood with his teasing, even in the darkest of times. Now, his lifeless body lay as a stark reminder of the cost of their freedom.

“44, we have to go!” 45 snapped, his voice cutting through the haze of shock. There was no room for grief, not now—not when they were so close.

A deafening roar of gunfire reverberated through the corridor. As the chaos intenifird 45 returned fire, but the enemy was overwhelming, their numbers and speed relentless.

44 felt like the ground was slipping away beneath her feet as she watched 32 crumpled to the ground, her lifeblood pooling around her like a dark, spreading stain.. She wanted to scream, to cry out in anguish, but there was no time—only the relentless push of survival. Her heart pounded in her chest, every instinct screaming at her to run, to leave the dead behind and escape while she still could.

But leaving them—it felt like a betrayal. They were a team, bound together by their shared suffering, their shared dreams of freedom. 39’s teasing grin, 32’s meticulous care—these weren’t just comrades; they were pieces of her own fractured soul.

“44!” 45’s voice snapped her back to the present, sharp and commanding. There was no hesitation in his tone, only the cold, hard truth of their situation. “We have to go, now!”

44 leapt to her feet, grabbing 45 by the arm and draggin him behind her, she wasn't losing him too.

They manage to push through the final checkpoint, reaching the last barricade—a metal door with an intricate lock mechanism. The clang of metal against metal echoes as 44 frantically punches in the override code, her hands steady despite the chaos.

45 stands guard, his composure beginning to fray as he fires in rapid bursts toward the advancing soldiers. "We’re running out of time!" he yells, eyes darting between the door and the increasingly swarming enemies. "They’re getting too close!"

44’s fingers tremble as she inputs the final sequence. The door shudders, and with a mechanical hiss, it begins to slide open. Just as the gap widens enough for them to slip through, the soldier’s grenade detonates with a deafening roar.

The shockwave hurls 44 against the wall, and she feels a searing pain in her left arm as a piece of shrapnel embeds itself in her flesh. She grits her teeth, the pain almost blinding. "No time for weakness. Just get through. We have to get out." She tells herself.

A strangled cry escapes her lips, but she fights through the agony, pushing herself to her feet with the help of 45. The hallway, now engulfed in chaos and smoke, seems to pulse with a cruel rhythm. 44 stumbles, clutching her left arm as if to hold the remnants of her shattered limb together. Her vision blurs at the edges, but she steels herself, focusing on the flickering light of the emergency exit sign ahead.

A moment of silence envelops her as she struggles to regain her bearings. She glances back down the hallway, now a maelstrom of smoke and debris. The scattered bodies of her teammates and the advancing enemy soldiers paint a grim picture of their desperate situation. The metal door, once a symbol of hope, now feels like a distant, unreachable goal. She forces herself to move, each step a battle against the overwhelming pain.

Can’t let them win. Not after everything. Not after everyone."

If 45 escapes then it will still be a success.

45’s eyes are wide, darting back and forth between the advancing enemy soldiers and the door. His weapon is nearly empty, but he fires off the last few rounds. The soldiers, relentless and methodical, advance in a well-coordinated push, their footsteps like a grim march of doom.

“Go!” 44’s voice is strained, but it carries an urgency that cannot be ignored. She grits her teeth, feeling the intense pain that radiates from her shattered arm. Blood soaks her sleeve and drips to the floor, forming a dark trail in her wake.

45 hesitates, his eyes flicking between the opening door and 44’s pain-stricken face. “You’re not—”

“Now!” 44’s command is sharp, cutting through the clamor of gunfire. But just as the word leaves her mouth 45 stiffens, a strained gasp leaving his throat before he crumples to the ground.

44’s heart races as she watches 45’s body fall. With a final surge of strength, she pushes herself toward the door, the excruciating pain in her arm making every step a battle. She reaches the threshold and looks back one last time, her gaze meeting the emptiness of the corridor where her comrades fell.

The metal door finally gave way with a groan, its heavy frame sliding open to reveal the darkness outside. As 44 stumbled through the gap, the blaring alarms and the chaos of the facility faded behind her. The once overpowering sounds of gunfire and shouts were replaced by an eerie silence, punctuated only by the distant hum of machinery and the whisper of the wind.

The cold night air hit her like a physical blow, a stark contrast to the stifling heat and smoke of the facility’s corridors. She gasped, her breath forming fleeting clouds in the chilly air. The sudden drop in temperature made her injuries feel even more acute, each step against the gravelly ground sending jolts of pain through her wounded arm.

The facility's alarms fade behind her as she limps into the darkness, each step heavier than the last. The thought of the others, of 39’s grin and 32’s meticulous care, is a heavy weight in her chest. And 45… the way he fell right before they reached the end. It’s a haunting image that will stay with her forever.

But she can’t stop. Not now. Not when she’s so close to the boundary, the edge of the facility's perimeter. Her vision blurs, her body numb with the pain of her injuries, but she forces herself forward. Knowing that if she stops, if she gives in to the pain, it will all been for nothing.

[shyday-ao3]

late entry for @augusnippets Day 3. Prompt thunderstorm. Daredevil fandom.

“I don’t know who you think you’re kidding, man. Just go home. We can pick this up again tomorrow.”

Matt’s head comes up fast like Foggy’s caught him doing something indecent, an embarrassed flush to his pale skin. “What? What are you talking about?” The glasses almost hide the wince.

���Come on. Like, I know when you’re not reading. You haven’t moved your hand for five minutes.”

Fingers jump into motion. “That’s not true.”

Foggy rolls his eyes. “Uh-huh. Then tell me, Counselor, what are you so deeply engrossed in?”

“It’s the notes from the Waterman case.”

“Said with the confidence of a man who knows I can’t read Braille. You have a headache?”

Matt’s lips twitch like he’s considering a lie; his chin dips toward his chest. “Yeah,” he exhales. Thunder rolls directly overhead. He flinches.

“Bad?” Foggy asks.

“Yeah.”

It must be, if he’s willing to admit it. Foggy frowns. “So go home already.”

“No, I uh…” The sentence wanders off on its own. 

“Seriously, man. Workday’s almost over anyway. Get out of here.”

Hands push up his glasses as he rubs at his eyes. He mumbles something Foggy doesn’t catch.

“One more time?”

“I said it’s going to be a pain to get across town right now.”

“So don’t take the subway. Get an Uber.” 

Matt squirms uncomfortably. “I just… It’s loud out there, Fog.”

“Oh.” He looks exhausted. It’s not difficult to come up with an alternate suggestion. “Take a nap on the couch in here then. I’ll get some more work done, and I’ll wake you up when it’s time to get out of here. If you ask nicely, I’ll even run interference with Karen when she gets back.”

Foggy watches him consider this. Finally he nods. “Okay.”

“You want some ibuprofen?” he asks as he gathers his stuff. “I think Karen’s got some in her desk.”

He’s almost to the door when the hoarse answer comes. “Sure. Thanks.” 

Definitely a bad one. “I’ll, um, I’ll be right back.”

He closes the door behind him, stops by his own office to drop off his things. He’s digging through the mess of Karen’s bottom drawer when the front door opens.

“What are you doing?” she asks, appearing on the other side of the desk with her hair dripping rainwater.

“Looking for your ibuprofen.”

She sets her purse on the desk and peers into it. Her hand dives inside like a bird of prey. “What’s going on? Are you okay?” The hand reemerges holding the pill bottle. “Here.”

“Not for me. Matt’s got a migraine.” 

“Maybe I should check on him. See if there’s anything I can do.”

Foggy grabs the bottle out of her hand. “You’re doing it. Thanks.”

Stopping only to grab a cup of water from the kitchenette, he heads back to Matt’s office. Getting no response to his knock, he lets himself in. Matt’s asleep at his desk, head pillowed on an arm.

Foggy leaves the water, the pills. Lets himself back out.

[jamietarttsnorthernattitude]

cw injury recovery

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

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

Read on ao3

[jamietarttsnorthernattitude]

Colin breaks his leg and Isaac brings him clothes before he leaves the hospital.

Day 4 of @augusnippets - alternative prompt - sharing clothes

Read on ao3

[jamietarttsnorthernattitude]

cw stalking

"Hi Jamie,

I can’t believe I’ve taken so long to write to you. I’ve thought about it every day since you transferred to AFC Richmond but never had the confidence to do it—at least until now. I’m here, Jamie, and I promise I won’t ever leave you again."

Day 31 of @augusnippets - alternative prompt - stalking

read on ao3

[jamietarttsnorthernattitude]

cw injury / cw infection

The pain wasn’t even that bad, was the thing. It was the swelling that came first. Then, the fever.

Day 28 of @augusnippets - alternative prompt - medical complications.

read on ao3

[jamiesfootball]

Augusnippets Day 24

Alternate Prompt: flashbacks

cw: implied/referenced child abuse, referenced past choking/strangulation, flashbacks, panic attacks

Summary:

He shakes his head and swears warmly, the way he must’ve done a million times before– “I should fucking strangle you.”

Sequel to this

Here on AO3

It’s a fucking joke. Roy doesn’t really mean it.

It’s the third time that morning that Jamie tries to steal a sip from Roy’s water bottle, despite the fact that his own bottle remains halfway full. He’s spent all morning doing his best to rile Roy up – jogging faster than Roy can keep pace, singing the same four lines from that annoying pop song on repeat, running backwards ahead of him despite Roy’s repeated shouts that he’s going to trip and fall and then Roy’s going to make him crawl home.

Jamie grins at that. His bright orange water bottle sloshes as he tosses it back and forth between his hands, and he smarts back that that’s the only way Roy could beat him in a race. Then without pausing, he asks if Roy’s planning on using last night’s chicken to make chicken salad for lunch, because that’d be mint.

It’s a normal fucking day.

So when Jamie ducks into Roy’s space again, grinning wildly and unabashedly pleased with himself, it’s second nature for Roy’s arm to raise up to fend him off.

Also second nature: the low growl it elicits when Jamie dances out of reach. Roy doesn’t even consciously think about moving; his reflexes have him taking a step forward to catch his would-be water poacher by the nape. His hand cups around the back of Jamie’s neck. He gives it a short squeeze, and something irritatingly, blisteringly fond digs fingers into his ribs. He shakes his head and swears warmly, the way he must’ve done a million times before–

“I should fucking strangle you.”

Jamie, bouncy and restless and maddeningly cheerful, goes completely still. The skin under Roy’s palm goes cold, chilled like he’s been doused by a bucket of ice water. The light in his eyes flicks off, all traces of emotion blinking out of existence between one second and the next, replaced with a horribly blank nothingness. Like Roy’s accidentally gone and found the button that finally turns him off.

The neon-bright water bottle, with its stickers and spare headband wrapped around the lid, slips out of lifeless hands to fall dead on the grass. The cap spills open. Water sloshes everywhere. Jamie takes a quick step back. Then he wobbles, then his legs give out, and Roy barely manages to grab him by the shoulders. He guides him shakily to the ground.

“Hey. Hey. That’s it, easy. Down, that’s a good lad, that’s good. Come on, now, breathe for me..”

Jamie pulls his legs up to his chest, his forehead digging into his knees. He’s gasping now, his breaths turned into sharp, whistling hitches. One of his hands fists into his joggers; the other curls into his shirt, pulling the neckline away from his throat as he struggles to breathe.

Roy crouches beside him, running his hand along his back in rhythmic, steady circles, the way he would if it were Phoebe or Keeley or any of the people he was somewhat qualified to console.

After what feels like a million aching years, the panting begins to subside. The tension in his back unwinds. His hands uncurl, his fingers white with how painfully tightly they’d been twisted up. The front of his shirt is stretched beyond ruin, and his hand trembles as he tries to flatten it back down.

Jamie finally reappears, warily peeking up. He’s still pale-faced and blank, but there’s an alertness behind his red-rimmed eyes that wasn’t there before. Confused, he takes in the park and the grass and the old ladies in the distance and the parents with their prams and picnics before his attention finally lands on the person kneeling in front of him.

He croaks out a hoarse, “What?”

“Here,” says Roy. He holds out the water bottle that started this mess. “Drink this.”

He waits anxiously as Jamie unscrews the cap. He doesn’t take more than a sip, and even that small amount makes him sputter, coughing weakly into his shoulder.

After an elastic stretch of silence, Roy dares to ask, “Has that happened before?”

Jamie chokes on a laugh. It’s a scornful, cutting noise that Roy never wants to hear again. “Yeah. Yeah, you can say that.”

Roy frowns. “More than once?” He’d fucking hoped it was a one-off.

Jamie spins the bottle absently between his palms, watching the liquid swish around. With feigned indifference drawn around him like a shield, he shrugs. “A few times I guess.”

“Ok.” Roy nods woodenly. “All right.”

He settles his hand on Jamie’s shoulder. Jamie jumps a bit at the contact, but he doesn’t pull away, and Roy considers that a victory. He doesn’t know what the fuck else he’s supposed to be doing here. After witnessing something like that, it feels like he should have something to say, but he doesn’t. He should’ve asked Ted more questions. He should’ve joined the Diamond Dogs years ago, if only for the practice. He should’ve started therapy when he was nine.

After going in circles over whether or not it’s a stupid question, Roy takes the risk and asks, “Is there something specific that triggers it or some shit?”

Is there anything I can avoid to make sure that never fucking happens again.

The hastily drawn bravado trembles like a mirage. Jamie cocks his head, confused. A vulnerable shadow flickers across his expression. “What?”

“Is it you know-,” Roy spins his hand in the air, “-is it brought on by anything?”

They stare at each other blankly, two hamsters spinning on different wheels. Jamie’s speedy little rodent gets there a half second sooner. He shrinks back, his shoulders bunching up protectively around his ears. “Oh. Oh. You thought I meant-“

“What did you think I was talking about–“

It clicks.

Roy hates that it clicks.

He sits down on the grass; his sister can come pick him up later if he has trouble standing up. This is too important.

“Thought for a moment there that you were gonna choke me,” Jamie spells it out. Simple, ugly words that bruise to hear. “Knew you wouldn’t, but–“

“It’s happened before,” Roy finishes.

Jamie drops his head back onto his knees with a sharp exhale. Nods.

“I never knew when it was going to happen,” Jamie confesses. “I mean, I could usually tell when he was in a bad mood. Whether it was a bad day or whether it was something I had done. But I could never tell if it was gonna be… that.”

It isn’t news that his dad’s a piece of shit; it’s just the breadth of it that’s staggering.

Roy doesn’t think he’ll ever get to the point where hearing the details doesn’t make him want to put his fist through a wall — or better yet, James Tartt’s face. Honestly, he never wants to; he never wants to get to the point where he takes these harsh glimpses being shared with him for granted.

More important than all of that is the hunched figure sitting beside him, tearing grass from the earth in tense clumps as he waits for Roy’s verdict.

“Shit,” Roy says under his breath. “Jamie. That’s fucked up.”

Jamie freezes. Slowly, he unclenches his fist. Blades of grass trickle out of it, blown free by the wind. With a note of hope in his voice, he says, “Yeah?”

It’s such an earnest question it breaks Roy’s fucking heart.

“Yes,” Roy insists. “Fuck. Christ, Jamie. You didn’t deserve that shit.”

“Might’ve. You don’t know.”

“The fuck I don’t,” Roy snaps. “No one deserves that shit.”

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t always tell that, could I?” Jamie bites back. His shoulders rise defensively. “You know what they say: the pot doesn’t fall far from the kettle.”

Jamie flops back in the grass, arms folded petulantly across his chest like he’s won the argument. The neon orange bottle lays empty at his feet, and Roy’s plain black one sits next to it like a menacing shadow.

Roy inhales sharply between his teeth. He’s trying not to be the shadow.

“That’s not what they say.”

“I’m pretty sure it is. You know, how once a table’s been flipped over, they can tell where it was standing before because everything sort of falls in the same direction?”

“That’s not–,” Roy cuts himself short. He takes in Jamie, the way he’s splayed out like a frog ready for autopsy: pinned open and vulnerable to poking. He is, Roy’s beginning to realise, eerily good at pretending his trauma isn’t on display, and even better at getting Roy to fall for the act.

Like there's a chance Roy might go home and forget he ever said anything.

Roy shakes his head. “Actually that makes some sense.”

“See? Told ya.”

“But it’s just a metaphor. That doesn’t make it true,” he adds forcefully. “If anything, your dad isn’t the kettle in that situation; he’s the man flipping the table.”

Jamie blinks up at the sky. His eyes shine. “Yeah. Maybe.”

After a brief moment’s hesitation, Roy lies down next to him. He’ll regret it when he tries to stand up again, but for now that doesn't matter.

The sky is stupidly blue. A brisk wind slides in from the north. Families and old ladies and loud teenages and sloppy, happy dogs circulate around the park, lives continuing on their merry way with no concern for the two resting figures in the grass.

“Do you ever wish you were a frog?” asks Jamie, already moving on, lacing up his boots, and preparing to leave the moment in the wind.

Roy lets him. It’s the least he can do. That, and brace himself for the day it all catches up. Roy doesn’t need to win the race; he just needs to be waiting at the finish line.

Until then, it’s a normal fucking day.

[jamiesfootball]

🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

Hello! Hello! Terribly sorry these have been sitting in my ask box for a while.

Please have this snippet from one of the Augusnippet prompt fills I am working on. This one is for the alternate prompt fill 'flashbacks'

CW for this fic involve child abuse and choking, but neither is specifically in this snippet

“Has that happened before?”

Jamie laughs, a sharp hysterical noise Roy never wants to hear again. “A few times.”

“Ok. All right.” He pats Jamie’s shoulder; he’s never felt so ineffective or clumsy. He should’ve asked Ted more questions, but it hadn’t seemed his place. “Is there anything specific that triggers it?”

Is there anything I can avoid to make sure that never fucking happens again.

The hastily drawn bravado trembles like a mirage. A vulnerable shadow flickers across his expression. “What?”

They stare at each other blankly, two hamsters spinning on different wheels. Jamie’s speedy little rodent gets their a half second sooner. He shrinks back. “Oh. You thought I meant-“

“What did you think I--“

It clicks.

Roy hates that it clicks.

He sits down on the grass; his sister can come pick him up later if he has trouble standing up. This is too important.

[jamiesfootball]

Augusnippets Day 4

Alternate prompt: wearing caretaker's clothes

cw: fluff. this has been a run of fluff content so far, but it won't stay like that

Summary:

Morning training is cancelled due to rain. Now Roy needs to stop being stubborn and wear Jamie's clothes

Here on AO3

"C'mon," Jamie whined. "Quit being a stubborn old fart and take it."

Roy’s fists clenched around his towel. "No."

"But you're dripping on my floors."

"Your floors are wood. They can take it."

"Well that's not very guest-like of you," said Jamie, who somehow had the gall to chastise Roy as if the last time he’d come around his gaff, he hadn’t drunk the rest of Roy’s lactose-free milk straight out of the carton and put the carton back in the fridge.

Without warning, the prick tossed the bundle of clothes at Roy's chest. They landed in a pile on the floor – joggers, socks, pilling sweater – because Roy's frozen fingers had been replaced with actual popsicles and refused to fucking move.

A torrential downpour. In November. When it was already freezing out.

Bundled head to toe in a fluffy, sherbet-coloured tracksuit, Jamie looked smug as a cozy cat. He tilted his head, screwing up his face in a cartoonish exaggeration of pity. "Suit yourself then. Suppose you don't want tea either."

Roy clenched his teeth, focusing all his energy into pretending he wasn't shivering.

"Don't want me clothes, don't want me tea. Probably don't want either of the fuzzy blankets I've got spinning in the dryer."

At least the pounding rain on the windows drowned out the sound of his teeth chattering.

"You know, it's still pretty early. Sun's barely up, hardly got anything done during training," Jamie beat around the bush with all the subtlety of someone trying to hack down a forest. "Suppose it's not too late to throw in the towel so to speak, call it a cheat day."

"Tartt-"

"I've got the good hot cocoa."

Roy snapped. 

"Fine. I’ll take the clothes. And the blanket. And when I come back downstairs, there better be tiny marshmallows waiting in my mug."

"There's a lad!" Jamie cheered. "One hot cocoa coming right up."

[jamietarttsnorthernattitude]

Hello! For the AuguSnippets prompts, I would like to read what you would come up with for Path of comfort - day 11: escape/breaking the conditioning/safe and sound or Path of comfort - day 23: massage/wiping away tears/gentle touch or Secret third path - day 9: hypothermia/overheating/dehydration! 💙

But no pressure at all, only if one of these prompts inspire you! 😊

Thank you my lovely friend! I have been attempting to go in order so I have already worked some on day 9; here is a bit:

“You can come back inside once you learn some fucking manners.” The click of the deadbolt turning was deafening in the quiet night. Jamie hadn’t meant to talk back. He hadn’t even really done that; he just scoffed when Dad commented on him not scoring, as if he could’ve done any better. His cheek was still burned from the slap, but the cold air offered some small relief after the oppressing heat of Dad’s flat and its radiator with the broken dial.  Still, Jamie wished Dad had given him his coat or, at the very least, his shoes before he shoved him outside into the cold January night. His palms stung as he picked the gravel out of them and rubbed them together to try and keep warm. It had only been a few minutes, but alternating rubbing his hands together and up and down his bare arms was no match for low single-digit temperatures. Bouncing from socked foot to socked foot to try and keep the cold pavement from seeping through him, he counted in his head as a distraction. 

Apologies for the delay, this has been in my drafts as I made my way through the snippets but I just got to day 11: excape/breaking the condition/safe and sound and here is a snippet of a snippet:

Maybe it was Pavlovian.

Jamie hadn’t even thought about where he was going. All he knew was he needed to get out of the house, he needed to get away from his father and the wrath Jamie had set off merely by finding his sober father, no longer sober.

It hadn’t been a thought, Jamie just ran.

He hadn’t considered his destination when he sprinted out the door, not bothering to even shut it behind him, yet somehow ended up standing in front of Roy Kent’s house. The last time Jamie had a physical altercation with his dad, he crumbled into Roy Kent’s arms. Tonight hadn’t ended with a single punch, but Jamie unknowingly sought Roy Kent’s emotional and physical safety for a second time when his father could not give it; when his father only offered derision and danger and pain.

[udaberriwrites]

A drabble for @augusnippets' day 30 (alternate prompt)!

Path of Whumperless Whump - Medical complication

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Characters: Wyll Ravengard, Shadowheart

Timeline: Act 1

Rating: T

“Come here,” Shadowheart orders.

Her annoyance isn’t unwarranted; the wound was preventable. Between the tadpole in his brain and the way his body has warped, however, he’s clumsier than usual.

Wyll has benefited from healing spells more times than he can count, so he’s not expecting it to burn.

The magic tries to dispel the fiendish stench clinging to his soul; but this is his nature now. It only makes his blood boil even as the wound knits itself together.

“Everything alright?” Shadowheart frowns.

Wyll looks at Karlach across the campfire. She doesn’t deserve to shoulder more regrets.

“Of course.”

_

Full prompt list here

AO3 collection here