#Augusnippets Day 26

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Augusnippets Day 26: Warm Blanket

cw: past noncon drugging and captivity, themes of substance dependency/addiction

previous // next

for the @augusnippets challenge // word count: 699

=~=~=

He spends an eternity on the verge of waking up.

Nothing feels real; he's simply adrift, passing between pain and nothingness in a senseless pattern. Everything hurts less, but it still hurts; a dull ache that covers him, rising and falling in intensity. The acrid sting of wounds being cleaned. The claws of the creature, dull teeth gnawing at the inside of his chest.

And sometimes, when it all becomes too much and the spy is left sobbing and shivering and begging for it to stop, there's relief. A true quiet that hardly lasts a moment as the familiar lull of the drug sweeps his veins.

He needs it as much as he needs to never touch it again. The pain is receding, he's getting stronger, yet his skin still crawls without it, a hollow within him growing and growing.

He's almost himself the next time he opens his eyes.

Back at their makeshift base, in a small room with an overhead fan spinning and spinning.

His head hurts. Even glancing around makes him dizzy, but he needs to know where he is, he needs a grasp on his surroundings, on reality.

There's another bed beside him.

Benji’s form is still, a good portion of him covered in bandages and fading bruises, and for a moment Sahota is afraid. But then the other man blinks awake, perhaps feeling eyes on him, and sits bolt upright.

“Sahota!” he says, a hint of a smile on his face. He's quick to quiet himself. “Hey! Hey, how do you feel? It's been. Um, it's almost been a week. We've been worried.”

He hops up, and Sahota notices the distinct lack of tubes or needles or monitoring. Was he just… staying with him?

“I've been better,” he murmurs, his voice grating on its way out of his throat.

“Shit, let me get you some water.” Benji hurries to the cupboard, and Sahota's skin buzzes when he produces a plastic bottle.

Shut up.

The creature is in his throat, trying to claw its way up, to drag itself forward and reach for the water bottle and beg for the emptiness, for the relief from the full body aches and exhaustion. Sahota chokes it down.

His hands shake as he reaches for the bottle, no matter how hard he tries to steady them. 

Shut up.

Before he can even touch it, Sahota forces his hands to his sides, squeezing the blanket with all the force he can muster.

He doesn't need it anymore. There's no need to escape like that. He knows this is something to be expected, something out of his control, but he can't help the anger at himself.

He's supposed to be better than this.

Benji’s brow furrows, mouth tipping down as he clutches the bottle with both hands. “Hey… you okay?”

Sahota forces a nod. “Just… cold.” He's certainly shivering.

Don't think about it, don't think about it. It's just an effect of the shit you just got pulled out of, don't think about it.

“Oh! Here.” The other man pulls the blanket from his own bed, draping it over his shuddering form. Sahota nods again at the contact, closing his eyes so he doesn't see the bottle.

You're just sick. It'll pass.

Benji’s hand finds his own, fingers gingerly wrapping around it. He doesn't pull away.

“I'm glad you're safe.” A gentle squeeze. “If you want to be alone right now, I can go.”

He wants to say no. He so, so badly wants to say no. He's been alone for so long already, in the cell and on the mission and well before either.

But the creature is burning inside him like a bellyful of coals, raking up desperation with its claws, shame rolling off its skin.

He can't be with anyone like this. He needs the little monster gone, expelled, and then maybe. Maybe he can manage to look any of them in the eye.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I–I think that's a good idea.”

(Is it?)

Benji nods, giving him a gentle smile. He leaves the bottle of water on the nightstand beside Sahota's bed.

He doesn't even reach for it until he's sure Benji is long gone.

[whumplump]

Day 26 of @augusnippets (1)

Prompts used: warm blanket, snuggling

CW: hurt/comfort

Whumpee wrapped themselves tighter and tighter in the blanket with each new thunder that sounded. It seemed so close, they could swear they felt the shock of the lightning's electricity through their body. With each new booming sound, they flinched as if they had been hit, until they disappeared under the covers, looking like a quivering little ball of fur.

Caretaker entered the room and chuckled to themselves when they saw Whumpee's condition. They approached and knelt on the floor, to be at the height of their friend, who was on the sofa. They lay forward, wrapping their arms around Whumpee. The scared little ball of fur stopped shaking.

Caretaker continued to hug them without saying anything. Over time, Whumpee calmed down and was no longer afraid of the lightning, as they were already sleeping peacefully and would not wake up anytime soon.

[oliversrarebooks]

Augusnippets Day 26: Nightmare

Human Resistance Masterlist

Augusnippets Masterlist

tw: brainwashing, nightmare, restraints, drugging, reverse kidnapping?

Zach was lying awake on the soft cushions of his luxurious sleep pod, warm and cozy and comfortably drowsy. His superior had already given him his medication, but hadn't shut the pod and put him to sleep, so he was allowed to stay awake for a while and just relax.

It was nice, melting into the pod, listening to the soft noises his superior made as he went around the living quarters taking care of this and that. This room of the quarters had a window to the night sky, so he could gaze out at the stars. Tonight, it was raining, and the sound of heavy drops hitting the window joined the usual background noise. His superior's thoughts were in its own language, not directed at him, but their constant presence was a well-loved part of Zach's life now.

He had little to fear and little to worry about. No responsibilities. He was safe and happy, and his superior told him it'd only be a matter of time until his friends were all safe and happy too.

Just as his eyelids started to drift lower, an alarm went off, scaring the hell out of him. It had certainly startled his superior, too, who began punching at his communications unit frantically. Lots of very quick and garbled transmissions were flying. Zach, so relaxed just moments before, felt his fear growing in a way he hadn't felt since his initial processing. He wanted so badly to know what was happening, but didn't want to interrupt his superior when it was obviously occupied with something important.

And then, with no further warning, he was ripped out of his sleep pod. Torn away from safety and comfort and thrust into brightness and noise and pain. Pain that racked his body every day with no relief, anxiety and nausea and confusion taking their toll on him. Uncomfortable restraints. Drugs that made him sick and woozy. Honeyed words that he knew were lies.

Zach's eyes shot open, his body involuntarily pulling at the restraints as he twitched and thrashed. He was lying on a hard cot in a dimly lit room that smelled like antiseptics, the same place he'd been waking up every time he'd managed to sleep.

No amount of hope had delivered him back to his sleep pod yet.

"Are you all right?" The doctor entered the room. "Is there anything you need?"

"Just a nightmare," Zach mumbled.

"A nightmare," she said in a way that was probably intended to be sympathetic. "Do you mind sharing what it was about?"

Zach's brain had cleared enough that he knew telling the truth here would only get him another round of "anti-brainwashing" torture. "It was about the enemy. The day they captured me," he lied, hoping she'd buy it.

"I know that had to be a traumatic day for you," she said. "But on the other hand, I think that's excellent progress. Your mind is learning to see the aliens as our enemies again. You should be proud of yourself for coming this far."

"Yeah," Zach said, his mouth dry. What the hell was wrong with him? He should want his mind restored. He shouldn't be lying to the doctor who was only trying to help him.

But as soon as she'd left the room, Zach closed his eyes and imagined himself in his sleep pod again.

Human Resistance Masterlist

Augusnippets Masterlist

@augusnippets

[snakebites-and-ink]

Augusnippets Day 26: Nightmare / Warm blanket / Snuggling

Sky's the Limit Masterlist

CW: Pet whump, captivity, nonhuman carewhumper, conditioned whumpee, Stockholm syndrome

A slight creak of the door. Zorell lifted his head from his pillow and looked up to see Juniper standing in the bedroom doorway. He was hesitating, sort of hovering like he wasn’t sure what to do.

“What’re you doing here, love?” Zorell prompted.

“I can’t sleep.”

“Mm, come here,” Zorell beckoned.

He rearranged his wings so Juniper could join him without squishing one, and Juniper climbed into bed with him. Zorell tossed a blanket to cover the pet and the area no longer warmed by feathers.

Juniper lay facing away from Zorell, holding a faint uncomfortable tension in his body. Zorell started gently stroking Juniper’s arm and back, fingers lightly running along his form in soothing motions. Juniper relaxed a little at a time, the tenseness slowly bleeding out of him, letting himself become more comfortable. The warmth and soft platonic contact was a sort of bliss.

Gradually Juniper’s breathing slowed until he was asleep in Zorell’s arms. Zorell sighed softly, affectionately watching his human in a peaceful sleep at last. He was glad his pet felt comfortable enough with him to seek Zorell out when Juniper needed something like this.

[whumper-whimsy]

@augusnippets day 26

Nightmare / Warm Blanket / Snuggling

past abuse, mostly fluff

°

Caretaker walked into the bedroom, finding Whumpee curled up on the floor sleeping. They knelt down beside the unconscious figure, sighing. "That doesn't look comfy at all, honey... I bought you a bed, Whumpee..." they fretted, stroking Whumpee's head.

"Ohh, I know. I'll give you my blanket, okay?" Caretaker pulled their blanket over Whumpee's body.

They slid the blanket on, taking time to tuck the sleeping form in. Whumpee tensed, then slowly calmed.

A small smile crossed Caretaker's face as the younger boy slept comfortably for the first time.

[ronanziriano]

Augusnippets Day 26 - Snuggling

Content warnings: creepy/intimate whumper, non-con touching

~~~~~~~

Whumpee was asleep.

It took a few minutes for Whumper to be sure, but the breathing was deep and steady, and he didn’t give any sort of response when she squirmed to adjust herself, assuring her arm was securely wrapped around him.

She could hardly contain her delight.

The first couple of nights she’d had Whumpee in her home, he’d still been putting up too much of a fight to bring into her bed with her. Whumper had to wait it out - be stingy with the food, restrain him in ways that would exhaust his muscles, give him plenty of time in isolation to think things through - before she decided he was probably weak enough to be safe in bed.

That first attempt hadn’t worked out so great. Whumpee must have gotten some sort of adrenaline boost, because he kept struggling, thrashing against the chains holding him in bed and yelling into his gag. Whumper had tried her best to reassure him that all she wanted to do was cuddle (for now, anyway) and that he was accomplishing nothing but wearing himself out, but he wouldn’t listen to her. After a couple of hours, she finally had to concede and drag him back downstairs to sleep in the cage instead, and save his punishment for the next day.

She had tried again a few nights later, with very specific threats about the consequences of not cooperating, and some added restraints to keep his arms at his side and legs together so he wouldn’t be able to thrash so wildly if he tried to fight again. This time around, they had managed to make it through the whole night, but Whumper had been disappointed. She had done her best to make everything comfortable and pleasant. The bedding was fresh from the dryer, her silk pajamas were the nicest she owned, she’d given him a sleep mask and spent a good half hour singing soft lullabies into his ear.

And yet, he refused to relax. She couldn’t enjoy his heartbeat when it kept racing and his breathing was so sharp through his nose. Every time she tried to help soothe him by stroking his hair or chest or kissing his neck, he would stiffen and tremble instead of leaning into it. At one point, when she tried to roll him toward her and hold him close in her embrace, he’d even whimpered. In the end, she had finally turned away from him in her sleep, and it was clear in the morning that he hadn’t slept at all.

So now, tonight, this marked the first time Whumpee had actually been asleep in Whumper’s bed, and it was perfect. He was heavy and warm against her, his breaths calm, and when she touched him, when she squeezed herself against him and slowly let her arms travel around him, patting and caressing, he didn’t flinch or pull away.

She couldn’t help but let out a soft squeal of joy before she nestled her face into the crook of his shoulder and watched his face. The way his eyelids fluttered as he dreamt, the way his nostrils twitched as he breathed. She ran a finger down his cheek and wondered for a moment what his lips must look like when he slept, but decided it was probably best to leave the gag on for tonight.

There would be plenty of nights ahead of them to explore each other. She now had proof that Whumpee could sleep perfectly well in her bed, snuggled against her, so she was sure he would stop protesting against it soon. Maybe next time, he wouldn’t even need the sleeping tonic she’d put in his dinner to fall asleep.

For now, though, she was happy to soak it all in and enjoy it. She brought her leg around to spoon him, wrapped her arms around his shoulder, and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek before whispering good night and letting her head drop. Within minutes, Whumper was asleep too, a satisfied smile still on her face.

@augusnippets

[the-rad-pineapple]

day 26 of @augusnippets

bonus prompt: whumpee wearing caretaker’s clothes

part 1 | part 2

Whumpee sits up gasping, body covered in sweat that’s now too cool. He shivers and lurches across the bed to flick on his lamp, scattering the shadows lingering in the room from his dreams. He still hasn’t caught his breath when he swings his legs over the side of the bed, resting them on the floor. He puts his head in his hands and closes his eyes. 

He didn’t used to get nightmares so badly. Only after Caretaker left Whumpee’s team. Caretaker’s presence has always been calming to Whumpee, and he’s always had Whumpee’s back. But Caretaker has been gone. He decided he needed a break and left for the main HQ nearly four months ago. 

Whumpee hardly sleeps due to the nightmares. He got his first write-up in his life this week because he messed up a training exercise two days ago because of how sleep deprived he is. He’s embarrassed and more stressed than he’s ever felt for this long. He’s exhausted in a way he’s never felt—a hollowed-out shell, empty and brittle.

He’s been putting off what he knows will help, but now he thinks it’s finally time. His sleep deprivation is negatively impacting his life. …Besides, Caretaker isn’t even here. 

Whumpee stiffly stands and sluggishly makes his way to the door. The way to Caretaker’s room is muscle memory. So is punching in the code to unlock his door. A ghost of a smile tugs at Whumpee’s lips when it unlocks. Caretaker still hasn’t changed the code. 

Caretaker’s room is cool. Whumpee considers turning on the light but decides against it. He’s too tired. 

He wants to be completely submerged in the covers, so he begins to take his clothes off. And that’s when his sleep-deprived mind whispers to him the sinful idea of wearing Caretaker’s clothes, too. As if sleeping in his bed in his room wasn’t enough. 

But Caretaker isn’t here, and Whumpee can have his sheets and clothes washed by tomorrow evening, so what’s the harm? 

Whumpee knows where Caretaker keeps his sleepwear. In the closet on the left. Whumpee grabs the first one he sees and immediately puts it on.

It smells like Caretaker. Like home. Like safety. 

Whumpee feels his muscles relax. He didn’t even realize he’d been so tense. He plops into Caretaker’s bed and slips under the covers, practically burrowing underneath. 

~ ~

Whumpee awakes slowly—peacefully—something that hasn’t happened in a while. He’s grown so accustomed to adrenaline and fear greeting him when he wakes.

He slowly blinks, movement catching his eye. 

Caretaker is sitting in the desk chair beside Whumpee, idly reading something on his tablet. He has the chair facing Whumpee. 

Caretaker flicks his gaze up, and their eyes lock. Caretaker immediately straightens and carelessly tosses his tablet on the desk. 

Then he leans forward and smiles, his eyes crinkling in the corners. It’s been a long time since Whumpee’s seen that smile. 

And Whumpee smiles back. It’s been a long time since he’s smiled, too.

[pigeonwhumps]

Nightmare

A Death in the Family masterlist

Taglist: @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump @whumpsday

@oddsconvert @starfields08000 @whump-tr0pes @anonfromcanada @augusnippets

Augusnippets day 26: nightmare | warm blanket | snuggling

Just after moving in with Tristam, Eldrida has a nightmare.

785 words

CWs: vampire whump, mentioned caning, expectation of punishment, past starvation, slight unreality/confusion, past death, past slavery

Eldrida sits bolt upright, unbeating heart hammering in her chest. For a few minutes she doesn't know where she is. She's sure she heard her master call for her, but she doesn't remember what he wants.

That's bad.

She starts to get up and tumbles onto the floor. She's higher up than she was expecting. Why–

Oh. Oh, right.

Her master's dead. This is his son's apartment. His son, Tristam Sharpe, who's been kind enough to give her a proper bed and warmth and a chance to see the world again.

She pulls the blanket off the bed and around her shoulders, shuffling out into the hallway. She can't stay in here. Maybe her master didn't call her, but there's still a Lord Sharpe here, and he might still want her. Every time she remembers his persuasion-filled voice, deep and foreboding like his father's, shivers run down her spine. She doesn't want to end up on his bad side, certainly not so soon. And she can see a warm glow under the door up ahead.

She'll just find out what he wants. He's kind, he won't mind the blanket, right? She can always remove it when he wants to finish caning her.

She crumples the fabric in her fists, pulling it tighter around her. He won't take it away entirely, right?

She pushes the door open. Tristam is crouched on the floor in front of the half-built box bed, but turns to her when she enters, eyebrows knitted in frustration.

"Eldrida? Are you all right?"

Eldrida swallows. This is it.

"You called for me, sir?"

Tristam frowns further. "No. No, I thought you were having a nap still. The shops are not open yet, and I can build this myself."

"But... you were caning me. Aren't you going to finish, sir?"

As she says it, she realises her back aches, it's not on fire like a fresh caning would make it.

"No. I did not even start. I think you had a nightmare. Where were we, when I was supposedly caning you?"

"In your... office..."

He doesn't have an office.

"Mm. Definitely not me then. I would not, we discussed it. You can go back to sleep."

Eldrida shakes her head. She can't. This isn't the first time she's had a nightmare about Lord Sharpe and she's never been able to sleep after them.

It's the first time the scenario's been unfeasible though.

"Can I help you, sir? Tristam?"

"No, it's all right. I should take a break anyway. I can make us both a drink of hot blood. Do you have a preference in blood type?"

"No, Tristam." She didn't realise hot blood was a thing. She only knows blood type preference is because Lord Sharpe and his guests would discuss it. Her meals since she was turned were the cheapest he could get his hands on, as infrequently as he could get away with. No use in a servant who couldn't serve, but he didn't want to feed a hunter and certainly wasn't going to pay her.

She was always grateful anyway though, however it tasted. It was still food. And better quality didn't always mean better – just look at Sunday's food.

"I will use O+ then. Sit down."

Eldrida obeys, curling up on the sofa under her big, luxurious blanket and watching Tristam pour a pack of blood into a saucepan, heating it over the hob. It smells delicious, especially with the herbs added. Better than Sunday ever has, or any of the blood farm humans did that one time. He pours it into two mugs and brings them over, sinking down onto the other sofa, at right angles to her.

"Careful, it is very hot."

She nods and sips at the drink. Oh, it's heavenly, and the only thing stopping her from gulping it down is the temperature. And the fact that she's still unsure when, if, she'll receive any more blood at all.

"Good?" She nods. "It is Lucan's recipe. Apparently this is the most herbs you can add without the blood becoming inedible. But they help."

"Thank you." She sips it again. She's exhausted. She feels like someone's drained her, even though they wouldn't. But even though she should be safe here, she has a proper bed and everything, it doesn't feel like it.

It's weird. She hates Lord Barnabas Sharpe, but his sudden absence has left a gaping hole in her life. Who is she, now? She's never been a vampire without him.

"Are you all right, Eldrida?"

She shrugs. Yes. She should say yes, unless she wants her nightmares coming true by a different hand, but she– she has no idea.

She hopes they don't come true.

[evilwriter37]

It

Augusnippets Day 26

Nightmare/Snuggling

Rated: general

Warnings: none

------

Snotlout was awake. He was sure he was awake, because the nightmare had faded, but now he was left in the dark.

And It was going to get him. 

He didn’t know what It was, but It was out there, waiting, watching. He could barely breathe. If he moved, he’d be caught and attacked. 

Tuffnut mumbled something in his sleep beside him, and Snotlout nearly jumped out of his skin. He sat up with a scream, looking around in the dark in a panic. He couldn’t see! It was going to get him!

“Dude, what… what is it?” Tuffnut asked sleepily. He rolled onto his side to look at Snotlout, who sat there stiffly, hands balled into fists in the blanket. 

“N-nightmare,” Snotlout choked out. “I…” He didn’t know how to explain. 

Tuffnut put a hand over one of his. He wasn’t always good at comforting people, but that touch was calming Snotlout down. It wouldn’t get him. It wasn’t here.

“Lay back down,” Tuffnut said. “We can cuddle.”

“Are you even really awake?” Snotlout asked him. He did as he said though, laying back down, snuggling up close to him.

“Mm… maybe…”

Snotlout gave a light laugh. His boyfriend was probably still asleep, or at least half asleep, but he still wanted to comfort him. He found that sweet. 

Closing his eyes, leaning into Tuffnut’s warmth, Snotlout gave a tired sigh, and went back to sleep.

[scratchandplaster]

Another

CW: nightmare, PTSD, comfort

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Red on the kitchen floor, red smeared around her head-

"You're safe"

Red, ceaselessly pooling around Dad's feet. What did I do?

"Say. It."

Please, please stop!

"-my fault."

My fault.

A desperate gasp shook Luke awake, the sweaty hair in his eyes only disorienting him more. Heartbeat like a hummingbird's, he pressed the blanket tightly against his mouth to dampen his panting to a quiet mumble. Not this again.

He had come so far during the last year. Lukas blinked hard, once or twice; anything seemed fair to stop himself from slipping back into the memories.

"Hey," Ben whispered drowsily and crawled from his sleeping mat.

They had no other choice but to put it under the desk, free space was scarce inside these walls. His brother didn't mind. Not even when he had put up with another freak out. Instead, Ben slipped under the covers and wiped beads of sweat away from Lukas' cheeks, careful to give him enough space to calm down again: "Another nightmare?"

The older brother simply nodded, too tired from the stress and guilt boiling up in his stomach. A car honked outside their window, probably someone unhappy with the IHOP customer service; yet the shrill noise helped Lukas ground himself. So did Ben; ready as can be, he rolled onto Lukas' chest - the best weighted blanket one could ask for.

"What was it about?" he whispered.

Her, lifeless on the tiles, as always. In the dark of the early hours, their faces stayed unreadable.

Lukas only shook his head: "Doesn't matter."

"Okay." Ben's arms snuck around his own, the pressure easing his muscles and lulling the racing heart back to sleep.

Of course, this would not stay the last time. The past haunted Lukas, even though the life far away from his father should've taken care of this. Maybe it was the bliss of ignorance he missed from home, nothing more. Not him, never him.

Still, the thought of her, red and quiet, clung to his inner eye. She would fade away in the morning, like the night itself, that much he knew.

And until dawn would wake them again, her son held Lukas protectively in his arms.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thanks for reading 🤍 [Masterlist]

Prompts: nightmare/warm blanket/snuggling

@augusnippets @whumpyourdamnpears

[stationary-cycle-in-motion]

@augusnippets day 26: nightmare

tw: implied murder

Thick fog, a near inky black, swarms and presses, shifting like shadows in the gloom of the waning moon. In the distance, there is a small figure. The being is difficult to make out, but it shouts something, something shrill and lost to the wind. A child’s voice, Obi-Wan thinks. The kid must be stranded. Fear prickles at the hair on the back of his neck, and it feels strikingly similar to the Force’s warning of danger. They shouldn’t be out in this… storm? It must be a storm, what with the wind howling and the dust rising. Obi-Wan should help, should get the child somewhere safe. He did promise, after all. But Obi-Wan’s feet feel impossibly heavy, and he struggles to lift one, to take a step forward. When he finally does, his boot sinks, the sand swallowing it whole. Like most things surrendered to the desert, he’s not likely to ever see it again. Now barefoot, the grit worms its way between his toes, attacking every inch of exposed skin until he is all but caked in it, consumed by it. A shudder wracks Obi-Wan’s body as the grimy texture grates. “I don’t like sand either.” Sharply, Obi-Wan looks up, locks eyes with a boy. The child can’t be older than nine, maybe, with sandy brown hair and kind eyes. He looks strangely calm given the chaos raging around them, and that should make Obi-Wan wary, but it doesn’t. “How did you do that?” Obi-Wan asks. Because this is the child he saw in the distance, and given how leadened his own legs feel, he can’t imagine the boy walked so far in such a short time. The boy doesn’t answer, just smiles and shrugs, and Obi-Wan’s attention catches on the warm golden light illuminating his shoulder in dancing flickers. Looking up, he notices the fires burning in the background. Too many to count, all arranged in neat rows. Like funeral pyres. “Admiring my handiwork?” When Obi-Wan looks back, the boy is no longer a boy, but a young man, his hair longer and darker, a jagged scar slicing through one eye. His expression puckers in disgust as he watches the flames curl toward the moon. “They don’t deserve pyres. They don’t deserve to be treated with that much respect.” “Every being should be respected, in life and in death,” Obi-Wan argues. Anakin shakes his head. “Not them.” The conviction in his voice is harrowing. “They’re like animals, and I slaughtered them like animals.” Faintly, there’s a cry, like the call of a native Tatooine Tusken. And it may just be a trick of the firelight, but Anakin’s eyes look deceptively yellow–

Obi-Wan jolts awake, heart pounding, sweat dripping, yellow eyes burning in his mind's eye. He thrashes wildly, attempting to untangle his legs from the bed sheets because he has to do something, he has to warn them, save them–

“Easy, General.” The voice is soothing, grounding. “It’s alright. You’re safe.”

It was only a dream, he realizes that now, but the weight of it feels more significant than it should. It feels almost like a vision usually does.

Rex’s face, pinched in concern, comes into view, and Obi-Wan surges forward, grasping wildly at the fabric of his body glove. But his hands are heavily bandaged and– how could he forget?– completely devoid of fingers. The stubs slip, fall.

Rex grabs them, pulls Obi-Wan’s hands to his chest and holds on. He circles his thumbs gently over Obi-Wan’s exposed wrists, whispering more reassurances as he sinks down onto the cot next to him. The urgency is still there, the need to do something, to fix what’s been broken before it’s too late, but the warmth of Rex’s skin against his own seems to remind his body of the exhaustion aching in every muscle. Against his will, he’s lulled back to sleep, slumped into the safety of Rex’s embrace.

[whumplump]

Day 26 of @augusnippets (2)

Prompts used:

tending to nonhuman Whumpee's nonhuman parts (bonus prompt from path of comfort)

phantom pains (scheduled prompt from path of whumperless whump)

CW: winged whumpee, hurt/comfort

Whumpee looked sadly at one of their feathers that they held in their hand. It was very delicate, white as snow and with black patterns drawn on it. They felt another feather being carefully pulled and reacted little, already getting used to it. Even after the feather was removed, they continued to feel the pull, but did nothing.

Caretaker pressed one hand on Whumpee's back and, with the other, pulled out another dead feather. They needed to remove all the dirty and injured feathers so they could make room for new ones. Whumpee's wings were slightly loose, forming a semi-circle in front of Caretaker, the two friends kneeling on the ground, Caretaker behind, taking care of Whumpee's most striking feature.

"Just one more..." warned Caretaker and pulled out one last dead feather. "Done."

Whumpee turned their neck to look back and managed to notice how much thinner their wings had become with the removal of the injured feathers. They would grow back, they just needed to give it time. They flinched a little when they felt another stab in their backs. It was the unconscious pain of the pulls that insisted on appearing, even when Caretaker was no longer touching them.

"Does it hurt?"

Whumpee just shook their head. They looked back at the feather in their hands. Caretaker placed themselves in their field of vision, showing the box with the removed feathers.

"I'm going to keep them. They're too beautiful to throw away."

Whumpee gave a grateful smile.

[angstyaches]

Augusnippets Day 26

Prompt: Nightmare, requested by anon

OCs: Blake and Nancy

Word Count: 375

CW: reluctant whumpee, nightmare, parental loss reference, supernatural reference.

___

“Blake,” a soft voice called. “Sweetheart?” 

Blake sat up and reached forward. A slender hand slipped out of sight, swallowed up like a pill by murky, indistinct shadows.  

“Mother?” he gasped.  

“Oh! Goodness, I –” 

Blake blinked. He saw his green sweater thrown over the back of a mahogany chair. A stack of books from the library on the nightstand. Heavy burgundy curtains with gold tiebacks. 

“I’m sorry. It – it’s only me.”  

Blake cleared his throat, dumbstruck. Madam A wasn’t supposed to call any of them ‘sweetheart’, was she? It seemed wildly unprofessional, as did the hand that was touching his shoulder through his sweat-slicked shirt. 

He gave a shrug, ridding himself of her hand. 

“Good evening, Madame A,” he said in the most sterile voice he could muster. How dare she touch him? He had half a mind to threaten her with a lawsuit. 

Unbothered, she held a mug towards him. The purple shimmer in her eyes was dampened by sleep. “Pleasure to see you, Blake.” 

“Can’t say the same,” Blake muttered. His nose wrinkled as he eyed the mug, though he couldn’t deny that its dark, steaming contents smelled... exhilarating. Like... birthday cake? He could almost feel the crunch of multicoloured sprinkles, sugar dissolving on his tongue, and all he'd done was breathe in the steam. 

“It’ll help,” Madam A said, “with the nightmares.” 

Blake stilled. He lifted his chin, readjusted it when he felt it begin to quiver. “What did... What did I do?” 

Madame A waved a hand dismissively. “Nothing detrimental. You frightened Lilith a little, but –”  

“Forrester was here? In my room, while I was sleeping, while...?” While the murkiest recesses of my mind were flooding the room? Blake fought another chin-tremor. “I'll kill them.” 

Madame A pressed a hand to Blake's wrist. “You can speak with them about it tomorrow.” She pushed the mug into his palms. “Drink, and then back to sleep with you. You’ll want to be in tip-top shape for tomorrow’s workload.”  

Blake narrowed his eyes.  

“You didn’t think that having manifested nightmares would get you out of the pairs project.” Madam A gave him a small wink. “Did you?”  

Indignance burned in Blake's veins, heating his cheeks. He decided to blame the tea in his hands. 

___

@augusnippets

[when-jaguars-are-sick]

Augusnippets Day 26: Nightmare - Jamie

I've had this idea in my head for a long time, and this was a great opportunity to write it. I suspect that I might expand on it in a larger fic later, since I really loved writing this situation.

Anyway, here's Jamie, with caretaker Colin!

------

Jamie leans his head back, pressing it into the brick behind him, as he gazes up at the night sky. He shivers in the cold air, wearing just a t-shirt and pants. He closes his eyes, appreciating the peace of the night.

A breeze ripples the air around him, making the grass wave lazily, and more goosebumps spring up across his arms. The fresh air seems to penetrate even the foggiest depths of his mind, and he manages to forget the nightmare that drove him from his room, if only for a few minutes.

Then his silence is interrupted, with the sound of hurried feet padding across the damp grass. As the person rounds the corner of the building, towards where Jamie sits, he hears them frantically call “I found him!”

It’s a voice he would recognize anywhere, and he’s immediately grateful that Colin’s there.

Colin crouches down next to him, and says “Hey.”

Jamie has to laugh at the mundane greeting, but it’s a quick sharp laugh, so unlike his normal carefree laugh that it has Colin immediately on edge.

“What happened Jamie? You know, everyone’s pretty worried about you.”

“Why is everyone up in the first place?”

Colin rolls his eyes at the feeble attempt to change the subject, before replying, “They’re looking for you. You woke up Keegan when you left, and when he couldn’t find you and saw that your shoes were gone, he kind of panicked. What are you doing out here?”

“Oh… uh. I just had to. Get out. You know?”

“Um, no, not really, and that didn’t really answer my question.”

Jamie shivers again, the dampness from the grass starting to seep into his clothes. Colin frowns at this, settling into the grass next to Jamie, and wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

Jamie leans into Colin’s embrace, and starts to quietly explain.

“So, I guess I fell asleep tonight, because the next thing I knew, I was waking up and the walls were… the room was getting… it was too tight, I needed to get out, I couldn’t think.”

“Keegan thought you might have had a nightmare or something.”

“I guess, maybe, I don’t really remember it. It was just dark and tight, and I can remember the voices, but that’s all.” He squirms as he describes it, visibly upset by the reminder.

Jamie presses his face into Colin’s shoulder, as if he’s able to protect him from the nightmares, and Colin bites down a smile at the adorableness of the action. His smile vanishes though, when he registers the unnatural warmth from Jamie’s body.

Suddenly it all makes sense.

“Jamie, you have a fever.”

“Wait, what? I do?”

“Yeah, you’re burning up!” Colin places his hand on Jamie’s forehead, to double check, and there’s no mistaking the heat he feels.

“Oh, that actually makes a lot of sense.”

“You probably shouldn’t be outside with a fever… Do you think we could head inside?”

Jamie knows he should probably say yes, and he knows he can’t stay outside forever, but going inside feels impossible.

He shakes his head, cuddling closer to Colin.

“I can’t Colin. It’s big, and clear, and I feel better out here. Inside will be tight and small and dark, and… I can’t.”

Colin’s always been good at rolling with the punches, and it only takes him a moment before declaring, “Okay, then we’re going to need supplies! And we should probably tell Keegan what’s going on before he loses his mind.”

Jamie nods in agreement, as Colin pulls out his phone.

[deviant-doughnut]

Augusnippets: Day Twenty-Six

Chosen Prompt: Nightmare

CW: robot whump, previous captivity; previous torture

“Please record identifying marker,” says model R200, the first words it has ever spoken. It does not know where it is, does not recognise the darkness surrounding it.

And yet it has been here before.

In the nightmare, it happens again. Both in binary and in abstract this time, in ones and zeros and in visions stuttering through the planes of its unconsciousness — a night sky of unbearable anguish beneath the rhythmic ticking of its internal mechanisms. It’s dread in all its most vivid colours. It’s the cool metal table against the flesh they designed to mimic humanness. It feels human to R200, able to gauge temperature, capable of pain and pleasure both. And it feels human to its makers, soft and pliant and easily bruised.

In the nightmare, its body is not a body but there are hands on it all the same. It is made of the most exquisite plasticine their factory could manufacture. It flickers to consciousness with a sense of its purpose — a first responder of sorts; awaiting further programming but predisposed to be a force of unbiased good in the world. It is not human, is not alive, and it is okay with this.

“Please record identifying marker…” it tries again. No one responds.

In the nightmare, his wrists are cinched tight against the metal. The door creaks open, light spilling into the basement around him. It’s there and then gone, the shadows dank and stifling as the presence in his nightmare approaches him. They took R200 from the storeroom, from the post-production line area. Somewhere above it, meetings are held between city bureaucrats and the people who made R200. Its counterparts are assigned their departments — their specific and deliberate purposes — but R200 is kept under the storeroom.

“The company owes us,” its captor says simply, scalpel in hand, a different kind of metal glinting in the half light.

“Are you my creator?” R200 asks. Its captor simply sneers.

“I’m your worst nightmare, actually,” the man replies, voice a low and satisfied draw. Your lot might destroy mankind one day. I figure we’re entitled to fuck at least one of you up first.

“Please record identifying marker.” R200 replies, its tone impacted by the data available to it. Something here is incorrect. Its voice, however, doesn’t shake until long after the cutting begins, the scalpel lowering to the bare flesh of its chest, the tip digging through forged flesh and into the metal beneath.

“Let’s see how much it takes,” says its attacker, “to make you short circuit forever.”

He cuts deeper then, always deeper. The pain shoots wildly through R200’s structure — a tidal wave, a roaring sea of screams and misfiring programs. Wires spark and burst, liquid as black as onyx pouring over it, pulsing from its cables and out over its skin. Its voice grows higher and higher, its pain receptors detecting emergency. It hasn’t been fully programmed yet. It doesn’t know how to respond. “Please record identifying marker! Please record identifying marker! Please!”

”Alan,” replied the first of its many attackers, the scalpel scraping loudly through its abdomen as the man snarled with vindication above him. “Your name, you worthless piece of shit, is Alan. And you’re mine.”

Alan wakes up screaming.

He’s tied up until he isn’t, until he thrashes against his restraints and all that gives way is bedsheets. He kicks them off of his overheating body, electricity spiking hotly under his skin. His metal heart pounds upwards into overdrive, and he sits up so quickly to assess the threat that the world tilts dangerously around him.

“Hey,” comes a desperate whispers. Alan searches the shadows in frenzy. He gasps for breaths he does not need, touches his hand to his sternum and peers down at his unbloodied fingertips afterwards. No one has cut him. Nothing is damaged, and there’s no one watching from the shadows. The mattress creaks beneath the weight of another, and Alan startles until he remembers.

It’s Rowan, only Rowan. Alan’s emergency system falls quiet, threat assessment overruled by Rowan’s brown eyes staring back at him, wide, pinprick pupils, scared for nothing but Alan himself. Alan’s throat aches, a touch of humanness he was immune to before that basement. He was designed to be perfect, flawless, forever poised and ready to serve. And then his attackers tore him apart and Alan learned how to feel terror and helplessness. They are feelings he has never liked, and they threaten to choke him now. He stares down helplessly into his lap, and wishes he’d never learned how to cry.

“Shhh,” Rowan whispers, easing closer towards him. Alan’s tears run black as night, like ink trickling down over his sculpted cheeks, marring the set of his deliberately designed visage in the night. Rowan draws Alan closer, until Alan reaches out in turn and their bodies rise and fall together, a type of symbiosis, Alan’s breathing matched to Rowan’s own, almost like the accidental absorption of an accent. He wonders if their hears sound the same when they beat, their lungs when they expand and contract. Alan cries ink into the white shoulder of Rowan’s sleep tee. Rowan rubs his back, human and sweet. He whispers that it’s okay, promises him over and over until Alan loses partial vision in his eyes from crying, his tears so black that they temporarily stain him — his irises, his corneas.

“No one can hurt you here,” Rowan tells him. “They’re all dead, baby. All the people who ever hurt you are dead.”

“I’m not alive either,” Alan reminds him, “and it hurts all the same.”

“You’re alive,” Rowan protests. “You exist in the world and they don’t anymore. You’re with me, and they’re in the ground. What was left of them, anyway.”

“I suppose,” Alan concedes, miserable and exhausted and halfway to collapse.

“I suppose,” Rowan echoes, rubbing his back as he eases him back down to the mattress. “Lie down and sleep, Al. No matter what happens in your nightmares, I promise you’ll wake up right here, and I will be beside you.”

“Beside me,” Alan whispers. He shuts his eyes when Rowan smiles. It’s too much sometimes, the way he makes it all sound so simple. The truth is Alan needs more information to understand this. Androids were never supposed to be like this — feeling, connected, traumatised. What was forged in that basement was something different. He lives in hiding to protect his fellow androids. If anyone learned that torture could do this, that stripping their wires from their bodies while they wailed was a way to shock emotions into action…

Alan dreads to think of such a world where that notion was common knowledge.

Rowan holds him close and Alan is not supposed to feel. He is designed for perfect objectivity, but the scalpel carved that out of his chest. Rowan kisses his feverish forehead, and smoothes down the mess of his hair. Rowan hums until sleep swirls around him, ready to pull him once again under its waves. He leans into the touch and he identifies the lullaby. Part of him wishes they’d never turned him human in that basement. Another part, the part that falls asleep tracking the gentle beats of Rowan’s heart, thinks it might have been worth it after all.

-

Thanks to @augusnippets for this event!

[udaberriwrites]

A double drabble for @augusnippets' day 26!

Path of Comfort - Nightmare

Fandom: Scum Villain's Self-Saving System

Characters: Shen Yuan, Previous Generation Qing Jing Peak Lord

Timeline: Cang Qiong - disciple days

Rating: G

_

Qing Jing’s Master wonders ruefully if this is his last trial before Ascension.

His youngest disciple sits near the Rainbow Bridge, looking at the stars. The dark circles under his eyes speak of too many sleepless nights.

“Shen Yuan.”

The child startles and clumsily bows. He waves it away.

His martial siblings believe Shen Jiu is the problem child, fooled by Shen Yuan’s absent smiles and flawless manners. He knows better; they’re only a mask, as inexpugnable as his brother’s sharp tongue.

Something has broken these boys, but like a kintsugi artist he can put the pieces back together, lovelier than before. He only needs to mend their hearts properly first.

“What troubles you?”

A flash of defiance, followed by exhaustion. “Just a nightmare, Shizun.”

He lifts an eyebrow.

Shen Yuan sighs. "This Shen fears he's not enough. In the future, when strength is required, he fears failing most of all.”

"This master's disciple is humble. It's a virtue and a flaw.” He puts his hand on a too-thin shoulder. "What can’t be overcome by strength may be avoided by preparation.”

The child looks up, a desperate plea for help in his eyes.

“Rest. We shall plan in the morning."

Full prompt list here

AO3 collection here