#augusnippets day 18

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Augusnippets Day 18: Infection

cw: dissociation, implied aftermath of torture, vaguely implied past noncon, substance dependency, left for dead (implied), slight death wish, carewhumper

previous // next

for the @augusnippets challenge // word count: 410

=~=~=

“Fuck. That's bad, isn't it?”

“I knew it would happen. I told you.”

“What are we supposed to do?”

“I don't fuckin know. Nothing?”

It (he) is curled up on the icy concrete, unable to stop shivering, too hot and too cold all at once. The pain in its leg is nearly background noise now, numb; the wounds scattered across its form are nothing but another layer, bland in comparison to the symphony of hurt that wraps around it like a blanket. Some things hurt worse than others, but it can hardly discern which is which at any given moment. Reality comes and goes. It only wants to escape.

The creature sleeps when they dose it, allowed peace between the bouts of anguish and spells of unconsciousness that are far from restful.

The spy dreams of Vic, heavy hands and unwanted touches, inability to get away

(stop, stop it please)

Sahota’s dreams are just as agonizing; stabbing pain, snakes making a nest in his guts.

Ander’s dreams…

(they could come for him)

They shouldn't.

The spy (creature) can understand what the guards are saying, but comprehension doesn't quite reach

(tired, hurts)

“What do you mean, nothing?”

“The boss said questions are a waste of time. He's had his fun. Why even bother keeping him alive?”

“Doesn't feel right just to leave him like that…”

“Yeah? Well anything else is work. We got shit to do. I don't have time to play nurse.”

“Fuck, shouldn't we at least clean it out?”

One of the guards drops to a crouch beside it

(the spy is too exhausted to try and pull away)

White hot pain surges through its body as the guards prod at a wound above its hip; the creature screams, nausea rising in its chest

(pulsing, reddened skin, festering)

“Fuck, that's disgusting.”

“You didn't have to touch it.”

“It's your fault it got this bad.”

(infected)

“Get off your high horse. I'm not stopping you from doing anything.”

The creature perks up at the sound of a water bottle opening, eyes fluttering open. It can't move towards the sound, can hardly move at all, only utter a creaking please.

The bottle is held to its lips, static crackling across its body at the prospect of escaping the way it feels.

“What are you doing now?”

It finishes the bottle, the easy mindless fog already nipping at its consciousness.

“Just giving him something to make the end a little less painful.”

[jamiesfootball]

Augusnippets Day 18

Prompt: self administered medicine

cw: drug use, injuries, implied/referenced child abuse

Summary:

Roy flipped through the pages. Stopping at a blank one, he held the pen at the ready. “What do you want me to write down?" Jamie chewed on his lip. Roy was on the verge of repeating himself when he said quietly, “Summer 2009. Broken arm.”

Here on AO3

Once Roy got Jamie settled on the sofa, he diverted to the kitchen to grab the necessary supplies. Pill bottle from his bag and a glass of water, and because Roy was supposed to be trying to ‘embrace his instincts when it came to showing people he cared’, a sandwich appeared alongside the water. So did two mugs of tea.

Roy stared down at the tray and grimaced at how low he had sunk. Jamie was supposed to eat something with the painkillers, sure, but the Roy of before would’ve been content throwing a protein bar at his head and sending him home in an Uber. Instead he’d brought him back to his own house and broken out the good bread – the stuff that definitely wasn’t part of the nutrition plan.

He took a deep breath and braced himself for some mocking.

But there was no mocking to be found. Jamie was the same as he’d been since they’d left the doctors. With his face screwed up in pain, he dug the heel of his hand into the muscle above his knee, trying desperately to massage the pain away. Roy was familiar with the struggle. Knee injuries could be a bitch like that, the big nerves and tendons squeezed tightly between ligaments and bones. Rupture any part of the system and the rest became collateral, the inevitable victims of being too close to the scene of the crime. The pain was for sharing, and in spite of the localised anaesthetic, even smaller, inconsequential actions found a way of compounding into a larger toll.

Suddenly the sandwich didn’t seem like a bad idea. Even if it didn’t stay down, Jamie would need the energy. He certainly wasn’t going to want to eat when the numbing agents wore off.

“Here,” said Roy, setting the tray on the table. He grabbed the painkillers and shook out two pills. “Take these and a few bites of the sandwich, then you can pass out. There’s also tea.”

He tipped the pills into Jamie’s hand. Handed him the glass of water. Jamie swallowed the pills in one gulp, and a strange look crossed his face. Roy considered grabbing the waste bin, but the expression passed just as quickly as it came, and then Jamie waved for the sandwich to move closer.

Roy waited for Jamie to take a few bites before he finally sat down. He settled back on the sofa with a cup of tea in hand and switched on the TV.

That should’ve been that.

Halfway through an episode of Murdoch Mysteries, Roy was sure that Jamie should have passed out by now.

He’d stopped rubbing at his thigh a bit ago. Hours of pained tension had melted away, leaving him boneless against the cushions. He’d also fallen for the lure of the strategically thrown blanket over the back of the soft and was now cocooned in fleece up to his chin. The pale tint of nausea had faded — though Roy still had the waste bin nearby just in case — and the half sandwich he’d eaten had brought some colour back. He’d be the very picture of cosy if it weren’t for the knot of confusion screwed up tight between his stupid, styled eyebrows.

For someone who’d just taken a fairly high dose of painkillers, he was stubbornly holding on to consciousness, and worse than that he only seemed to be growing more agitated the more they kicked in.

After a few more minutes of restless shifting, Jamie broke the silence to ask, “Can… can you… grab something for me?”

At least the medicine was working, if the slurred words were any indication.

“Sure,” said Roy. “What do you need? The bin’s right there,” he reminded him.

He did not want to help Jamie with the bin.

The knot of confusion turned into a knot of annoyance. “Not sick, ‘s… need my bag. Could you… the notebook in it… can you?”

Roy got up. This week’s tiny bag came in a burnt orange and teal striped combo that made Roy’s eyes water. By comparison, the notebook he found inside was small and nondescript: a simple black flip-over with a Richmond-branded pen tucked through the spirals.

It took two attempts for Jamie to take hold of the notebook. His movements were clumsy, his hands shaking as he struggled to untangle the pen.

Once again, Roy was struck with the stupid urge to take care of people.

He exhaled. “Here, give me that. I can write whatever it is down for you.”

Jamie hesitated. After a moment, he held the notebook up, his expression schooled in feign disinterest. Roy took it back, and Jamie listed unsteadily after it like a fish tugged forward on a hook. Roy had to brace by the shoulder to keep him from tipping over.

He flipped through the pages. Stopping at a blank one, he held the pen at the ready. “What do you want me to write down?”

Jamie chewed his lip. Roy was on the verge of repeating himself when he said quietly, “Summer 2009. Broken arm.”

Roy froze. In the raging quiet, he carefully transcribed the words, the pen creaking under the pressure.

“It’s for Dr Sharon,” Jamie explained.

Roy swallowed back a painful lump in his throat and shook his head. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“I know, but in case I forget. I want… I need to…,” Jamie trailed off, argument lost. He stared at Roy with a wretchedly sad expression.

Roy capped the pen. It wasn’t like he would need to write this down to remember it later. Despite the short list of facts he’d been given, Roy hardly needed a calculator to figure out why Jamie might need to tell Sharon about a broken arm.

For a man Roy had only ever seen once, for about three minutes, James Tartt Sr left a visceral impression – and nothing he’d learned since then had weakened it.

He gestured for Jamie to get on with it then.

Jamie pushed himself upright against the cushions. He shook his head, scrunching up his face and blinking hard like he was trying to wake himself up. When he spoke, he sounded more clear-headed, but the words came out chopped, a staccato listing of facts that gave the impression that somewhere underneath a dog whistle screeched at full volume.

“It’s for learning my boundaries. Idea is to write down memories from when I was a kid, stuff that didn’t make any sense or that I don’t…can’t remember. Then I’m supposed to see if there’s a pattern. Especially if it involved…if I were angry or scared or anything like that.”

He stared vacantly at the tray where it still lay on the coffee table. Most of the sandwich was gone; the glass, empty. Only a half-drunk mug of tea and the bottle of pills remained.

A half-formed suspicion slithered into Roy’s gut, nesting into a quiet ache.

“All right,” Roy nodded encouragingly. The atmosphere in the room had turned into a fragile thing, hairline fractures ready to crack if he stepped too hard. “That makes sense.”

Jamie’s head dipped against his chest. “When I was twelve or thirteen or whatever, I don’t remember which, I broke my arm. Nothing that serious, I was just being dumb at training. Bet the team ten quid I could do a backflip on the first try.”

Roy snorted. The pressure in his chest released so abruptly he felt almost dizzy with it. “So you were always a cartwheeling troublemaker?”

“Yeah.” A small grin quirked at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I really took to the gymnastics part of training. D’you know I can do a full splits?”

Roy scoffed, amused. “Fuck off.”

“Well, I could do it when I was seventeen. Could probably still manage it if I warmed up properly.”

The smile faded. “But I broke my arm, yeah? And mummy was essentially working two jobs at the time because she’d finally decided she wanted to stop waitressing. She’d started taking night classes, so I didn’t see her all that much. And dad was in his superdad phase, and he’d said he was cutting back on the drinking, so it was usually him that picked me up from training anyways. So when I broke my arm, that’s who they called to come get me.”

Jamie swerved from thought to thought, some of them not quite connecting but all of them on a horrible forward trajectory. It was like staring at a bus crash that Roy knew was coming. He just couldn’t see the death toll yet.

“I remember the hospital in pieces.” Jamie started to massage his thigh again; absently, like he didn’t realise he was doing it. “I remember them letting me pick the colour for my cast – City blue, of course. Had to prove to my old man I was still as dedicated as ever. It worked, too. In fact, in fact he wasn’t even mad I broke my arm that time,” Jamie said wonderingly. “He thought it was funny. Not like I need an arm to play football, right?”

Fucking Christ.

The smile slipped from Jamie’s face. He rubbed his thigh harder. “I remember… the doctors sent me home with some pills? I remember them telling me my arm would probably hurt for a week or two, and after that I could switch to paracetamol if it still hurt. But I remember seeing the pills. We went back to my dad’s flat. He gave me the pills, crushed ‘em up in my tea for me to help hide the taste. But that’s where it gets–“

He let out a ragged breath, his eyes screwing up tightly.

“Roy,” he whined. “Roy, this is the same stuff they gave me back then, but I don’t remember it feeling this way.”

“What do you remember?” Roy asked, trying to sound calm even as panic, dull and rusted, throbbed in his chest. It happened over ten years ago. They’d just come from the hospital. Jamie was alive in front of him. None of that stopped the foreboding from growing like a seed.

Twelve. He would’ve been twelve. That was a fucking kid.

Jamie shook his head. “I don’t know. But they didn’t taste chalky. They didn’t do this.” He gestured weakly at himself. “It didn’t make me numb. Didn’t make me tired. I had a headache the whole time, and my arm hurt so bad I kept being sick. I kept waiting for the pills to kick in. The stuff they gave me in hospital, that seemed to work fine. But when I got home the pain just kept getting worse. I couldn’t even get to sleep. Everything hurt.”

The more Roy heard, the more an ugly thought began to take shape in his head.

“Next day my mum comes to pick me up, and I tell her I don’t think the medication is working like it’s supposed to. She takes me back to the hospital; they figure I must have thrown it up in the night. They give me something there, and I fall asleep. I don’t remember anything after that. I don’t even remember going home. Next memory I’ve got is showing my cast off to the team and arguing with the coaches that I should still be allowed to train ‘cause who needs an arm to play football anyways?”

His hands lifted in a shrug, the blanket flapping up and down as if to say, ‘there you go.’

“That it?” asked Roy. He wanted to confirm he had all the pieces before he said anything.

“Yeah,” said Jamie, falling limp against the sofa. “That’s it.”

“Can I ask something?”

Jamie shrugged. Whatever reserves of energy he’d had, they were gone now, completely burned through with nothing left to stoke the fire in his wake.

But Roy still had an ember, and it pulsed hot and angry in his chest.

“What did your dad say?” he demanded. “When you were up all night, sick from pain and unable to sleep? What did he fucking say to that?”

“He didn’t say anything,” said Jamie. “He was asleep the whole time. I tried to wake him up during the night, but it didn’t work. Out like a light straight through ‘til mummy picked me up the next afternoon. I couldn’t wake him up.”

And there it was.

“Oh.”

Jamie snorted, a hysterically unfunny noise, wet and clogged and full of pain and disappointment and numb, numb resignation.

“Yeah,” he agreed. ”Oh.”

[whumplump]

Day 18 of @augusnippets

Prompts used: infection / self-administered medicine

Not used: apocalypse (I had an idea, but I thought it would be lame.)

CW: stoic whumpee, heavy injury (infection, blood), field medicine, on the run, use of swear words

Despite the unbearable pain in their right thigh, Whumpee continued running, even if they were limping, to a distance they considered safe. They supported themselves by leaning their backs against the wall and sliding until they sat on the floor. They looked at the injured leg. Other small cuts were still bleeding, starting to create pus around them, and there were still thorns stuck. They tried to take some out, until giving up when the pain became too much. A large tear was open on the surface of their right thigh, made when they tried to free themselves from the thorn bush and their leg got stuck; they pulled it desperately, without thinking about the consequences. And it ended like that.

They took advantage of the fact that their pants were destroyed and ripped out a piece of the fabric. They wrapped it around their injured thigh, above the wound, like a makeshift tourniquet.

"Ah, this'll have to do," they said to themselves with ragged breaths. "Crap..."

They took out one of the syringes they kept in a little bag on the side of the other leg. They took a few deep breaths before burying the needle in the injured leg. They held on tight to not scream in pain. When they were sure that all the analgesic contents had been fully injected, they carelessly discarded the empty needle on the floor.

They waited a few seconds, breathing deeply, until the medicine took effect. Impatient, they tapped their fingers on the ground. When they felt the slightest bit of relief in the wound, they didn't wait for the rest and got up.

"Fuck it, it's going to have to be like this…!”

They started walking again, which somehow helped the anesthesia take effect faster thanks to the blood pumping. The brave Whumpee continued on their way. Even with all the pain, they didn't shed a single tear.

[evilwriter37]

What Will Kill Him?

Augusnippets Day 18

Apocalypse/Infection

Rated: mature

Warnings: implied/referenced animal attack

------

“His fever’s gotten worse,” Snotlout told Astrid as she entered the cabin. Or, what was left of the cabin. Dragons had pretty much destroyed it, but they currently had nowhere else to go. It was too dangerous out there.

Astrid set her shotgun against the wall. She’d gone out hunting for food, but had once again come back empty handed.

“What does Fishlegs think?” Astrid asked tiredly. He was the healer of their group of survivors. 

Snotlout, sitting at the kitchen table, shook his head. “The infection—”

Astrid didn’t let him finish speaking. Instead, she stormed up the stairs to the bedrooms. No. There was no way in hell she was going to lose Hiccup Haddock to an infected wound.

She found Fishlegs and the twins in Hiccup’s bedroom. They’d given him and Astrid the biggest one, on account of them being together and Hiccup’s injury. 

“How bad is it, Fishlegs?” she demanded to know. “And what are we going to do about it?”

“Uh, well…” Fishlegs scratched the back of his head. “I don’t know what we can do about it short of cutting it out of him.”

Hiccup was unconscious on the bed, his wound wrapped in several layers of bandages. None of the infection was showing at the moment, but they all knew it was there. He’d been bitten by a dragon on his right forearm, and despite near instant cauterization, infection had still gotten in.

Astrid drew her hunting knife. “Then we cut it out of him.”

“Astrid!” Fishlegs stood from the chair he had by the bed. Ruffnut and Tuffnut, who had been sitting on the floor dozing, were standing and alert now.

“We can’t do that!” Fishlegs shouted.

“Why not?!” Astrid was desperate. She was watching the love of her life die in front of her and their healer was telling her not to do something that would help him?

“We don’t have a sterile space! It could kill him!”

Astrid looked at Hiccup. His face was white as death, sweat soaking his hair. He hadn’t woken in two days.

“And what about the fever? Won’t that kill him for sure?” Astrid asked. 

Silence in the room. Then, Fishlegs finally responded.

“Yes, the fever is killing him. Cutting it out is risky, but…” It was his turn to look over at Hiccup, tears welling in his eyes. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

[pigeonwhumps]

Infection

Immortal Cannon Fodder masterlist

Taglist: @extrabitterbrain @wolfeyedwitch @fuckcapitalismasshole @ghost-whump @whump-tr0pes

@rainbowsandwhumperflies @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump

@whumpinggrounds @augusnippets

Augusnippets day 18: apocalypse | infection | self administered medicine

Phoenix tries to treat an infected wound without Aaron finding out.

Set while Phoenix has been kicked out by Indigo and Segun, and is living with Aaron.

730 words

CWs: immortal whumpee, low self-esteem, infected wound, abuse

Phoenix takes a deep breath through clenched teeth to steady themself. It's okay, it's not a very bad wound. Really, the hardest part is stopping Aaron from finding out and worrying.

They tilt their head back as they peel the old bandage off. A healthy wound isn't supposed to smell like that. Fuck.

They'll be fine.

Old bandage off. Antiseptic wipes, clean cut, new bandage on. The cold porcelain of the bathroom tiles feels good against the sweaty heat of their skin.

Should they be taking antibiotics? They're not sure. It's all so hot in here. But they'll be fine without them anyway, they'd be fine without any medical treatment, and they're not going to Aaron for help. It's a waste of his time and of medbay resources, and this is their own fault anyway, so it's even worse to go to medbay with it. It'll heal.

They don't even deserve this.

There's a soft knock on the door.

"Hey. I can't find the first aid kit in the cupboard so I'm guessing you're in there with it, Phoenix. Are you okay?"

"I'm, um, I'm fine."

Phoenix rolls up the bandages and stuffs everything unused back in the kit, doing it up and pulling their hoodie down. It's not the best they've ever done but they don't want Aaron to know, so they stand and pull open the door, doing their best not to throw up. They hold out the pack and Aaron takes it.

"Thanks." His eyes narrow in concern. "Are you sure you're okay? You look pale."

Phoenix nods, feeling guilty. He's been very busy for days and now he finally has a chance to breathe he has to worry about them. It's not fair. He shouldn't be worrying about them anyway.

Aaron's eyes drift, widening as they land on– oh. It's the old bandage, that Phoenix hasn't had a chance to tidy up yet.

"Show me. Please, kid?"

"It's, um, it's fine. It's only small. I don't, um, I don't want you wasting time and resources on it, please, and it's my own fault. I don't want to bother you."

"You're not bothering me, it's my choice to help. Please let me help."

Phoenix bites their lip. They're not supposed to be getting medical help and after everything he's already done for them... but they don't want Aaron to feel bad.

"It's just a, um, a cut. You don't need to waste your time on me."

"I'm not wasting my time, you're my friend and I want to help. Besides, judging by the smell and look of that bandage it's not a healthy cut. When did you get it?"

Aaron tugs on Phoenix's hand gently, leading them to sit down on the toilet. They pull up their top again.

"On the, um, the solo mission. Yesterday."

"So it should be healed by now." He gently peels back the bandage, nodding approvingly before sealing it back over. "You've done a good job on this."

"Thank you, s– um." They fidget and bite their lip. Aaron doesn't like being called sir.

Aaron feels their forehead and squeezes their shoulder. "You're burning up. I'm going to prescribe you some antibiotics. You could've told me."

Phoenix shakes their head. "It was my own fault, I'm stupid and a, um, a bad hero and not worth helping. It would be a waste of, um, medical supplies, I'll heal."

"You're not stupid and you're not a bad hero. Regardless of anything, you're always worthy of medical treatment. There's no entry criteria. And we have more than enough to go around." He pauses to grasp both their shoulders. "Are you listening, Phoenix? You're worth every bit of medical treatment, and I don't want you to listen to anyone telling you otherwise."

Phoenix looks away. "Yes, sir."

"Was it really your fault?"

Phoenix shrugs. "I shouldn't have let him near me."

"That doesn't make it your fault, kid." They stay quiet. In most people's eyes it does. In Abbie's eyes it does. "Do you want a hug?"

Phoenix nods, feeling faintly nauseous. Maybe they should've told Aaron. They're not sure how they expected to last the infection out in his flat without him noticing. But even so...

They fold themself up in Aaron's arms. It feels so good.

"That's it, kid. You just relax. You don't need to do everything for yourself all the time."

[whumper-whimsy]

@augusnippets day 18

Apocalypse/ Infection / Self-administered medicine

Apocalypse, infection, body horror, nonhuman death, implied human death

lmk if i missed a tag !

°

Whumpee walked with his hunting group, keeping his eyes peeled in the gloomy night. He clutched his hunting knife tightly, shaking subtly as they ventured deeper.

A crack alerted Whumpee, and he spun, eyes wide. The group stopped, too, turning their heads.

"Is it..?"

"Shh." Whumpee hissed back, eyes on the shadowy spaces between the dark trees.

There was a groaning, clicking noise from the woods, and Whumpee had no time to react as the thing lunged at him.

It looked as if it was human at one point, with pained, sunken eyes and an impossibly thin body. Its skin was covered in tiny bulges, and in the worst areas had bloomed into a light blue bioluminescent fungus.

It cried, a shrill and pained noise, and knocked Whumpee down. He struggled as it snapped at him, its teeth worn down to sharp pricks. It came dangerously close to his neck, but he was able to block it with his forearm. The creature's teeth dug in painfully, refusing to let go.

The rest of the group was able to rip it off of him and put it out of its misery, leaving the husk to dissolve into the ground.

Whumpee's friend hurried over, helping him up. "Shit, you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Thank you, guys." Whumpee smiled politely, patting his friend's shoulder.

•••

Much later into the night, Whumpee was helping drag the party's dinner home. They'd caught a nice buck and were heading back to camp, chatting cheerfully as they walked the trail.

Whumpee rolled his sleeve up to examine his wound, his heart rabbiting as he noticed tiny, dimly-glowing bumps surrounding the bite. He cringed and hid the wound, deciding he'd bring it up to the camp's nurse later.

•••

Whumpee could hear them.

Tens, hundreds, thousands of soft voices, singing enticing words into his ear.

He felt different, his body seeming to move partly on its own. It droned on as the voices spoke to him, sucking away his attention.

"You, come to us. Let us feed. Decay, and let us host."

He felt the sudden need to pull his shoes and socks off. He needed to feel the dirt, to connect with the forest around him. He tried to ignore the shiny blue buds on his ankles.

Whumpee was instantly in touch with the whole woods, aware of every tree, of all the creatures, and even the humans he traveled with. The mycelium in the ground responded almost painfully as they walked, and it hurt Whumpee too. He attempted to say something, but his mouth was not entirely his. He could only croak, eyes fixed on his friend.

The group had stopped when Whumpee discarded his shoes, circled around him with concern.

Whumpee's friend crouched down, frowning. "You okay, man? You look pale."

Whumpee was doing great! He was feeding the Fungus, serving his mission in his pathetic life. Just like every creature in the woods, growing, feeding, and spreading the beautiful Fungus.

"Release our spores into his blood. Help him see. Show him."

His eyes locked on his dear old buddy. The words rang in his head, loud and clear.

"Spread, infest, feed.

Infect him."

Whumpee knew what he had to do– the only way to show his truest friend the beauty of the Fungus.

He launched himself at the human, teeth aiming for the man's throat.

[missr3n3]

Augusnippets Day 18

apocalypse/infection/self-administered medicine

fandom: @moonlightsmasquerade fear of the deep (^ also source for the art) TW: unsanitary, inept caretaking word count: 351 @augusnippets

“Oh, goodness… What happened now?”

Llywelyn had hoped his experience working along the coast, helping both the wildlife and humans, would've equipped him to help Cain after he found the boy beside the docks, getting…

Best not to dwell on that now.

But was it any wonder he was unprepared to deal with a being between a fish and a human? Was it any wonder he only figured out Cain needed regular soaks in saltwater when he was half-conscious and gasping for air?

As a result of the uninformed procrastination, Llywelyn's solution was inelegant. A bathtub full of tap water and Kosher salt worked in the short term, though even his clueless self knew the setup couldn't be permanent. If only he could find a way to broach the topic with Jack without raising suspicion.

The situation Llywelyn found himself in that morning was perhaps just the opportunity he needed.

He awoke to quiet rasps echoing from his bathroom. As expected, the noise was coming from Cain. Much less expected was the cloudiness in normally vibrant green eyes and the even angrier, inflamed redness around his gills.

“How are you feeling, lad?” Llywelyn gently questioned as he sat beside the dingy bathtub.

“Bad,” Cain croaked, almost literally. “More ‘n usual.”

“I can't help you much with a description that vague.”

“Think ‘m sick. Like an evil flu or somethin'.”

“Okay…” The more Llywelyn thought on it, the more a plan formulated in his mind. Regular, pet fish kept in aquariums got sick all the time. Jack had told him a fair number of horror stories about people coming to him with dying fish caused by inept care. The fact Llywelyn's “fish" was a Black Lagoon-esque creature didn't need to be known. “Let me make a call real quick. I'll get you right as rain in no time.” Llywelyn offered Cain a small smile that went unnoticed before he stood to grab the landline.

“Morning, Jack. Hm? No, I haven't seen Zoey lately. What-? Ah, I was calling because I have a question. It's… Well, I've been getting into fish care lately…”

[whumping-in-the-dark]

~Augusnippets~

Day 18: Apocalypse | Infection | Self Administered Medicine

@augusnippets

CW: see above

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

"Look at me, Theo." Walter shook the stunned boy by his shoulders. "Don't look there- no- eyes on me."

Theo's wide eyes slowly clicked onto his, lips trembling.

"That's right. Good. Now, stay like that. You're going to be fine-"

"Run."

"What? Nonono you'll be fine. I have the antidote right here. See?" He pulled out the vial from his pocket. "There's a cure now. You don't have to worry about-"

Theo batted his hand away with a surprisingly strong force, making the vial shatter onto the ground.

"What the-"

"Run." Theo's voice was hoarse, his pupils dilated.

It was too late.

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Infection

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

For @augusnippets Day 18

Elze'ith gets sick.

Contains: Illness, fever, intimate whumper

~~~

His body was warm, warm, impossibly warm, and he couldn’t remember why.

Aches smothered every bone and muscle, had settled in like birds coming home to roost. Fatigue clung to him like an old friend looking for any excuse not to leave again. And the fire ravaged him, despite the cold of the castle, leaving him wheezing and panting through the thickness in his chest that made every breath a trial.

A cold hand laid on his forehead, making him shiver with dread and relief. A whine escaped his throat unbidden, and he wasn’t sure what it was he was pleading for.

“Shh. I’m here.”

The dark voice wrapped around him, caressing him with its cloying promises. Something was brought to his lips, just as cool as the gentle hand that still laid against his skin. Elze’ith didn’t hesitate to drink, barely noticing or minding the bitter taste. He only cared to chase the relief he was being offered.

“Rest, my light. I’m going to take care of you.”

Trust bubbled up in Elze’ith’s chest, alongside a weak cough that he couldn’t suppress. This presence, with its low words and comforting touch, would take care of him. Darkness finally offered him a reprieve, and he fell into its embrace, calmed and unafraid.

[ronanziriano]

Augusnippets Day 18 - Apocalypse

The rusty clang of metal against metal echoed through the night, jolting Caretaker awake. He sat up, rubbing his eyes with one hand and reaching for the handgun beside his bed. The perimeter alarm had been triggered, and he was ready as ever to face whatever threat was trying to make its way into his fortified home.

He clicked the safety off of his gun, then cautiously made his way outside. He remained pressed up against the wall of the house as he moved quietly, squinting into the darkness at the outer fence. Once he turned the first corner, he saw the culprit: a figure collapsed in the dirt. Caretaker raised his gun and approached, but as he neared, he heard something that piqued his attention: breathing. Gasping for breaths. The intruder lay caked in dirt, gaunt, clothes torn and bloodied, but not a zombie - not yet, at least.

The intruder lifted his head as Caretaker approached. He’d been well enough to make it all the way out to Caretaker’s home, but it seemed that this guy didn’t have much energy left - he could barely make eye contact, and was quick to let his head slump back to the ground.

Caretaker’s mind went immediately to practicalities. His supplies were limited, carefully rationed to last him as long as they possibly could. He didn't know this guy - couldn't be sure he wasn't a threat. The intruder looked smaller than him, but also younger, spryer. A physical confrontation between them could go either way.

As he stood there, weighing his options, the wind began to rattle the fence, and it carried with it the low, distant moans of zombies. They were coming, drawn by the noise of the trap.

He gritted his teeth, cursing his own conscience. Leaving this guy out here would be a death sentence, and damn it all, he could never to get desensitized to that the way he should have under the circumstance. 

With a sigh of resignation, he put the safety of his gun back in place and crouched down, hooking an arm under the intruder's shoulder. "Come on," he grumbled, half to himself, half to the barely conscious figure. "Let's get inside."

It wasn't easy, mostly dragging this person across the uneven ground - his back would be unforgiving toward him come morning - but the sound of approaching zombies pushed him on. Once inside, he locked the door and bolted it shut. Safe, for now.

Caretaker dragged the intruder onto the couch, grabbing his first-aid kit from a nearby shelf. As he starting stripping away shreds of clothing to find wounds to tend, he couldn't help but feel a pang of irritation. This was not part of his plan. He had worked so hard to ensure his own survival, and now here was a wildcard, a potential liability.

This could be the dumbest move he’d ever made since humanity had gone to shit.

With a heavy sigh, Caretaker began applying antiseptic to a fresh-looking abrasion. "You better not make me regret this," he muttered, more to himself than to his new houseguest.

@augusnippets

[shyday-ao3]

@augusnippets Day 18. Prompt infection. Daredevil fandom, preseries. Avocadoes in training.

He can only hear out of one of his ears, but it’s still way too loud in here. Matt takes another sip of the beer he doesn’t want, shores up his false smile. He’s here for Foggy. He can do a couple more hours.

The birthday boy sits surrounded, their table being the apparent social epicenter of the bar tonight. He’s lost track of all the people coming and going with their well-wishes and offers of free drinks. He’s never even met the flirty girl with the raucous laugh that Foggy’s talking to now. Her friend had excused herself after the second time Matt had turned away to cough into his elbow, leaving him alone on this side of the booth. Just as well. He was having trouble following the conversation anyway. 

The left side of his face is a wall of sinus pressure, a symptom that’s only gotten worse as today’s gone on. It’s exhausting, and he’d actually missed his last class because he’d fallen asleep in the library. Waking up disoriented and achy, he’d considered canceling tonight’s plans. The cloud of enthusiasm he’d stumbled into when he’d made his way back into their room had immediately changed his mind.

He startles when someone grabs him, an unexpected hand on his shoulder. Ingrained training fires first, and he only barely refrains from wrenching that arm up behind the guy’s back before he recognizes one of their friends. Matt forces another smile, makes the required small talk. It’s an effort to keep his voice at the volume needed to be heard in here. Even over the noise he sounds congested.

“Do something for me,” Foggy says, close to his good ear.

Matt jumps, tries to calm his racing heart. He’d missed the part when everyone had cleared out. It’s a shock to find them suddenly alone. “Uh, sure,” he laughs awkwardly, despite not having any idea what Foggy wants. Over the last few semesters, he’s learned he can trust this guy. 

“Go home.” Confused, Matt blinks at him. “I’m serious, man. I appreciate the effort and all, but you look like you feel like shit.”

“What’re you talking about? I’m fine.” It probably would’ve been more convincing if he hadn’t needed to clear his throat between the last two words. 

“Uh-huh.” Foggy’s breath is warm on his ear. 

He hears Stick telling him to suck it up. Telling him it’s all in his head. “But… it’s your birthday,” he says lamely. God he’s tired.

“And it’s my birthday wish that you get out of here. Go to bed.”

Can he do that? Admit that he doesn’t feel well and simply leave? A memory of Sister’s voice whispers selfish boy; Stick warns that it’s a trap. But Foggy sounds sincere. As much as Matt can tell with that thumping bass and the way his pulse throbs in his face, anyway.

They’re interrupted by another friend. But Foggy’s got the last word.

“Sometimes it’s okay to not be okay, man,” he says. 

[lancedoncrimsonwings]

Augusnippets Day 18

Path of Whumperless Whump + Comfort Prompt; "Infection" + "Singing" + "Feverish Caretaking" Part 3

Day 18 of @augusnippets August 2024 Whump writing challenge! (Augusnippets Masterlist)

Characters;

- POV/Caretaker: Gawain - The Green Knight

- Lancelot - The Weeping Monk

(Character Masterlist)

(Ao3 Link)

Wordcount; 752

TWs; feverish caretaking, infection, fever.

Continuation of Day 5 & Day 9

Gawain hummed softly as he tied off the last bandage across Lancelot's back, the source of his fever evident from the troublesome infection raging within several of the lashings there. For the last three days, Lancelot had lain here, battling, Gawain ever at his side.

The fever had yet to break, but Gawain knew it in his heart that it must soon; either Lancelot would succumb to this infection or he would defeat it, and the precipice of which would win out was fast approaching. Lancelot's body shuddered and quaked, the heat pouring off of him had long since caused Gawain to shed his tunic down to his undershirt and even then he still sweat profusely- though not nearly as much as Lancelot, who's drenched skin glinted in the candlelight.

"Come on, Ashman. Are you going to let a little fever beat you?"

Lancelot had fought far worse than this. And yet... Gawain couldn't help the fear that he'd been sick too long now, that it wasn't getting better. The lingering scent of sickness had grown more sinister as of the past day, now more akin to the scent of death, clinging to Lancelot like a malevolent cloud.

"I remember when Nimue was but a young girl," Gawain began, soaking the cloth again and perching on the bed next to him. "She had a fever for three days. 'Twas not long before I left Dewdenn, but I remember how she shook."

Lancelot trembled beneath his touch.

"Lenore would sing to Nimue, you know, as she slept," Gawain wiped Lancelot's brow, watching his heartbeat as it pounded furiously in his neck which alongside his ever laboured breathing had done naught but worsen over time.

"Told me that was a part of the healing, these songs. Lenore taught me them, though I suppose I've never had cause to try before..."

Gawain took a deep breath, willing the Fingers of Airimid to rise to the surface. They came willingly, swarming beneath his skin like they could feel what he was about to do. Carefully, Gawain splayed his hands over Lancelot's chest and shoulder, watching as a vine seemed to creep into Lancelot's skin, a golden leaf shimmering up over the Ashman's collarbone.

"Gang ût, nesso," The words were like invoking a distant memory as he closed his eyes and began to sing. "mid nigun nessiklînon..."

He could feel it like a steady drain of his own strength as the spell began to form. Undeterred, he sung;

"Gang ût, nesso, mid nigun nessiklînon,

Ût fana themo margę an that bên,

Fan themo bêne an that flêsg,

Ût fan themo flêsgke an thia hûd,

Ût fan thera hud an thesa strâla...

...Drohtin, uuerthe sô!"

Again did he sing the verses, over and over, until dawn had begun to break on what was now the start of the fourth day.

"Arawn uuerthe sô." Gawain whispered, falling silent, feeling the fingers of Airimid recede as they settled down once more beneath his skin. He opened his eyes to a wave of exhaustion that washed over him, quite remarkably tired now.

With a glance at Lancelot he could see those harsh lines of discomfort had faded away, his breathing was deep and calm, the vein still throbbed in his neck but his heartbeat had slowed too, strong and steady it beat.

It took Gawain a solid moment to realise what else had changed.

No longer did waves of heat radiate from the Ashman, like the rest of him, it had soothed.

His fever had finally broken.

"Thank Arawn..." Gawain whispered, half to himself, daring to try to stand from the bed now and finding his legs had turned to jelly as he quickly thumped back down into his chair.

"g-Gawain?"

Lancelot's voice was weary and hoarse, and his eyes were bloodshot as he blinked blearily up at him.

"Morning, sleepyhead," Gawain hummed, with an affectionate smile. "Did you have a nice nap?"

Lancelot grimaced, wiping his hand over his face and raising a wry eyebrow towards him.

"...no. No, I did not," came the fairly understandable reply.

"How are you feeling?" Gawain grabbed his own waterskin from the side, passing it over to the Ashman, who was attempting to sit up, Gawain aided him with a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Ugh... Like I pissed off Goliath... and he stomped all over me." Lancelot replied, accepting the water with a grateful smile. He took a deep swig, throat bobbing as he swallowed.

"So, better, then?"

Lancelot chuckled lightly.

"A little."

I sorta ran out of time to edit this one down any further, whoops. What started off this morning as a 75 word idea spiralled quickly...

The song Gawain sings is called "Nesso" by Heilung;

The lyrics are taken from the words of an ancient healing spell from early Medieval Europe that was preserved by the clerics of the Church in a passage called "Contra Vermes" from the 9th Century! The spell itself was originally to draw sickness from a horse, but works well enough for this. Translation as follows;

"Go out worm, with your nine little ones, out from the marrow to the bone, from the bone to the flesh, out from the flesh to the skin, out from the skin (in)to this arrow, Lord make it so" and I added "Arawn make it so" after the Fey Deity Arawn. Thought I'd throw in a little nod back to Gawain and Nimue's relationship in the book and a few moments from the series into this one! Thanks for reading, onto the next!.

[the-rad-pineapple]

Day 18 of @augusnippets

apocalypse + infection + self-administered medicine

His veins feel icy hot. A swarm of needles in his blood. 

The beating sun and the heat from the asphalt don’t help either. 

There’s a McDonald’s up ahead. 

He barges into the door with his shoulder, expecting it to be locked. It isn’t, and the door falls away. With an embarrassing yelp, he falls onto the dirt-covered tiles. He immediately scrambles to his feet, white-knuckling the crowbar he’s had since he left his car. His heart thuds in his ears, and his breathing is too loud. He spins around wildly, but… 

There’s nothing—it’s empty.

He deflates before stumbling into the nearest restroom. He bumps into the counter, dropping his crowbar onto it. He fights with his backpack before it falls to the floor. He gasps, falling forward, and catches himself on the counter. He still hasn’t caught his breath when he looks up into the mirror. 

Sweaty hair clings to his forehead. He brushes it back in frustration. He’s never had it this long before. He’s not used to a lot of facial hair either. He looks like someone else. The eyes staring back at him are too unfamiliar, and he has to look away.

With a shaking hand, he claws at the piece of cloth wrapped around his left forearm. His fingers slip a few times before the makeshift bandage falls away. 

The bite is worse. 

He’ll need a higher dosage this time. 

There’s not much left. 

He shoos the thought away. He’ll reach a pharmacy soon. He has to. 

He bends down and fumbles with the backpack’s zipper. He eventually unzips it wide enough to slip a hand inside. He feels around for what he needs and greedily snatches it when his fingers brush it. 

His hands are so shaky and sweaty that it takes him a few tries to open the sterile needle’s plastic packaging. He almost drops it, and his heart stops. He can’t afford to waste a single drop. 

His heartbeat is steadily rising, and his pulse thunders in his ears. His hands still shake, no matter how hard he concentrates. But, with practiced ease, he pushes the needle into his vein. Painful pinching fades into uncomfortable pressure and then…

Bliss. 

Who knew the cure for zombies would give you the best highs of your life? 

Sometimes he thinks it’s a design choice because these highs are his only reason to live. 

He catches his own eye in the mirror again, and his heart swoops dangerously. His eyes are heavy-lidded in pleasure. The hair has fallen back over his face. He’s still holding the needle inside his arm. And he’s grinning. 

He looks so Other, illuminated in the faded-blue fluorescent light, smiling like something wicked. 

He sighs dreamily as he delicately pulls the needle out. He flicks it into the sink. It clinks daintily. 

He easily pulls his backpack from the ground and slings it over his shoulder. He grabs his crowbar and steals one last look at himself in the mirror. 

[angelic-writer]

The Mimicry Project - I Can Take Care of Myself

Day 18 of @augusnippets

Prompts: Apocalypse/Infection/Self administered medicine

CW: Blood, wounds, splinters

Here's Tyler being a dumb dumb.

-------

Tyler gritted his teeth as he wrapped the bandage around his bleeding arm. Stupid Gavin and his stupid ideas. Why did he have to make him go through all of this?

No, that's not Gavin's fault. It was his idea to go inside that house. He had no idea the floor would be unstable. He was the one that insisted he go further inside. It was his own fault, though he would never admit it.

And now, he is alone in the bathroom, covered in splinters. Gavin and Charlie offered to help him out with his wounds, but he brushed them off, telling them it wasn't that serious. With the amount of wood pieces he pulled out of his arms and legs, it's safe to assume he needs more than just band-aids.

"When are you going to stop being so stupid, Tyler?" Charlotte said from the other side of the door.

"Until the heat death of the universe?" Tyler answered, a cocky grin on his face.

"I'm serious, Ty. What would happen if you were alone in there? No one would be there to help you."

"Charlie, relax. I've got you guys here with me. I think I'll be fine."

[udaberriwrites]

A drabble for @augusnippets' day 18!

Path of Whumperless Whump - Self-administered medicine

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Character: Wyll Ravengard

Timeline: In exile

Rating: T, tw: blood

The blood pouring from his leg coats the forest floor, catching the light of the fading sun.

Wyll has no healing potions. He’s too far away from the village to drag himself to safety, and they were so terrified of the werewolf that no one’ll come looking for him until the morning.

He doesn’t have that long.

He takes his backup dagger from its sheath with trembling hands and breathes out the spell, almost like a prayer.

“Ignis.”

The blade becomes molten-red. His scream echoes on the desolate forest when he presses it to the wound.

He’s not dying here.

_

Full prompt list here

AO3 collection here

[darling-writings]

@augusnippets day 18: infection

Akehurst was making an effort to be more professional than usual, sitting in the van outside of today’s illegal laboratory sweep. Sugar’s radio monologue from inside was harrowing, and he didn’t seem like he would handle Akehurst’s usual chatter very well. 

“It’s. Not good in here,” he was saying. “I can see why this person’s neighbor called in complaining about the smell. It’s a graveyard. No living subjects, close to… god, it must be close to 50 dead.”

In a backyard shed that small? They must be piled up. Akehurst shuddered. “Sending Central a request for body bags, we don’t have that many.” 

“No need. I have a box of plastic evidence bags that’ll work.” 

Akehurst’s sick curiosity got the better of him. “How do you mean?” 

“The bodies… should fit about right in those.” He sighed, Akehurst could picture him sliding his glasses up and pinching the bridge of his nose as he composed himself. “I’m sorry, I’m in breach of procedure. Let me try again. Subjects found in a series of aquarium tanks. Genetic tampering obvious, most likely done prenatally. Each is… well, they look like tiny little mermaids. Really. About the size of my hand. They must have been created here, the poor things. Lived and died here.” A shaky breath, in and out. Sugar always got attached, and always took it hard when he was too late. “All subjects appear to be deceased, most are in advanced stages of rot. It’s. Hard to look at.” 

“Heard, Sugar.” Akehurst figured a joke about Sugar sounding ‘green in the gills’ might be poor timed, right now. 

Sugar went quiet as he got to work sweeping the scene. Akehurst knew he wouldn’t be hearing any more from him until the corpses were removed. There was no way Sugar would feel comfortable sending over any files left behind by the perpetrator until they were seen to with respect. A few minutes passed, as Akehurst poked dully at a Wile-E Coyote bobblehead on the dashboard. Sugar’s voice, reappearing sudden and urgent on his radio, made him jump. 

“Akehurst, tell medical I’m coming out with a living subject now. I nearly bagged and put him with the others. He’s in a bad way.”

“Roger.” Akehurst flipped radio channels to kick Doctor Weiss into gear, then hopped out, ostensibly to open the van’s back door for her. In reality, he just wanted to catch a glimpse of whatever Sugar was bringing out of the shed. He figured he was allowed to be as nosy as he wanted, as long as he never violated his NDA. 

The back of the van was all ambulance on the interior. Akehurst had never seen Weiss anywhere that didn’t look like a hospital. He privately thought she might blink out of existence if she stepped out of a medical setting, even for a moment. 

The sound of hurried footsteps and sloshing water turned Akehurst’s head. Sugar was carrying a 5-gallon fish tank, half full of filthy greenish water, toward the van as quickly as he could. Akehurst rushed over to help take the weight of it. 

The smell of the tank was vile, moldy hard water and rotting fish. Inside it, floating limply back and forth in time with the sloshing water, was the specimen. The little fish-person looked like a betta from the waist down, bone-white from tip to tail, save for angry red discoloration around the edges of his frayed fins. These were disproportionately small, as if they’d been eaten away. His black eyes bulged grossly out of their sockets, cloudy and staring up at nothing. Most worrying were his gills, flushed a dark bloody red, spotted with fuzzy, bacterial white. They were alarmingly engorged, beating in time with the tiny subject’s labored breathing. 

The Agents reached the van, and put the tank down on the stretcher inside.  Sugar immediately turned to head back into the shed, all business now that there was a life he could save. “There should be records inside, they might tell you something about how to help him.”

“Good call,” said Weiss. 

Akehurst gave a thumbs up to Sugar’s retreating back. “Radio us anything you find.” 

Weiss pulled on a pair of rubber gloves. “Akehurst, find the biggest specimen jar you can, and fill it up with water. This dirty tank is clearly causing the subject distress.” She plunged her hand into the slimy water, and lifted the subject up so he was just barely submerged. His head lolled back against her middle finger, a pained expression on his tiny, pale face. She shone a penlight at him; his blind eyes didn’t change, nor did he react in any way, apart from continuing to struggle for breath. She asked the subject a few questions, but he didn’t appear to understand, lost in a haze of pain and sickness. 

“I’m not sure transferring him is a good idea, right now,” Akehurst replied, rifling through drawers for a specimen jar anyway. 

“Are you a doctor, now?” 

“Nah, I’m just the guy that drives the van. But I do keep fish at home. And a quick transfer from one tank to another can shock a healthy fish enough to kill them. This little guy wouldn’t be able to take it.” 

Weiss made a face that said she hadn’t expected Akehurst to have anything useful to contribute. “Good call. But we can’t leave him in this water and treat his infection at the same time. Radio central and tell them to find a marine biologist willing to sign an NDA, and to get a tank set up in the medical wing. Then start driving.” 

Akehurst did as he was told. While he was on call with central, he watched Weiss let the subject float back down to the bottom of the tank while she found a bottle of antibiotic pills. She took one —nearly the size of the subject’s entire hand— and carefully crushed it, weighing out a tiny fraction of the powder. She repeated the process with an analgesic. The tiny portions of medicine-dust were then mixed with a few drops of clean water, and picked up with a pipette. 

“Hey, little guy,” she murmured, bringing the subject’s limp form up again, this time letting his face break the surface. She held the pipette to his mouth, which was already open and gasping. “Can you drink this for me?” She let a drop fall into his mouth, and he managed to swallow most of it. The second drop, he refused, closing his mouth and turning his head away. It was a relief to see him move at all. 

“I know, it’s bitter,” Weiss continued, “but it’ll help you. Okay, honey?” She fitted the pipette into his mouth, nudging it open, and squeezed the rest of the medicine in. The subject coughed weakly, spitting up what he couldn’t swallow. 

Akehurst hung up the call, and radioed Sugar to tell him they’d send a car to pick him up later. He stood to head back to the front of the van, leaving Weiss cradling the subject in her hand, looking out of her depth. 

Breaking the speed limit on the way back to The Organization’s central office was a given. It might give the subject half a chance at living long enough to receive treatment. Even so, Akehurst had his doubts.