#augusnippets day 30

[whumper-whimsy]

@augusnippets day 30

Self-harm / addiction / overdose

big whumpy mess to celebrate the last day >:)

Not really proofread

BIG BIG TRIGGER WARNING. Self-harm, drug addiction, drug overdose, withdrawls, manipulative whumper, enabling, intimate whumper

°

Whumpee scrambled up the patio stairs of the gray-paneled house that often haunted his nightmares, pounding his fist against the peeling door. He really, really, really shouldn't have even come here. Whumper's house brought up too many horrible memories. Still, he had nowhere else to go. He had no job, couldn't pay rent, and couldn't fend for himself on the streets.

Now here he was, holding his breath as the door opened. His whole body shook as the door creaked open, revealing Whumper. The other man's eyes gleamed with interest, a smirk pulling at his lips.

"My, if it isn't my little runaway," he purred, instantly reaching out and pulling Whumpee inside. "Back so soon? You miss me, darling?"

Whumpee sniffled, clinging to Whumper. "Sir, I- I can't do it out there... i h- have no home, no job... i miss my room and- and my medicine..." Whumpee said desperately, rubbing up on Whumper and ranting through the tears. "I t-took this for granted, I'm sorry for running away. Please, take me back, hurt me, gimme my medicine..."

Whumper chuckled, pulling Whumpee close and kissing his head. Whumpee sighed shakily.

"You want your drugs?" Whumper asked, watching with amusement as Whumpee lit up. He handed them to Whumpee, watching as he sucked that down.

"Good boy, there we go." Whumper smirked, slipping away for a moment to grab a razor. He handed the other boy the razor, tutting.

Whumpee took in a breath, tearing into his flesh. The blood trickled down his wrists, feeling like sweet release.

Whumper's voice was a rumble behind Whumpee's head, his words sickeningly sweet,

"Good boy... you'll do great, baby. Welcome home."

[whumplump]

Day 30 of @augusnippets

Prompts used: self harm, addiction

CW: self harm, blood, graphic description, unhealthy coping, self depreciation

Under the cut because it's heavy and I don't want anyone to catch their eyes on any word that could trigger them. I put my soul into this work. Sorry it's longer than usual.

Whumpee got upset that day. They didn't know if it was a bad day, or if it was just 5 bad minutes that they had been dwelling on all day, but they were upset. This pain that they felt, constantly, but erased by a smile, made them up. There was a medicine for that pain.

They got home and spent the afternoon doing nothing. Procrastinating on their cell phone. Playing with the dog. Two of the few things they still had the energy to do. When 5pm arrived, it was time to clean the house. They used a broom, vacuum cleaner and mop in every corner, removing all the dust and stains from the floor and furniture. The frustration began when they put back the rugs they took out to beat the dust outside. The room already looked filthy again. But they didn't have the strength to vacuum again, so the dirt stayed there.

After mopping, they sat on the bed waiting for the floor to dry. The desire crossed their minds. They wasted no time. They opened the wardrobe and took from a box of homemade scissors a tiny stiletto in the shape and color of a carrot. Very cute, they thought. They liked that object. Not only because of its innocent appearance, but because of the comfort it brought to them with its sharp efficiency.

They rolled down the sleeve on their right arm and pulled down the various bracelets, revealing the scars in the perfect place to cut and hide. There were still some scabs from cuts that were healing. They opened the blade and prepared themselves, both arms in the air. They hesitated for a moment. They knew that cutting themselves would hurt too much. But they knew that they would be more nervous if they didn't do it, and they would also be more angry with themselves if they were cowardly and didn't do what they are used to.

They thought, looking at the scars. They hate scars, but they love watching the gaping cuts, the leaking blood, the skin and flesh torn by the comforting blade.

They want to see the cuts open.

They brought the blade down to the arm very quickly, producing a horizontal cut across the wrist. It hurt a lot, but they couldn't give up now. They made another cut, trying to get used to it. And another. And another. And another. Dozens. The right wrist was quickly covered in scarlet. With each cut, Whumpee wanted more, wanted it to hurt more, for the knife to tear the skin and hurt even more. They kept telling themselves "just one more", but it was never the last one. They did that almost every day. They never managed to get rid of the feeling of the cuts, which wasn't good, but it wasn't bad either. They felt empty inside. Feeling that was better than feeling nothing.

When they were satisfied with the session, their wrist was devastated. An irregular sequence of horizontal cuts covered the entire wrist region, blood leaking in abundance, some stripes running down the arm. Whumpee looked at the cuts with relief and a little pride. Yes, they did that. That was something they could say they had authored and no one could deny. Only they knew how to do it, like that, on their wrist, with their stiletto. But after the trance with the pain ended, the emptiness filled their head again. They no longer felt anything. They needed more. They swore to themselves they would never do it again, but it was too good to let go. The blood! The pain!

They raised the stiletto and made many, many cuts, some straying out of the way and cutting into places accidentally, like the palm of the hand or the rest of the arm. Even though it wasn't intentional, Whumpee enjoyed the unusual pain. They couldn't say when they would stop. Maybe never. They didn't have anyone's help to say that it wasn't healthy. But it didn't matter. They were so nasty and unworthy, they didn't deserve any help.

They didn't wash the cuts, they just used a piece of paper towel to dry up the remaining blood and pulled the sleeve back up. This would definitely make the cuts dull and not heal.

Whumpee didn't care.

[evilwriter37]

We'll Fix This

Augusnippets Day 30

Addiction

Rated: teen

Warnings: none

------

“Just admit it!” Astrid cried. “You’re addicted to him!”

“I am not!” Hiccup responded, hurt that she would even say such a thing. 

Astrid got up close, in his personal space, breath hot on Hiccup’s face. She poked him hard in the chest. “You like the way he plays with you. You can’t not accept his challenge. And don’t pretend I don’t know where you go every other week!”

“Astrid!” They were fighting in his hut, Toothless watching with a concerned look on his face. “I’m not addicted to Viggo Grimborn!”

“Then focus!” she shouted. “Stop indulging in his games and actually try to win this war!”

Hiccup was silent at her words now. Was she right? Was he addicted to Viggo? He really did love the challenge he presented him as an adversary. And oh gods, the sex. He felt like every other week wasn’t enough. He felt like every other day wouldn’t be enough.

Astrid was right. All he could think about was Viggo. His chores and hobbies had fallen to the wayside, and there was just this man. This horrible, horrible man who he knew he shouldn’t be with.

“I’m sorry, Astrid,” he said quietly, bowing his head. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” 

Astrid pulled away, looking taken aback by his admittance and his apology, like she hadn’t expected it. 

Hiccup looked at her now, his head an inner maelstrom of everything Viggo. “How do I fix this?”

“Not you,” Astrid said softly. She came forward and took his hand, gave it a gentle squeeze. “We.”

[deviant-doughnut]

Augusnippets: Day Thirty

Chosen prompt: self harm

CW: self harm; blood; knives

His nails used to be enough. He’d turn the key quietly to lock himself in, and he’d scratch himself red in the bedroom. His upper arms, the meat of his thighs — the parts that were easily covered. His stomach, sometimes, though he disliked the way that his clothes felt afterwards, grating against tender skin. Sometimes he stopped before drawing blood, and told himself it wasn’t harmful at all. Other times he stared as the blood rose in droplets, pressing itself to the surface of his skin. The small of his back sometimes, when particularly desperate, when he had three short seconds to himself while at work, and was so overwhelmed that he needed it. He stopped wearing white and he ticked along fine.

He’s never hovered like this before, eyes caught on the gleam of the vegetable knife. He’s paused halfway through cooking, the scratches on the side of his thigh still throbbing against heavy denim. But it hasn’t helped. No matter how harshly he dug in his nails or how violently he dragged them across his flesh, the blood never came and his fear never eased. It’s easier to breathe in the wake of a scratch — or it used to be, anyway. It’s as though he’s able to slice clean through his overwhelm, find a pocket of unaffected air in its sharp and immediate aftermath. There’s a peacefulness to the moment it’s over, one that ebbs away again in time for him to dig his nails in anew. It’s like a hit of the world’s cleanest oxygen, drawn deep into his lungs, enough to make him smile.

But it hasn’t fixed anything today. He gave up, countless red scratches from his hip to his knee, and still the air feels tight in his chest, and still he hasn’t broken a smile. He’s caught in his spiral, no release from it yet. It feels like picking up an old record and finding it no longer plays right — damaged when he wasn’t looking, gone dusty out of disuse.

Empty pans on the stove, ready for his attempt to make something out of the meagre contents of his fridge. He can’t afford groceries until payday on Friday, much less the notion of ordering in. So it’s vegetables, and rice, and some kind of old sauce. But he pauses now, his own reflection distorted to him as it peers back at him in the glint of the metal. He sets the first few vegetables aside, takes the knife to the sink and runs it under the hot tap. He rinses it off, shakes beads of water from the metal, and he peers from the knife to the food and then back again.

He keeps the knife in a trembling grip, and imagines the release he might find in it.

His heart falls and thunders at once, desperate and dismayed in the same breath. He abandons the food and he leaves the kitchen. He goes as far as to turn the light off behind him.

He takes the knife with him.

-

Thanks to @augusnippets for this event!

[angelic-writer]

Graveyard Diner - Five More Minutes

Day 30 of @augusnippets

Prompts: Self-harm/addiction/overdose

Fandom: Cabin Tales

CW: Overdose, mentioned drug addiction, unclear character status

I can't fight anymore. I can't move. The figure is gone as well. The whispers too. And I hear the ground move.

Thorns.

Thorns that overtook the diner. The thorns that covered the rubber seat are now growing over my body and piercing through me, taking over me like the puppet I am.

The pain is now gone.

No voices in my head anymore.

And at last

silence.

I don't know how many of these "happy pills" that I took, but I'm too tired to think about that. All I remember was stumbling into a run down diner and a figure coming out of a pot and grabbing me, consuming me.

How did I get to this point in my life? How did I manage to fuck up this badly?

The memories of my mom and dad yelling at me for my drug addiction flashed through my mind. They threatened to send me to rehab and I just... ran away. I've been wandering around the country, hopping from bus to bus trying to find some place to stay while trying to get my fix. That's when an old man came up to me and gave me some "happy pills". He said it'll "take your mind off of the pain." Well, those things certainly brought me more pain for a moment.

But then, there was nothing. Just a calming sense of peace like a child being tucked into bed. I welcomed that peace with a smile on my face.

My only regret was not making up with my parents.

Mom... Dad...

I'm so sorry.....

Someone's calling to me, shaking me over and over again. It was muffled, but the voice sounded like my dad, almost.

"C'mon, kid! Stay with me!"

Another voice. Instructing him on... something.

A rhythmic pressing of my chest.

That's a rude way to wake someone up.

I don't want to wake up. Let me sleep.

"C'mon, kid!! Breathe!!!"

Five more minutes.

[didasgomas]

We only talk when you're drunk

Day 30 of @augusnippets

Prompts: Self-harm/Addiction/Overdose

Content warnings: Alcohol addiction, implied past childhood starvation, relationship problems

Small part of my story "Monsters of Pearlmoon", an au for MiM, a story written by @moonlightsmasquerade

Author's notes : "Seb" is a nickname for Sebastian, in this case, his full name is Sebastian Delk, and Yael is bigender, thus goes by both he/him and she/her

February, 2003 - Anonymous county, Ohio

"Come on Seb, this is the fourth time I'm calling you."

Yael knew her boyfriend's alcohol problem stemmed from his childhood, of growing up in a house where some days there wasn't any real food to eat, with two parents that were in and out of jobs so frequently that the cheapest thing to consume was liquor.

He understood Seb's problem, and like with any problem, Yael tried to help solve it, but the situation they were both in wasn't favorable. They were both only twenty, living in a rented house with only one of them having a high school diploma, with their only stable income being Yael's job at OldOak, obtained only because of her qualifications from art and photography extracurricular clubs and classes. Seb only worked odd jobs, because no employer wanted to hire someone who clearly suffered from an addiction.

There was simply not enough money for a rehabilitation centre, at least not in the situation Yael had ventured into, out of her own free will. Her family would probably agree to help financially, even if they were all the way back in Columbus, but living without their help in such a massive way was a mission Yael had made up and was determined to accomplish.

But was it really worth it to continue such a thing if his partner more and more frequently found himself wasting his payments on the closest bar, instead of bringing them back home to help the finances?

Finally, Sebastian picked up the phone.

"Hello? Honey?" His words were still comprehensible, but were beginning to get slurred.

"When are you coming back home?"

There were a few random noises, she couldn't tell if he was trying to answer or not, and then the call was hung up.

[udaberriwrites]

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

Path of Whumperless Whump - Medical complication

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Characters: Wyll Ravengard, Shadowheart

Timeline: Act 1

Rating: T

“Come here,” Shadowheart orders.

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

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

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

“Everything alright?” Shadowheart frowns.

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

“Of course.”

_

Full prompt list here

AO3 collection here

[scratchandplaster]

Compromise

CW: toddler!Luke having sensory issues

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

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

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

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

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

Not again.

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

"Stay calm, Luke."

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

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

"I'm not eating that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thanks for reading 🤍 [Masterlist]

Prompt: homemade meal/quenched thirst/favorite treat

@augusnippets @whumpyourdamnpears

[autobot2001]

The Problem Continues

Author: Autobot2001 Genre: Fanfiction Fandom: Transformers Rating: T Warning: Verbal bullying, self-harm PairingL Drift X Jamie (OC) Description: While Crosshairs and Drift go out, Jamie is yet again bullied by a soldier. Crosshairs and Drift return to a grim scene.

Day 30; @augustofwhump: outcast, gift @augusnippets - path of whumperless whump: self-harm

"… yeah, it's a good idea," Drift agrees. "She'll be fine while we're gone." Crosshairs isn't sure about leaving Jamie alone, but he hates thinking she needs to be watched. Even if all they have to do is ask Sideswipe to play video games with Jamie since Jamie likes video games. Crosshairs and Drift inform Jamie they are going out without disclosing the destination. Jamie thinks nothing of it. Jamie believes Optimus's permission is required, despite knowing Autobots can travel globally but must follow human rules.

Jamie walks down the hall, minding her business, when she's shoved into the wall. Sunstreaker would typically act like this, but Jamie believes he wouldn't treat her this way. "I didn't know that the Autobots were protecting outcasts," a female voice says. "no human friends. I read your own family hates you," Jamie can't believe the soldier knows this, "and you're not from this dimension? An outcast hoping another dimension will be accepting of them, ha! Only the foolish Autobots. Well, I guess they've learned since Sunstreaker isn't here yet. Loser." The soldier releases Jamie from her grip. She sits on the floor, taking in what the soldier said. What she's been told all week.

"… enough for now," Drift says as he and Crosshairs enter the shared bedroom. Crosshairs and Drift immediately see a terrifying scene as Jamie sits in the bathroom, her arm bleeding. Scrap, why couldn't I be wrong? Crosshairs thinks. \The two mechs rush into the bathroom. Drift looks at Jamie's arm. Drift moves to comfort Jamie while Crosshairs will take care of the injury. Both hope it's not serious that they must go to the medbay. They know cutting the arm can be serious.

Crosshairs finds the small bottle of pain relief and prepares to inject the medicine. Both worry about Jamie's lack of reaction as Crosshairs injects the medicine. They didn't believe she'd lost a large amount of blood. Drift feels Jamie's pulse, to be sure. It is strong. Crosshairs stops the bleeding. They still worry about Jamie's unresponsiveness, worried about what she could be thinking.

After Crosshairs stitches the cut and ensures there's no damage, Drift carries Jamie out of the bathroom and sits on the couch while Crosshairs cleans the mess. Drift says nothing to Jamie. He only hugs her. Crosshairs sitting on the couch. Crosshairs and Drift long ago agreed to refrain from engaging Jamie in conversation when she's like this. They always uncover her concerns through different methods. "Look, Jamie," Crosshairs breaks the silence. "We got you cookies." They both agreed it was a gift, considering Jamie's week. Jamie smiles at seeing the cookies, and the three friends enjoy them.

[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 15

Alternate Prompt: whipping

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

Summary:

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

Here on AO3

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

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

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

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

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

[Roy]: Was it the weights?

[Prick]: what weights?

[Prick]: oh

[Prick]: no

[Prick]: It’s nothin

[Prick]: It’s nothin bad

[Prick]: I fucked up

[Roy]: Fucked up how?

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

[Roy]: Bruising from what?

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

[Prick]: It was just a bit of whipping

Typing…

Typing…

Typing…

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

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

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

Half of Roy knew this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

“Your bath bombs,” repeated Roy.

Jamie nodded excitedly.

“You….whisk your bath bombs.”

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

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

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

A whisk for a bath bomb. Jesus fucking Christ.

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

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

“No,” answered Roy.

“But if I only had another whisk–”

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

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

“Don’t kill Sam.”

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

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

Roy sighed. “Give me a fork.”

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

Jamie turned around with the plates and-

“Is that a carving knife?”

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

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

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

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

[whumplump]

Day 4 of @augusnippets

Prompt used: vivisection

Not used: amputation / degloving

Consider this a non-canon side story to Experiment (not a part 2)

CW: vivisection, lab whump, surgeon whumper, testing, caretaker turned whumpee, character death

Whumper rubbed the back of his arm across his forehead, wiping away the sweat. That part of the procedure was always difficult. Caretaker lay motionless on the stretcher, kept alive thanks to the various medical machines attached to their body.

Whumper took a moment to analyze the specimen's vital signs.

“Blood pressure plummeted." He said to the voice recorder. "Unfortunately, the specimen will not last more than a few minutes. I will pause the extraction until the verdict and continue only after the subject's death."

He placed the utensils he had in his hand aside and brought his face close to Caretaker's. He looked into the specimen's eyes, as he always does, and showed no empathy, just said, in a monotone and robotic voice:

"You did great. Your friend is here too. They're doing great too. You were an amazing test subject, number 31."

Whumper said a few more uncomforting parting words, but Caretaker was no longer able to hear anything. If they were test subject 31, Whumper had certainly done this cruelty to 30 other people previously.

Their last wish, subconsciously, was that Whumpee wouldn't be one of those.

[criminalmindsgonewrong]

the hope of it all.

Augusnippet drabbles. I'm challenging myself to post one a day for the next 30 days (because I missed the 1st, sorry guys.)

read on a03 (the title is also a link)

A collection of whump prompts for Augusnippets. They're supposed to be drabbles but chances are I'm going to be over the wordcount on most - if not all - of them. Will update tags as I go, some will be platonic, some romantic but I'll specify ships at the start of each chapter. Most likely to be Emily-centric, of course, it's me.

day 2: make-up

Emily's been injured (again), and this time it's Penelope to the rescue.

day 2: blizzard

The team are grounded after a case in New York.

[snek-in-a-hat]

Day 3 @augusnippets

3: Thunderstorm / Blizzard / Heat Wave

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'Should I get out and push?'

Leader glared at Right Hand's question as they pressed on the accelerator for the third time to no avail.

Cetus I - 77 was not a temperate planet, but was rich in rare minerals and deemed worth attempting to set up a base camp for future mining operations. It's surface was typically about 250 degrees Fahrenheit, reaching 300 in some places at the peak of the solar day. It's atmosphere was not quite breathable, nor were the gaseous particle storms non-hazardous, but all in all, it would not be the most difficult planet the human systems union had attempted to tame, even if only temporarily.

Unfortunately they would be no closer to setting up the base camp at the location Scientist had proposed if their climber kept getting stuck in the fine sands that covered a majority of the planet.

'They need to start sending us equipment that works,' growled Leader as they made to secure their suit and exit the vehicle.

'You'd hate it. It would make the job too easy.'

Leader couldn't stop the little chuckle from escaping.

'Stay here,' they warned as Right Hand began to unbuckle themselves from the co-pilot seat. At their confused look, they added, 'Someone needs to keep an eye on the weather patterns and the radio.'

Right Hand slouched back in their seat with a huff.

'Be right back,' Leader called, grabbing one of the folding field shovels.

The chamber depressurized and it was like the opening of an oven. Leader cursed at the brightness overwhelming them and the heat that immediately began to put their suit systems to work.

They ignored the blaring of the heat alarm and trekked to the back of the climber. Thankfully nothing looked broken, but it seemed that the wheels might need to be dug out of the sand.

Leader felt the sweat pouring down their back and temples before they'd even started.

Too easy, they scoffed to themselves and began digging at the back left wheel.

It felt like they were moving in slow motion. It seemed that every shovelful was almost replaced by the wind blowing more sand back into the hole. Leader cursed again at the heat and themselves for not thinking to drink some water before sealing the suit and going outside.

A pounding headache was making itself known right behind their eyes and the arm holding the shovel began to shake.

Slowly leader moved their way over to the other wheel and began digging it out. They tried to go quickly to avoid the wind undoing their work. They had only intended to be outside for about 5-10 minutes, but they had no idea how long it had been. Somewhere in the back of their mind, they recognized that probably was not a good thing. As leader bent down to get another shovelful, a sudden wave of dizziness overtook them and they crashed to their knees.

They reached a shaking hand to their communicator and called for Right Hand. Something was definitely wrong.

Hearing no answer, they tried again, but the last thing they heard was static before darkness took them.

----

Right Hand kept glancing at the clock while keeping an eye on the radar. A storm would likely head in their direction, but probably not for another 30 minutes. As it was Leader had already been gone for 10 minutes, but Right Hand didn't dare bother then when they were pissed at the climber. It was a recipe for disaster. Besides, the proximity sensors were showing that Leader was working on the back left wheel.

Another 5 minutes passed and Right Hand was beginning to get worried. That storm was definitely going to hit.

'Hey, Leader. Sorry to bother you, but I think that storm is coming our way. I think we've got another 15 minutes. Do you need some help?'

There was nothing but static. It wasn't necessarily surprising. Leader often didn't answer Right Hand, especially if they offered help. They checked the sensors again. Leader was now by the right back wheel.

Another 5 minutes passed and Right Hand made up their mind. Angry or not, Leader would need their help to finish up and get them out of the storm's path. Besides they had already exceeded the recommended time for being out on Cetus' surface.

Right Hand affixed their suit and depressurized the chamber. The sudden wave hit them and their stomach clenched. It was HOT.

They worked their way to the back of the climber, but noticed a distinct lack of noise. No shovel scraping sand, no clangs from Leader hitting the vehicle, or muffled curses.

As they rounded the corner, Right Hand gasped. Leader was face down in the sand and slowly being buried as the wind blew more and more on top of their body.

'Shit. Shit. Shit!'

They rushed to Leader's side and began tapping on their helmet. Right Hand cursed at the lack of response. They looked to the horizon and saw the storm was now visible and growing closer. They needed to get inside the climber now.

Right Hand stooped and pulled Leader into a fireman's carry. They would have to ride out the storm inside the vehicle and hope that the seals didn't come loose.

As carefully as they could, they placed Leader on the floor and repressurized the chamber. Right Hand ripped their helmet off and then Leader's.

Right Hand felt for a pulse and let out a small sigh. It was strong, but way too fast. Further inspection revealed skin that was far too hot and dry. Not to mention the fact that Leader was out like a light.

An examination of Leader's suit showed that the cooling systems were broken and probably had been for some time. The communicator was fried and the seals were worn. But at least the heat alarm works, Right Hand thought wryly.

The climber shuddered as the storm finally hit and the emergency lighting switched to red. Holding their breath until they were sure the seals would hold, Right Hand resolved to go get some cool towels and water. If they were lucky, the secondary transmitter was still functioning and they could get a distress call back to the ship.

'They definitely need to start sending us equipment that works.'

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Apologies, I know this one is probably double the max recommended length, but I didn't feel like I could cut it down! Please let me know if I missed any CW tags. Day 3 done!

[ronanziriano]

I did it. I somehow managed to write and post every day for 30 days. After so long writing maybe a couple hundred words per month. This is a big deal. I crave attention for my accomplishment.

Anyway, this is a masterpost for my fills for the @augusnippets event.

Day 1 - Gaslighting

Day 2 - Hair Care

Day 3 - Blizzard

Day 4 - Amputation

Day 5 - Whumpee Wearing Caretaker’s Clothes

Day 6 - Shipwreck

Day 7 - Drowning

Day 8 - Reunion

Day 9 - Dehydration

Day 10 - Execution

Day 11 - Safe and Sound

Day 12 - Avalanche

Day 13 - Drugging

Day 14 - Gifts

Day 15 - Food Poisoning/Throwing Up

Day 16 - Humiliation

Day 17 - Forgiveness

Day 18 - Apocalypse

Day 19 - Collared

Day 20 - Quenched Thirst

Day 21 - Vertigo

Day 22 - Recapture

Day 23 - Massage

Day 24 - Bear Trap

Day 25 - Whipping

Day 26 - Snuggling

Day 27 - Chronic Pain

Day 28 - Body Control

Day 29 - Tending to Non-Human Whumpee’s Non-Human Parts

Day 30 - Overdose

[lancedoncrimsonwings]

Augusnippets 2024 Masterlist- Completed

(Ao3 Link)

Character Masterlists; (1: Whumpees/Caretakers/Allies) (2: Whumpers/Enemies)

Fandom; Cursed (Netflix)

Pairing; Lancewain - Lancelot x Gawain - The Weeping Monk x The Green Knight

These snippets may contain major spoilers for Horizons to Battlegrounds!!!

Progress:

Total Completion: 31/31 - COMPLETE!

Path of Hurt; COMPLETE

Path of Comfort; COMPLETE

Path of Whumperless Whump; COMPLETE

Total Wordcount: 16,665

Average Daily Wordcount: 537

Links to all completed days of @augusnippets whump writing event 2024 below!

Day 1: Hypnosis/Brainwashing (337)

Day 2: Platonic Bathing (499)

Day 3: Thunderstorm (232)

Day 4: Alt. Forced To Watch (736)

Day 5: Feverish Caretaking - Part 1 (551)

Day 6: Alt. Medical Complications (624)

Day 7: Choking (527)

Day 8: Found Family/Friends (570)

Day 9: Overheating + Feverish Caretaking - Part 2 (228)

Day 10: Execution + Whipping (492)

Day 11: Escape + Poison - Part 1 (554)

Day 12: Trapped (500)

Day 13: Escape + Poison - Part 2 (591)

Day 14: Gifts/Celebration (737)

Day 15: Throwing Up - Part 1 (500)

Day 16: Humiliation + Sadistic/Intimate Whumper - Part 1 (831)

Day 17: Alt. Snuggling + Throwing Up - Part 2 (699)

Day 18: Infection + Feverish Caretaking Part 3 (752)

Day 19: Branded + Flashbacks (531)

Day 20: Gentle Touch (607)

Day 21: Alt. Drugging + Delirium (815)

Day 22: Captivity/Recapture (498)

Day 23: Massage (283)

Day 24: Animal Attack (499)

Day 25: Sadistic/Intimate Whumper - Part 2 (498)

Day 26: Snuggling + Flashbacks (599)

Day 27: Chronic Pain (366)

Day 28: Mind Control/Betrayal Part 1 (434)

Day 29: Singing (453)

Day 30: Self-Harm (676)

Day 31: Mind Control/Betrayal Part 2; Breaking the Conditioning + Forgiveness (449)