#augusnippets day 16

[whumper-whimsy]

@augusnippets day 16

Humiliation / dehumanization / conditioning

Continuation of Day 15

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

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

°

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Listen, I–"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't like it!"

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

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

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

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

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

"Say it again."

"Whumper—?"

"Again."

"...I like it."

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

Baby.

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

[stationary-cycle-in-motion]

@augusnippets day 16: dehumanization

tw: dehumanization, emotional abuse, referenced amputation

The gunship touches down in a village a few klicks away from the Palace. The peaks of white cloth tents are just visible between the buildings, and 501st and 212th troopers alike swarm the streets, tending to wounded, shoveling snow, distributing rations.

Even though the scene is a bit grim, the fresh puff of air that rushes through the opening doors is a welcome relief; the tense atmosphere was beginning to feel a bit suffocating. Rex and Cody brace General Kenobi between them as they begin their trek to the medical tent.

A heavy step hits the ground behind them, and the crack of gravel beneath the boot sounds like the flick of a whip, poised to strike.

“You had one job, Rex.” The voice, seething with barely contained rage, is little more than a whisper, but it draws the attention of every trooper in the square.

Rex drifts to a stop, bloody fingers tightening imperceptibly around General Kenobi’s waist. “We need to get General Kenobi to medical, sir.”

“Yeah, you do,” General Skywalker spits as he circles around, boxing Rex in like a cornered animal. “You know why? Because you cut off his kriffing fingers.”

“Anakin, that’s not fair,” General Kenobi mumbles.

“You wanna talk about fair?” General Skywalker’s gaze slides over the exhausted group, lingering on General Kenobi’s mutilated hands and Senator Amidala’s slight limp before his glare settles on Rex’s bloodstained armor. “How come Rex is the only one who got out of there unscathed?”

Senator Amidala shifts uncomfortably. “Anakin–”

“Don’t defend him! Believe me, I wish everyone could make it out of every mission in one piece, but this is war. And at the end of the day, Rex is a clone; it’s his job to put himself in danger to protect his general, his charge, the people of every planet he’s sworn to protect!”

Rex’s face is burning, the gaze of every one of his subordinates scathing, making the shame boil hotter.

“You can’t mean that you wish Rex had been the one to lose his fingers.” Senator Amidala’s voice is quiet, horrified.

General Skywalker sighs. “I don’t wish it had been him. I wish it hadn’t happened to anyone.”

His general’s expression turns severe as his eyes lock onto Rex’s. Ice cold dread seeps into Rex’s bones, and the effect is far more chilling than being left out in a blizzard could ever be.

“But if it had to happen to someone, it should’ve been Rex.”

The worst part is, he can’t even defend himself. General Skywalker is right, after all; the clones were made for one purpose: to sacrifice themselves for the Jedi and the Republic.

If anything, Rex agrees with his general; if he could trade places with General Kenobi, he would, in a heartbeat.

The blood on his armor and hands might wash away, but guilt leaves a stain that can never be cleansed.

[whumping-in-the-dark]

~Augusnippets~

day 16: humiliation | dehumanization | conditioning

@augusnippets

CW: implied abuse/noncon, see above

Theo is a free-use/stand-in/generic whumpee and does not belong to any specific story.

"So, what do you think?" Marlon grabbed Theo's hair, forcing his face up. "Do you really think he's worth all this effort? No, right?"

Theo could see the indecisiveness in his teammates' eyes-- the moment their pity turned into disgust.

"Answer me!" Marlon roared at the disarmed group, thoroughly enjoying the look on their faces. "You have seen the video now; you have seen how obedient he is to me. Is there really still a doubt left in your mind?"

Hot tears coursed down Theo's cheeks, face flushed red with shame. He already knew what their answer was going to be.

[missr3n3]

Augusnippets Day 16

humiliation/dehumanization/conditioning

fandom: cabin tales (rotten roots AU) TW: home invasion, beatings, kidnapping, dehumanization, threats of torture, unreliable narrator word count: 560

@augusnippets

Everything happened so fast. One second, Peter was having breakfast mostly alone – save for several attempts to shoo Mittens away from his cereal.

Then, his front door opened, Mittens hissing at the intruders before Peter saw or heard them.

All hell broke loose.

Mittens, luckily, was off like a bullet – Peter could only hope he found a safe hiding spot. Peter bolted out of his chair, heading towards the kitchen – specifically, his knife block. He barely reached the doorway when he was tackled to the ground.

He should've listened to his father, should've gotten into sports. His frail limbs did nothing to defend himself from two pairs of fists and feet slamming into his body – hitting him, kicking him once he hit the ground, beating him.

By the time Peter was dragged into a van he only briefly caught a glimpse of, his whole body ached, burned, an eye was swollen shut, blood filled his mouth from a tooth knocked loose and dripped from a broken nose.

Within seconds of a heavy car door slamming shut behind Peter's bruised, limp body, his wrists were tied tight, and a rough sack was pulled over his head. Someone – a male, if the large size of his hands were anything to go by, pinned his bound hands above him. Someone much smaller sat on his torso. Cold air and ripping fabric told him all he needed to know.

“Look at it, squirming like a little maggot!” a feminine voice jeered above Peter, likely belonging to the captor who cut his shirt off.

“It's about the right color for a maggot after we kicked its teeth in, too,” added a masculine voice behind Peter. “And just as disgusting. You goddamn monster.”

“Save it for when we get to the manor,” a new voice chided – slightly further, probably the driver. It was feminine, but much lower, older than the person sitting on Peter. “You can let it all out during the initiation.”

“There's no rules against just talking,” the younger captor argued.

“Of course!” the male captor concurred. “Especially since there's so much planning to do! We’ve gotta make this one last longer than the previous initiation after all. Given what this shit-stain did.”

“Very true. We've got so many options, too.”

“Do tell.”

“I was thinking… maybe we start by cutting its fingers off.” Peter thought his heart would be merciful enough to stop at the younger captor’s words. “Oh! And then we can gouge its eyes out, since it doesn't deserve to see our newest member after what he did to her!”

What I did to…? What are they talking about!?

“I think the old man added a drill down there,” the male voice continued. “We could use that on its ears so it can't hear her.”

“I don't know… I think forcing it to hear its screams would be far more entertaining.” The younger captor sighed. “Maybe we save that for later, when it starts dying.”

Dying…?

One thought emerged in Peter's mind, a sliver of light he held to like a lifeline within the dark situation he found himself in.

At least they didn't have Sarah. Her sudden, unannounced work trip had become a blessing in disguise. Surely, she'd raise hell once she realized Peter was gone. Anyone would do so for their loved one.

[deviant-doughnut]

Augusnippets Day 16

Chosen Prompt: Humiliation

CW: blood, multiple whumpers, discussion of alcohol and drinking, threats of non-con, blackmail, non-con as revenge, non-consensual filming, fade to black non-con

“Look at us, Ian,” comes the voice from above him.

The glass beneath Ian’s knees is broken, ragged shards slicing into his skin. Like the dread roiling through him they chew to the bone, the pain of it cacophonous and vulnerable. His face is hot and his heart pounds badly. He works to catch his stuttering breath. Two of his colleagues pace slowly around him, glass crunching under their boots. The storeroom reeks of blood and alcohol. He lost count of the bottles they dropped nonchalantly before they forced him down into the glass. The spilled liquor burns at the gashes in his knees. It soaks into the legs of his jeans.

The crunching glass is the only sound here, the rest of the world swallowed whole. It’s locked away on the other side of the storeroom, no cameras in here to protect him. The three of them just finished a shift together, stilted with tension and glares thrown at Ian. He reported them last week for sharing stock after hours, for drinking themselves to stupidity on an antique bottle they wrote off as broken. The owner took them into separate meetings and then left them to close up beside him. Now the bar is empty and dark, unassuming to those passing by. But in the depths of the building, the air in the stockroom is thick with his terror, his colleagues both grinning down at him. Grayson snatched Ian’s phone in their skirmish, and now angles it towards his face, snapping an endless stream of pictures. Vic steps forward as Ian’s eyes flick up. He unbuckles the clasp of his belt.

“Are you sorry?” He asks.

“Yes,” Ian answers, dread thundering through him. His attackers exchange glances and burst into laughter.

“Fucking liar,” says Grayson, changing the angle of the phone. Vic snorts above him. “You ratted us out and you loved it.”

“Since you’re so good at opening your mouth,” says Vic, easing his zipper down slowly, “I’m pretty sure you’re gonna love this as well.”

“Oh god,” Ian whispers. “Please, Vic. Please don’t make me—“

“Put your overactive mouth to use,” says Vic, “and we’ll consider the whole thing forgotten.”

“Fight us,” Grayson counters, “and we’ll fuck you open with one of the bottles and make sure that it lasts all night.”

A sob tears ragged out of Ian. It’s a stark and terrible sound. His terror swells too large for his body, his eyes welling abruptly with tears. The sight of his captors blurs above him, but they’re smirking, and they’re watching, and they’re hard. Vic pauses with his thumbs in his boxers. Grayson taps Ian’s phone screen relentlessly.

“What are you choosing, honey?” Asks Vic. Ian’s stomach lurches at the pet name, honeyed with sarcasm, thinly veiled cruelty. His attackers chuckle as Ian’s tears start to fall.

“I’ll do it,” he tells them, fear and rage swirling together in the pit of his stomach. “I-I…I won’t fight you. Just do it and get it over with.”

“He’s begging already,” says Vic. He frees himself from his patterned boxers. Ian tries not to react, but Vic’s cock is thick and red, leaking from his slit already. Ian feels his eyes widen suddenly, then forces them quickly shut. “Open your mouth, slut. Show us how sorry you are.”

Tears spill hotly from Ian’s eyes. A familiar ding sounds from his phone and his stomach lurches at the knowledge it supplies him. Grayson is no longer snapping an endless stream of photos. He’s filming him. He smirks cruelly down at the screen as Vic strokes himself lazily, and aims his leaking cock at Ian’s lips. It’s hopeless, Ian thinks. The only thing he can do now is comply, get out of here, survive. He’s hurt and outnumbered. There’s only one way to escape.

Ian draws a trembling breath, tries to forget about the immortalising stare of the camera, and slowly parts his lips.

-

Thanks to @augusnippets for this event!

[whumplump]

Day 16 of @augusnippets

Prompts used: humiliation / conditioning

Not used: dehumanization

CW: flashbacks, social anxiety, trauma, multiple whumpers

It's my soul in this one.

Laughter in the background. Everyone was quiet when others introduced themselves, so why the hell did they laugh every time she tried to speak?

Some slept, bored, others paid attention, looking at her. Looking directly at her. The first time, she stumbled over her words, stuttered a little, but as she spoke, she remembered what she had to say and finished the presentation without needing the paper with notes. The others said she spoke well, that she was very good.

Although most of the room was silent, she could hear laughter. Three bastards laughing in the background. The three of them, exchanging accusing glances and fingers, whispering to each other, and laughing.

What the fuck is so funny?

That day, she pretended she didn't notice. She returned to her chair, leaned over the table and cried without anyone noticing. She was invisible. At the same time as she wanted to make friends, she liked being incognito — it gave her a sense of comfort, because if she didn't exist, no one would hurt her.

It must just be a bad day…

Every time she tried to speak in public, she heard laughter. Even when those three bastards were no longer there. But she heard it, constant laughter, mockery. And it seemed like everyone was looking at her, judging her.

Years later, she could no longer even bring herself to get up from her chair. She couldn't speak anymore. It was such a silly thing, that anyone could do it, but not her. She was stupid with no diction.

She associated her difficulty with pain. If talking was so painful, then she should stop talking.

She really hates her own voice anyway…

Remembering all this, she again leaned over the table and cried. And really, no one noticed. It didn't matter. Not even for her, the Whumpee of her own struggles.

[teine-mallaichte]

Day 16 @augusnippets - prompt : conditioning

The transformation from Sam to 83

Asset 84 masterlist

The world outside was a cacophony of despair and destruction, with the endless war that had ravaged nations leaving poverty and scarcity in its wake. Sam’s family was not untouched by these trials, but in their small, crumbling apartment, they had found solace in each other. Sam, with his blonde hair and bright blue eyes, had grown up surrounded by a loving mother who did her best to shield him from the harshness of the world outside.

The war had brought rumors of children being taken to become living weapons, but Sam’s mother clung to hope. She had heard the whispers, the stories of children being snatched away before their tenth birthdays, but she had always reassured herself that such things would never happen to her own child. Sam was safe, she believed. He was ten now, he was safe.

The sound of heavy boots against the pavement, the unmistakable hiss of mechanical doors, and the harsh, authoritative voices that cut through the stillness like a knife—these were the signs of the intrusion. The figures who stepped inside were clad in black uniforms, their movements eerily synchronized, their expressions hidden behind dark visors. They were the embodiment of the rumors, the enforcers of the Facility’s will.

Sam's heart pounded in his chest as he looked up at these strangers, their presence cold and imposing. His mother’s face, usually so warm and comforting, was now a mask of terror as she clutched her son tightly.

“Mom?” Sam’s voice quivered, barely a whisper. He looked up into her bright blue eyes, a mirror of his own. In that moment, her tears flowed freely, mingling with the silent scream of her heart.

“No! Please, not my son!” she cried out, her voice breaking with each word. She tried to shield Sam, to keep him close, but it was in vane. As the black-clad enforcers lifted Sam from his mother’s arms, his gaze remained fixed on her tear-streaked face. Her sobs echoed in his ears, the sound of her distress a haunting melody that would linger in his memory. The last image he had of his mother was her bright blue eyes, filled with a mixture of anguish and helplessness.

The transition from his home to the Facility was a blur. The outside world, with its dimming light and crumbling infrastructure, was replaced by a harsh, clinical environment. Sam was thrust into a small, stark room painted in clinical white. The space was devoid of warmth, with only a narrow cot and a single, small window that offered no view of the outside world.

The isolation began immediately. The door to Sam’s room closed with a finality that echoed in the empty space. The once-familiar sounds of home—his mother’s gentle voice, the distant chatter of neighbors, the comforting hum of daily life—were replaced by an oppressive silence. Sam’s small frame felt swallowed by the enormity of the room, the walls closing in on him as he tried to grasp the enormity of his situation.

In this sterile environment, Sam’s identity began to be systematically dismantled. His name, once a cherished part of who he was, was no longer used. He was simply referred to as “H,” the warmth of his mother’s embrace, the laughter shared during meager meals, the sense of security—everything began to fade.

H soon discovered he was not alone in this cold, unfeeling place. The Facility was filled with other children, each one identified by a letter of the alphabet. Each child had their own small, stark room, their own empty bed, their own suffocating silence. They were all being trained, conditioned, and stripped of their identities, just as he was. They rarely spoke to one another—communication was discouraged, and punishment was severe—but they shared glances, fleeting moments of connection that were quickly suppressed by the watchful eyes of the Facility’s enforcers.

Among the children, there was one who stood out to H—a young girl designated as E. She was around his age, with dark hair and deep brown eyes that seemed to hold onto a spark of life despite the coldness of their surroundings.

E was the first to break the silence between them. One night, after a particularly grueling day of drills and indoctrination, she whispered to H in the darkness of the dormitory. “What was your name?” she asked softly.

H hesitated. It had been days—weeks, maybe—since he had heard his own name. The sound of it felt foreign, almost unreal. But something in E’s voice, something fragile yet determined, made him respond.

“Sam,” he whispered back, the name feeling like both a lifeline and a betrayal.

E smiled faintly in the darkness. “Mine was Emma,” she said.

They didn’t speak often—there was too much risk—but those stolen moments of whispered conversation became a small refuge for both of them. They learned to be careful, to keep their connection hidden, but the bond between them grew stronger with each passing day. In a world where they were being turned into living weapons, where their pasts were being erased, H and E found solace in each other—a small, fragile connection that the Facility had not yet managed to destroy.

As time passed, the image of his mother’s blue eyes began to fade, but it was replaced by something new—the memory of E’s voice, whispering his name in the darkness, reminding him that he was still Sam, that he was still human.

stage 2

H's transformation into an asset began with the piercing sound of the pre-dawn alarm, a harsh reminder that the life he once knew was over. He was taken to a small dark room, shown images of the barren world outside, told this was what he was training for, to protect the ruminants of humanity. The sharp pain of the tattoo on his neck, forever marking him with the number "83" faded under the knowledge of what he was expected to become.

Each day was a grueling cycle, beginning in the sterile training halls where the air was thick with the smell of sweat and antiseptic. The light in 83's bright blue eyes, once a reflection of hope and innocence, had dimmed under the weight of the Facility's relentless regimen.

The change from "H" to "83" was more than just a name. It marked the end of his former self. As an Odd Number asset, 83's training was punishing. Every day, he was pushed to the brink with exercises that honed his body into a weapon, emphasizing stealth, infiltration, and assassination. The physical drills left him breathless and trembling, his muscles aching from the strain. But the true brutality lay in the psychological manipulation. The Facility broke down his sense of self, rebuilding it piece by piece in accordance with their objectives.

The memory of his mother’s blue eyes, once so vivid, had become a fleeting ghost, a fragment of a life he could barely recall. It lingered, stubbornly clinging to the edges of his mind despite the Facility’s efforts to extinguish it. This memory was both a comfort and a torment, a small, persistent anchor to his lost humanity that refused to be severed.

In those early days, 83 would scan the faces of the other assets during training, hoping to catch a glimpse of E. But she was nowhere to be found. Eventually, he learned that E—now 76—had been designated an Even Number. Odds and Evens were trained separately, their paths deliberately divided. The realization that they would never see each other again hit 83 with an unexpected heaviness, but he quickly learned to suppress it. Emotions were dangerous, and attachments were deadly.

The past, with all its warmth and security, receded further into the darkness. Yet, deep within, the memory of his mother’s blue eyes remained—a quiet, stubborn reminder of the humanity the Facility sought to eradicate. It was a thread, fragile and nearly broken, but it was all that remained of the boy who had once been Sam.

The absence of E, the girl who had briefly rekindled his sense of self, became just another void, another loss to be buried beneath the layers of conditioning. 83 learned to move on without her, just as he had learned to move on from everything else. Yet in the back of his mind, the memory of her dark eyes and the whisper of his name lingered—an echo of a bond that the Facility could never fully erase.

Stage 3

The transition to Stage 3 marked a significant evolution in 83's training and purpose. For the first time since his indoctrination, Asset 83 was exposed to the world beyond the Facility’s walls. The sterile environment that had been his entire existence gave way to a desolate landscape—a world ravaged by the endless conflict he had been trained to confront. The sight was both grim and awe-inspiring, with vast stretches of barren land, crumbling cities, and the skeletal remains of a civilization destroyed by war. The chaos outside was a stark contrast to the cold precision of the Facility, a brutal reminder of the reality he was now a part of.

The memory of his mother’s blue eyes still haunted 83, a stubborn echo that refused to fade completely. The image would surface at odd moments—when he looked up at the ashen sky, when he saw a splash of color in the ruins, or when he glimpsed his reflection in broken glass.

In Stage 3, 83 was assigned a new handler, Sergeant Jackson. Towering over 83 with a muscular frame and a commanding presence, Jackson was an imposing figure. Yet, unlike the instructors who had drilled him before, Jackson was measured and controlled in his approach. He maintained a strict discipline but avoided the cruelty that others had employed. His focus was on honing 83’s abilities, refining the skills he would need as a living weapon. This subtle shift in treatment was both unsettling and disorienting for 83, who had grown accustomed to relentless punishment as a motivator.

The training in Stage 3 was more demanding than ever. The physical exercises were grueling, pushing 83 beyond his limits, but it was the psychological aspect that truly set this stage apart. Sergeant Jackson emphasized the importance of understanding emotion, not for 83’s sake but as a tool to be wielded against others. 83 was taught to read people, to anticipate their actions, to manipulate their feelings—all while suppressing his own. Failure to correctly interpret a target's emotions was met with swift correction. On a mission, Jackson explained, misreading someone could mean failure, and failure was unacceptable.

“Emotion is a weapon,” Jackson said one evening, as they prepared for a covert operation. “You use it to control others, not the other way around. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” 83 replied, his voice steady, though his mind flickered with the image of his mother’s tearful blue eyes.

The missions in Stage 3 were a new and challenging aspect of his training. The operations varied widely, from covert intelligence gathering to high-stakes assassinations. Each mission required 83 to navigate through enemy bases, military camps, and the remnants of once-thriving urban areas. The desolate world outside was harsh and unforgiving, but it was in these bleak settings that the memory of Emma’s voice would sometimes resurface, unbidden and unwanted. The warmth of her whisper felt out of place in the cold, ruthless world he now inhabited, yet it persisted like a ghost in his mind.

Despite the harsh conditions and the constant pressure to perform, 83 found a strange form of validation in his work. The rare moments when Sergeant Jackson offered praise for a job well done were significant. The approval, though rare and reserved, was a stark contrast to the relentless criticism of previous stages. In these moments, 83 felt a fleeting sense of accomplishment, a small echo of pride in his otherwise emotionless existence.

On the last day of Stage 3, Sergeant Jackson approached 83, his expression unreadable.

“You’ve done well, 83,” Jackson said, his voice flat. “You’re ready for what comes next.”

83 nodded, his face expressionless. But as he turned to leave, Jackson’s voice stopped him.

“Do you remember anything from before?” Jackson asked, his tone almost casual, as if the answer didn’t matter.

For a brief moment, 83’s mind flashed with images—his mother’s blue eyes, Emma’s dark gaze, the sound of his name whispered in the dark. But he quickly suppressed them, locking them away in the recesses of his mind.

“No, sir,” 83 replied, his voice hollow, void of any hint of the memories that still lingered.

Jackson studied him for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Good,” he said finally, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips.

83 said nothing, simply nodding in acknowledgment. Inside, however, something flickered—a small, stubborn piece of his old self that refused to die, a lingering connection to a past he was supposed to have forgotten.

As he walked away, 83 felt the weight of expectation settle on him. Becoming a living weapon was simply the next step in his training, not a personal achievement.

Stage 4

At the conclusion of Stage 3, Asset 83 received a ritualistic brand—an indelible mark that signified his formal transition to "living weapon" status within the Facility’s hierarchy. This branding was more than a physical alteration; it symbolized his complete assimilation into the Facility's cold, methodical structure.

"This mark is not just a part of you - it defines you."

With this promotion came a strategic pairing with Asset 80, an Even Number, whose training had focused on combat efficiency, obedience, and physical endurance.

The pairing was designed to create a balanced team: 83's agility and subtlety complemented 80's raw power and unyielding loyalty. Together, they were expected to embody the Facility’s rigorous standards for operational excellence.

Asset 80, a formidable and imposing figure, epitomized the clinical precision of Evens. The two assets underwent intensive joint training, their sessions characterized by a relentless regimen of drills and exercises aimed at perfecting their coordinated efforts. Their synergy was almost flawless, a testament to the Facility’s meticulous approach to creating effective combat pairs.

However, their world was irrevocably altered during one particularly high-stakes operation. What initially appeared to be a routine mission quickly devolved into disaster. In the midst of the chaos, Asset 80 was critically injured and fell. The Facility’s protocol dictated that fallen assets and weapons were to be abandoned—mission objectives took precedence over individual losses. For the first time 83 questioned protocol. The loss was not just a void; it was an ache in his chest that felt disturbingly human. Amidst the battlefield’s chaos, 83 faltered as he looked at 80's lifeless form, his mind grappling with the significance of the loss.

Back at the Facility, the mission was classified as a success. The absence of Asset 80 was briefly acknowledged, but Jackson's reaction was dismissive. "It's unfortunate," he said with a shrug, before swiftly moving on to the next matter. 83 was informed that a new Even Number, Asset 84, would be paired with him.

The name Sam began to resurface in 83’s mind, a small whisper, almost an echo of E's voice. Each night, as he lay in the sterile confines of his quarters, his dreams were haunted by the image of tear-filled blue eyes. The echoes were painful, confusing, 83 felt as if they may be breaking.

He began to hesitate, to question, even if it was only in the safety of his own mind. What if everything the handler said, everything the trainers claims, was a lie? What if he was still Sam… Still human?

[udaberriwrites]

A drabble for @augusnippets' day 16!

Path of Hurt - Humiliation

Fandom: Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint

Characters: Yoo Jonghyuk, Kim Dokja

Timeline: Fight for the Absolute Throne

Rating: T, tw possessive behavior

All the Kings’ corpses lay at his feet. All except one.

“Will you kill me too?”

Kim Dokja kneels by the Throne, too wounded to stand, yet he remains defiant even in defeat.

“Would you beg to spare yourself?”

His throat bobs. Pride and self-preservation battle behind his eyes.

Yoo Jonghyuk grabs his chin, forcing him to look up. The answer is meaningless, after all.

“It doesn’t matter if you do or don’t. I’m not letting you go.”

[The constellation Demon-like Judge of Fire squirms with guilty pleasure]

[The constellation Secretive Plotter admires your shamelessness]

[1000 coins have been sponsored]

_

Full prompt list here

AO3 collection here

[diegoalvesisgod]

Chapters: 11/? 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, Non-Consensual Drug Use Summary:

A collection of snippets for Augusnippets.

[jamietarttsnorthernattitude]

cw injury

Weeks after Jamie rejoins the team he thinks things are going well, at least until a Colin & Isaac prank lands him in A&E.

Day 16 of @augusnippets - humiliation

Read on ao3

[autobot2001]

Taking The Verbal Attacks Further

Author: Autobot2001 Genre: Fanfiction Fandom: Transformers Rating: T Warning: Verbal abuse, dehumanization Pairing: None Description: A soldier yet again targets Jamie. Deciding this time to dehumanize her. *May not be great. The only examples I find of dehumanizing is racism.*

Day 16; @augustofwhump: dread @augusnippets - path of hurt: dehumanization

Jamie feels dread seeing a soldier approach. The same soldier who targeted her already. She's not sure if now it's harassment or if the soldier needs to target her a few more times. "Hello, leach," the soldier says, "are you even a soldier or just hanging around with the Autobots? Expecting them to take care of you. You're unworthy of their friendship. This is a fucking military base, and you are useless. Expecting psychopath Sunstreaker to save you, huh? You're pathetic." The soldier walks away. Planning on verbally harassing Jamie again.

[whumpsday]

summer is here! what better way to spend it than... staying inside and writing, drawing, making gifs, and otherwise staying out of the heat?

July whump events starting today:

🎄 Whumpmas in July (@whumpmasinjuly), prompts here, a 31-day whump event (10 writing prompts, 21 community prompts)

🌊 Whumperless Whump Event (@whumperless-whump-event), prompts here, a 31-day whump event

🏖️ July Break Bingo (@julybreakbingo), signups here, a bingo board writing event (that can be customized as a whump event in the streamline options)

August whump events starting next month:

🍉 Augusnippets (@augusnippets), prompts here, a short-form whump event (can be customized as a 10/11-day or 30/31-day event)

🍊 August of Whump (@augustofwhump), prompts here, a 31-day whump event

🎂 Randowhump's Birthday Whump Event (@randowhump), prompts here, a 16-day whump event

📽️ Whump Gifathon (@whumpgifathon), prompts here, a 31-day whump gif-making event

July/August giant/tiny events (the other niche community i'm a part of), since there's enough this summer for me to make a whole section for em:

🧚‍♀️ GT July (@gianttol), prompts here, a 31-day giant/tiny event

🫂 Hug a Giant Day, a 1-day giant/tiny event, is July 21st

🫂 Hug a Tiny Day, a 1-day giant/tiny event, is August 11th

that's all i've got! i'll be completing Whumpmas in July and dipping into a couple other july events, and i'll be completing Augusnippets as well. hope to see you try one of these out, too!

[jamiesfootball]

Augusnippets Day 14

Prompt: gifts

cw: implied/referenced child abuse

Summary:

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

Here on AO3

Age 4

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

Age 7

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

Age 9

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

Age 11

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

Age 12

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

Age 13

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

Age 14

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

Age 15

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

Age 16

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

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

Age 17

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

Age 18

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

Age 19

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

Age 20

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

Age 21

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

Age 22

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

Age 22

SMACK.

Age 23

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

Age 24

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

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

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

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

Age 24

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

Age 24

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

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

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

Age 24

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

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

[Isaac]: Shit

Age 25

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

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

Age 25

“I love it.”

[whumplump]

Augusnippets works Masterlist

Doing this just to be organized.

Path of HURT:

Day 1 - Gaslighting

Day 4 - Vivisection

Day 7 - Drowning

Day 10 - Execution / begging for mercy

Day 13 - Drugging, poisoning

Day 16 - Humiliation, conditioning

Day 19 - Collared, branded

Day 22 - Captivity, recapture

Day 25 - Intimate whumper, stalked

Day 28 - Mind control, body control

Path of COMFORT:

Day 2 - Platonic bathing

Day 5 - Drunk caretaking, feverish caretaking

Day 8 - Reunion / found family / friends

Day 11 - Escape / safe and sound

Day 14 - Toys, gifts, celebration

Day 17 - Forgiveness, resolving a misunderstanding

Day 20 - Homemade meal

Day 23 - Gentle touch, protective caretaker

Day 26 (1) - Warm blanket, snuggling

Day 26 (2) - Tending to non-human Whumpee's non-human parts, phantom pains

Day 29 - First words

Path of WHUMPERLESS WHUMP:

Day 3 - Blizzard

Day 6 - Car accident / plane crash / shipwreck

Day 9 - Hypothermia, dehydration

Day 12 - Lost

Day 15 - Food poisoning / starvation / throwing up

Day 18 - Infection / self administered medicine

Day 21 - Delirium, hallucinations

Day 24 - Medical complications

Day 27 - Chronic pain

Day 30 - Self harm, addiction

Day 31 (bonus day)

[missr3n3]

Is this how RR Peter got kidnapped

yea a little bit lol

actually wrote a small drabble about how the kidnapping went down last year! here's the link if u wanna give it a read:

[blackrosesandwhump]

Augusnippets Masterlist

Day 1: Brainwashing (2nd pov from whumper's perspective, Gothic whump)

Day 4: Vivisection (vampire whumpee, Gothic whump)

Day 7: Choking (1st pov, Gothic whump, breath whump)

Day 10: Fake Execution (Gothic whump, hanging)

Day 13: Poisoning (Gothic whump, hero whumpee)

Day 16: Dehumanisation/Conditioning (Gothic whump, vampire whumper, human whumpee)

Day 19: Branded (Gothic whump, winged whumpee, 2nd pov from whumper's perspective)

Day 25: Reluctant Whumper (Gothic whump, vampire whumper)