#augusnippets day 30 self harm

[abubblingcandle]

Augusnippets Day 30 - Self Harm - Ted Lasso

cw - self harm, self esteem issues, self harm through overworking

Chapter 5 of Lingering Rules

“It’s his prerogative if he wants to get a little extra work out in,” Ted shrugged, and kicked his feet up onto the desk. Ted was right, but Beard was too. Roy couldn’t look away from Jamie, straining and pushing his body to the limit on a random Tuesday. “I think he’s hurting himself,” Beard added and the temperature in the room plummeted.

Here on AO3 @augusnippets

“We need to talk about Tartt,” Beard stated, closing the door to the office behind him.

“What’s the little prick done now?” Roy sighed, leaning on the door frame between the two offices. He scanned out into the changing room where the team were getting changed ready to head home. Jamie’s spot on the bench was empty. His bag was still there.

“He’s still in the gym, on the bike,” Beard crossed his arms over his chest and nodded to the window looking into the gym behind them. Jamie was still going, on his own and in silence. Sweat was beading on his neck and he was flushed with exhaustion in a way that Jamie never usually was. They had finished in the gym about twenty minutes ago and this was not a cool down cycle in any way shape or form.

“It’s his prerogative if he wants to get a little extra work out in,” Ted shrugged, and kicked his feet up onto the desk. Ted was right, but Beard was too. Roy couldn’t look away from Jamie, straining and pushing his body to the limit on a random Tuesday.

“I think he’s hurting himself,” Beard added and the temperature in the room plummeted.

“Coach that’s a large thought to throw out into our little pow pow here. To me Tartt looks like he’s doing just swell. I don’t think an injured man could even try the feat of endurance he seems to be going for,” Ted hummed.

“I don’t think he’s hurt but I think he is trying to hurt himself. He’s been putting in about twice as many hours as everyone else since the Blackburn game and that’s just the hours here.”

The Blackburn game was a shit show. The bus broke down on the way to the game. No one played their best. Colin ran into Jan and very much lost that encounter. The sole of Dani’s boot just came off despite being a new pair. It was a complete clusterfuck and somehow they were drawing nil nil at the death. They got a free kick in injury time. It was Jamie’s striking distance. All Jamie needed to do was to lift it onto Jan’s head and then they had this in the bag. But it didn’t. When Jamie kicked through it, it was way too flat and bounced off the wall. Then everything happened in slow motion. There was nothing Jamie or Isaac, as the held back man, could do to stop the Blackburn winger from ending up one on one with Zoreaux. Then the net rippled.

“I thought we weren’t talking about the game that happened last week,” Ted whispered.

“Since the game that happened last week Jamie has been … wrong.”

Roy hated that it had taken Beard to point this out but he wasn’t wrong. Jamie just looked tired, black bags under his eyes and the loss of the energy he usually vibrated with.

“Plus he’s stopped talking.”

Now everyone’s head shot round to stare at Beard like a tableau of the different stages of grief.

Ted was the manifestation of denial. “He has been talking. He was chatting with Sam earlier about an overlap play and he spotted for Colin,” Ted squeaked.

“He’s only talked when prompted and only about football,” Beard retorted, sighing at the rapidly draining colour from Ted’s cheeks.

Roy was anger. Jamie was supposed to be one of his. All of the coaches unofficially had their players that they worked better with and Jamie was his. He should have been the one to notice that Jamie wasn’t being his usual idea. “I’m going to go talk to him,” Roy growled and stormed out of the office to the sound of Nate’s bargaining that quiet overly focused Jamie wasn’t actually that bad.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Roy ripped Jamie’s headphones off his head and tossed them onto the floor.

“What the fuck?” Jamie yelled, staring daggers into Roy.

“I said what the fuck is wrong with you?” Roy hit the emergency stop on the bike.

“I’m fucking working out until your rude ass stormed in here like someone shoved a flag pole up it,” Jamie kept moving his legs until the bike came to a stop and sat there glaring and rolling his ankles.

“Time to go home,” Roy growled.

“No. I’m going to stay. You guys can go. I don’t need the peanut gallery,” Jamie waved dismissively to the window where Ted, Nate and Beard were watching intently.

“You’ve been overdoing it. That’s how you get hurt. We’re leaving.”

“You’re leaving. I’ve got work to do,” Jamie crossed his arms, mimicking Roy’s tense posture.

“Tartt,” Roy scolded, but stopped before the insult he was forming fell out of his lips. Jamie was still on the fucking bike. “You lot! Out!” Roy yelled, pointing at the gawping coaches.

“Right, yes. Thinks to be thinking and things to be doing,” Ted nodded, falling backwards along with Nate in his haste to get away from this explosion waiting to happen.

“Roy just fuck off,” Jamie sighed, now in private.

“You’re being fucking weird. Get off the bike,” Roy growled.

“No,” Jamie huffed.

“Off the bike,” Roy snarled.

“I fucking can’t alright,” Jamie barked. His posture dropped to lean forward on the handle bars of the bike and his hips clicked. “I’ve been waiting and cooling down and stretching when everyone is gone so I wouldn’t have to have this damn conversation so can you just fuck off and leave me to it,” Jamie muttered.

“No, this is not healthy. This is not how to treat your body. What the fuck is happening in that empty skull of yours?” Roy ranted.

“Gotta get better,” Jamie snapped back.

“What does that mean?” Roy hissed.

“We lost on Friday because of me. I fucked up that kick. I didn’t have the stamina to keep up the intensity for the full ninety and so couldn’t chase down the counter. I fucked it. I tried to apologise to the lads but Ted just said some stuff that didn’t sound like he accepted my apology. So I need to get better. I need to get fitter, I need to improve tactics, I need to be better,” Jamie rambled. As he spiralled, Jamie’s body slumped forwards with his elbows rest on the handlebars and his head in his hands.

Roy sagged as well. Beard was right. Jamie was hurting himself, not in the traditional way but still as painful, but it was out of guilt. And out of guilt over something that was not his fault. It was a small mistake in a clusterfuck of mistakes but Roy knew the feeling of the constricting vine around Jamie’s chest well. Every footballer felt it. They didn’t usually try to work themselves to death over it though. “That loss. Not your fault. We all fucked up. It was a clusterfuck. Any shit that could hit the fan did hit the fan. Those are the sort of losses you wipe from memory and move on with your life,” Roy slowly and tentatively rested a hand on Jamie’s shoulder, settling it there when Jamie didn’t flinch away.

Yet he still shook his head, "I’m the best player out there. You know that. Everyone knows that, if they don't they're fucking dense. So if we lose then that's on me. I fucking lost and that makes me a fucking loser.”

“Tartt,” Roy groaned but the denial caught in his throat. There was something not right. Ok there were a lot of things not right but there was something that Roy was missing. Something that he should be remembering because that did not sound like Jamie. That wasn’t the usual grandstanding, everyone look at me attitude he had when stating that he was the best player out there. There was a darkness to it. And there was only one person in Jamie’s life that would talk about Jamie with that level of praise and degradation. “Is this your fucking dad again?”

Jamie’s shoulder tensed under his hand, and then there was a slight nod. “I think so. He was always on me about letting other people make me look bad. If other people were going to make me look bad then I needed to get so good that they couldn’t tarnish it,” Jamie whispered.

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” Roy muttered, he just couldn’t hold it in, but thankfully Jamie didn’t react. “Tomorrow you’re talking to the doc,” Roy sighed. Jamie nodded again. Ok that was a start. Now he needed to bring it home, literally. “Tonight you are coming home with me. Lets get you out of here, ice bath then back to mine for food and rest,” Roy’s tone brokered no arguments but Jamie tried anyway.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” he grumbled, finally lifting his head up off his hands.

“I don’t trust your mindset right now. It’s either come home with me or I’ll call Ted back here,” Roy released Jamie’s shoulder to help hold his waist instead as Jamie prepared to move.

“That is emotional blackmail,” Jamie huffed, groaning as he lifted his leg over the front of the bike.

“It’s a choice,” Roy smirked, catching Jamie as he dropped down and as predicted his legs buckled underneath him.

“Fine. I’ll come back with you. But that means you have to make me that salmon pasta. That was mint.”

Roy rolled his eyes but both of them knew what they were going to be eating for tea. It wasn’t perfect. Jamie wasn’t fixed but at least for tonight and tomorrow Roy knew Jamie was safe.

[jamietarttsnorthernattitude]

cw self-harm

Jamie hadn’t thought it through, not when he opened the door of the Aston Martin, not when it slammed onto his hand, not until the pain almost sent him to his knees. Why had he done that? He had been on his way to the gala, and suddenly, it was like someone or something had taken over him. By the time he came back to his body, his hand was crushed.

Day 30 of @augusnippets - self-harm

read on ao3

[inscrutable-shadow]

Augusnippets Day 30 - Path of Whumperless Whump - Self Harm

obvious tw for self harm. the doc talks about their coping mechanism.

The scalpel is easy.

Throughout my medical training, I have become intimately familiar with the scalpel and its application to human flesh. I know which sizes to use where, how to move my hands to part skin and muscle and fat to access what I need within. But even before that, the scalpel was my friend.

My thighs are littered with old scars, in perfect, neat rows. All precisely avoiding places which would cause the most damage, just deep enough to bleed. The pain is familiar. It centers me, anchors me to reality. I was very young when I began this, and I imagine I will continue until I am old.

Today, my grant presentation went poorly. Outwardly I appear calm, but as usual, inside is a storm of rage and frustration. Doctor Pryor has threatened me with hospitalization if I injure someone else this month. So, I return to the knife.

When I cut, I do not feel the pressure of countless eyes on me, hoping to see me rise or fall. The pulse beneath my skin is sated by the spilling of my own blood. The boiling pot of emotion within me calms to a simmer. There is no one to berate me, or to hold me to an impossible standard, or to frustrate me with their idiocy.

It is just me, and the knife.

doc taglist: @quietly-by-myself, @demondamage, @i-eat-worlds, @atomiccorvid (be careful lovelies)

[just-a-silly-little-whumper]

Bleed

Masterpost | Read on Ao3

And that's a wrap on Augusnippets! This challenge was really fun to do. c:This is for @augusnippets Day 30: Self Harm

Contains: Self-harm, blood

~~~

The blade stung as Priya pressed it into the skin of her palm.

The pain didn’t matter, was nothing more than an inconvenience. The blood that followed it was what Priya was looking for. And sure enough, as she pulled the blade away, it shone red in the low light of her room, mirrored by the streak of red across her palm.

She just stared at it for a moment. Watched beads of blood ever so slowly well up in the creases of her hand. Wondered what she was supposed to feel. If there was anything left to feel at all.

Was she bleeding slower than she did before?

She tightened her fist. It hurt, a burst of tension and pain, but when she opened it again, more blood smeared across her skin. She did still bleed. Did that mean she was alive?

Was that good?

The wound had no answers for her. Just a dull pain that Priya wasn’t sure if she could even feel anymore.

[teine-mallaichte]

Day 30 @augusnippets - prompt : self injury.

Asset 84 is struggling with their identiy and the concept of humanity.

CW: self harm, blood, death, grief, identiy crisis.

Asset 84 masterlist.

It began with Sam's death. Or perhaps it was the branding that marked the start. Or maybe it was that moment of hesitation during a mission. 84 couldn’t pinpoint the exact beginning; all they knew was that something was profoundly wrong. Their body and mind were in rebellion, with an insistent, nagging voice growing louder in the recesses of their consciousness. The mantra they once relied on was fraying and fading, no longer providing the solace it once had.

The nights were the worst. The nightmares had become relentless, each one a vivid replay of Sam’s death. They would wake up gasping, drenched in sweat, with the haunting images of a life being extinguished. In those moments, the mantra—once a steady anchor—felt like a mockery. “I am 84. I am a weapon. I will endure.” The words echoed hollowly in the dark, failing to quell the storm of emotions that surged within.

During the day, 84’s performance remained impeccable. They executed their missions with a cold efficiency that only seemed to intensify, they had felt oddly detached for week now, and it only seemed to be growing. The Colonel’s approval and the decrease in the Sergeant's need for punishment were outward signs of success, but, inwardly, 84 was unraveling. The occasional twitching of their hands and the increasing frequency of distractions; signs of a growing instability that could no longer be entirely suppressed.

84 stared at the crimson river slowly running down their arm, a fascinating reminder that there was still a human locked inside them. 84 was a ruthless, emotionless killing machine, but Alex… Alex was a human. With a grim sense of defiance, 84 - or were they Alex now? They were not entirely sure - took a blade and traced another red line across their shoulder. Each new mark was a silent protest against their dehumanizing existence.

They knew well the peril of their actions - if the handlers discovered this self-inflicted damage, 84 would undoubtedly be deemed defective, possibly meeting the same grim fate as Sam. But the fear of consequence barely registered. The impulse to see their own blood, to have tangible evidence that they were both alive and human, was too great.

As the blade sliced through their skin, the sharp pain cut through the fog of their detachment, offering a fleeting sense of reality. This raw, immediate sensation was a stark contrast to the emotional numbness that had been creeping over them. The act of drawing blood, though fraught with risk, provided a semblance of control and clarity amidst the chaos of their mind.

"I am 84," they whispered hoarsely, their gaze locked on the fresh blood glistening in the harsh fluorescent light. The crimson streaks on their skin seemed almost to mock their assertion, a vivid reminder of their internal conflict. "I am Alex," they added, their voice trembling as if trying to grasp at a fleeting memory or a lost identity.

Neither statement felt true.

84's memories of being Alex were like fragmented pieces of a shattered mirror, each shard reflecting a life that felt both foreign and intimately familiar. They remembered a time before the cold, clinical environment of their training facility—a time when they had a family, friends, and dreams that extended beyond mere survival and obedience. Alex had been curious, compassionate, and full of hope. In stark contrast, 84 was a tool of destruction, molded by years of relentless conditioning and psychological manipulation.

Sam had seen the cracks in their facade and had begun to help them piece together the remnants of their former self. With Sam's guidance, 84 had started to question their purpose, their identity, and the mantra that had been drilled into their psyche. But Sam was gone now.

Alex was alone.

[lancedoncrimsonwings]

Augusnippets Day 30

Path of Whumperless Whump Prompt; "Self-Harm"

Day 30 of @augusnippets August 2024 Whump writing challenge! (Augusnippets Masterlist)

Characters;

- POV/Whumpee/Whumper; Lancelot - The Weeping Monk

- (mentioned) Gawain - The Green Knight

(Character Masterlist)

(Ao3 Link)

Wordcount; 676

TWs; self harm, knives, self harm using knives, mental health, auditory hallucinations, reference to previous self-flagellation, trauma, self hatred, religious trauma, blood <- PLEASE READ THESE TWS THIS SNIPPET EXPLICITLY COVERS VERY DARK THEMES.

"Quiet! Be Quiet..." Lancelot snapped, though at who he knew not, and the voices that tormented him in the silence of his tent certainly didn't harken his words.

A terrible thought crossed his mind and no sooner than it had did he know the only way to silence them.

His fingers itched for the flail he no longer owned. The voices cried out for blood. His heart pounded in anticipation.

His back ached to be torn apart.

Lancelot clamped his hands over his ears, panting.

"Please..." he moaned, whimpering as he curled up on himself, kneeling on the ground and begging like a frenzied man at church for salvation and relief, drowning in guilt, yet as always, ignored.

This terrible thought had become a need, one so desperate and clawing he felt it might suffocate him. His rational mind fled, so consumed as he was now by the urge to split himself open, to release this terrible pressure building up inside that felt like it might stop his heart in his chest and drag him down to hell.

"I can't!" He cried, but still they did not listen, howling in his mind like demented wolves braying at the moon.

"I have not the scourge... please..."

You have a knife.

Steel glinted with the dancing flame of his candle. Lancelot found himself watching how the light glanced from the blade as he turned it this way and that, unknowing quite how or when the hilt had found his hand, nor when he'd stripped his upper half of clothes which now lay discarded beside him.

He could not answer the call of his back, but he could pay off his demons in blood all the same. Sweat beaded up on his brow as he lowered his gaze to his arm, that need so almost satiated by the mere idea of what he was about to do that he found himself hesitating just for a moment...

A moment as his heartbeat pounded louder than the screaming chorus. A moment that his bare, whole arm filled his vision instead of the forces in his mind that sought to claim him. A moment whilst the fog of his mind cleared for the breifest of seconds before the hungry beasts tore anguish through his soul again.

He lowered the blade into his arm.

Blood welled up and began to spill slowly, like a crimson river rising from the sundered valley of torn skin across his outer forearm, weaving over old scars and staining the green leaves below him scarlet. He found himself watching it, mesmerised. How much of his life had been filled with pain for the curse of what now flowed down his skin?

This sinful demon blood must be purged from his veins.

Again and again he drew the knife upon himself, a savage smile gracing his face as the voices sighed in relief, the demons drunk their fill of him, pain driving the haze from his brain into this single-minded focus, to slice and to main.

To punish himself and force the anguish of his mind out onto broken skin and scars.

Oh the bliss, as the voices ceased, the demons returned to their cages, satiated. He did not stop, not yet, though he could not see skin for blood, basking in the pleasure of being, of feeling just for a second, truly alive.

He cared not for the pain which he no longer felt, cared not for the mess or the injury he dealt. He cared only for the blade that bit into his skin again and again and again and aga--

"Stop! Lancelot, no..."

The bloodied blade slipped through trembling fingers, his breathing came ragged, cheeks wet with tears.

He was dimly aware of strong arms wrapping around him, a pair of emerald eyes wide with shock and concern. He let himself fall against the chest that pulled him close, breathing in a scent of pine and leather, of fear and blood and sweat.

His Green Knight come to save him and make his shattered pieces whole.

Final Augusnippets Prompt Path; Whumperless Whump is now complete! As mentioned, I am doing the optional day 31, stay tuned for that tomorrow :)

A heavy one today, I'll admit to finding this one difficult to write and very personal, but cathartic too. Yes, Gawain found him and helped him afterwards, and yes, this will be included in the main fic at some point. I really felt it was important for me to explore this darker theme with Lancelot, I definitely felt like he'd have a tendency towards harming himself given the self-flagellation we see in Cursed and his internal conflicts, especially if it's been a while since he was injured in battle so he had less or no pain to focus on. But I also want to show a hopeful arc with him too, and hope that throughout my planned story he'll need to resort to it less and less as the urges fade away. Still! All that is for future anyways.

Thanks for reading, let me know if you enjoyed reading this, onto the final day tomorrow!

[lockerroombuddie]

Day 30 of @augusnippets

day 30: self-harm/addiction/overdose

CW: neglectful parenting, self-harm

Word count: 256

When Evan was eight he jumped out of a tree. He landed hard, arm caught beneath him, and earned himself a broken wrist.

When Maddie asked what he had been doing, he said he'd thought the branch of a nearby tree was close enough to reach.

She drove him to the hospital on her learner's permit, even though Evan knew she wasn't supposed to drive without an adult, because both their parents were at work.

The doctor gave him a bright blue cast, and Maddie signed it in big blocky letters. She told him that's what you were supposed to do when someone had a cast, that it meant you were thinking of them and hoping they'd get better.

Their parents freaked out when they called him down for dinner and saw it. They fussed over him, and piled his plate high with food, and kept asking if he needed help. They didn't sign his cast.

For almost a whole week, they played with him, and talked to him, and took him out for icecream, like they did on the days he scraped his knees badly.

Evan soaked up the attention, little enough that a week was a long time. Long enough to convince him this was how it was now, that his plan had worked.

It hadn't, of course. His parents' worry fizzled out again, and things went back to normal.

Still, he kept trying, sure that if he got hurt just a little bit more next time, then his parents care would be permanent.

[augusnippets]

Prompts are out!

plain text and "rules" under the cut

path of hurt:

day 1: gaslighting/hypnosis/brainwashing

day 4: amputation/degloving/vivisection

day 7: waterboarding/drowning/choking

day 10: execution/fake execution/begging for mercy

day 13: drugging/poisoning/cannibalism

day 16: humiliation/dehumanisation/conditioning

day 19: collared/branded/chipped

day 22: captivity/recapture/tearful goodbye

day 25: intimate whumper/sadistic whumper/reluctant whumper

day 28: mind control/body control/betrayal

bonus prompts: forced to watch/whipping/stalked

path of comfort:

day 2: platonic bathing/hair care/make-up

day 5: drunk caretaking/concussed caretaking/feverish caretaking

day 8: reunion/found family/friends

day 11: escape/breaking the conditioning/safe and sound

day 14: toys/gifts/celebration

day 17: forgiveness/grace/resolving a misunderstanding

day 20: homemade meal/quenched thirst/favourite treat

day 23: massage/wiping away tears/gentle touch

day 26: nightmare/warm blanket/snuggling

day 29: singing/first words/inside jokes

bonus prompts: tending to nonhuman whumpee's nonhuman parts/protective caretaker/whumpee wearing caretaker's clothes

secret third path — whumperless whump:

day 3: thunderstorm/blizzard/heat wave

day 6: car accident/plane crash/ship wreck

day 9: hypothermia/overheating/dehydration

day 12: lost/trapped/avalanche

day 15: food poisoning/starvation/throwing up

day 18: apocalypse/infection/self administered medicine

day 21: delirium/vertigo/hallucinations

day 24: animal attack/bear trap/land mine

day 27: migraines/chronic pain/phantom pains

day 30: self-harm/addiction/overdose

bonus prompts: flashbacks/relapse/medical complications

day 31 — bonus day :) write whatever you feel like writing today or have a nice day of rest

AuguSnippets is an event that encourages the short and sweet of the whump genre. Ideally, your drabbles would be under 500 or even under 100 words, maybe even just a dialogue prompt. This, however, does not mean I won't reblog longer prompt fills! Don't stress too much on that limit. I just think it's sometimes nice to challenge yourself to write shorter drabbles, and it can also work as a very good exercise to write daily or semi-daily, and it doesn't need a lot of prep.

As for tagging your work, please use the appropriate trigger warnings. This is so everyone can stay safe and avoid potentially triggering topics while participating. Also, if your work is nsfw, please don't forget to tag it as mature content! If your work is not tagged properly, I won't be able to reblog it! Thank you!

Our special tag will be "#augusnippets day [x]". On the first day that would be "#augusnippets day 1". This is so I and others can find your work easier! You can also tag the blog, that's an even more surefire way to get me to notice your prompt fill :)

Is this a writing only event?

Yeah, this one is exclusively writing focused.

Do I have to use the special tag or tag this blog?

Not if you don't want to get featured on this blog :) It's just so I can find your work easier and reblog it here! If that's not something you're interested in, just scribble away without it.

Is the "under 500" a hard limit for the word count?

No, but I encourage everyone to try and keep to it in the spirit of this event.

Can I submit nsfw works?

Yes! Just please tag it properly :)

Can I mix and match the prompts from different paths?

Yes! Have fun!

What do I need to do to get the completionist badge?

Either you need to complete one whole path, or complete 10 prompt fills altogether while mixing and matching. Those who complete all 30 days (and maybe even the bonus day) will get something extra special!

Can I write fandom related things?

Yes! This event is both for original characters and fandom related writing.

Will there be an AO3 collection?

Yes! Here

[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.

[jamiesfootball]

Augusnippets Day 30

Alternate Prompt: overdose, self-harm

cw: drug use, overdose, attempted suicide, self-harm (by way of attempted suicide)

Summary:

“Roy,” Jamie’s voice breaks. “I did something stupid.” - Jamie made a mistake.

Here on AO3

“You’ve ever having one of those days where it feels like someone forgot to turn the lights on? Like you can still see everything and all, but that’s just your mind feeling in the blanks… It ain’t the same, ‘s not really there or nothing, and you know you should feel something about it, but it doesn’t… it doesn’t…”

Roy sets down his kitchen knife. Double-checks the screen on his phone, where the word ‘Prick’ is still proudly displayed at the top of the connected call. For reasons Roy can no longer remember, his profile picture is a photo of a gecko wearing a pink feather boa and sunglasses.

Nothing could be further away from the wet rasp on the other end of the line. The hoarse, dying slur, almost too low to hear.

Roy moves away from the cutting board and towards the windows, like having extra light will help him hear over the sudden pounding of his heart. “Where are you?”

A wet sniffle crackles at the other end of the line. 

“At home,” Jamie says. Below the off-putting gravel, he sounds tired. “I haven’t left the house in days.”

“Well, that’s part of your problem. You need to go outside,” snaps Roy. He curses under his breath; his fucking shoe won’t go on. “Are you – listen, just stay there, alright?”

“Roy,” Jamie’s voice breaks. “I did something stupid.”

“No.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he chokes, an awful hacking that isn’t natural, too wet and violent. “I didn't feel good. I didn’t feel anything. I just wanted to feel better. I’m sorry, I’m sorry-“

“No. Listen to me now, alright? You’re gonna hang up. You’re gonna call 999.”

“No.” Roy can picture him shaking his head. “No, I can’t. I don’t want. it’s- its not that big a-“

He stumbles on the lie.

Roy grabs his keys. He doesn’t close the front door behind him.

“Jay, I’m on my way, okay? We’ll figure it out together-“

The call drops.

Roy doesn’t remember the drive. He pulls up to the front of Jamie’s house. Leaves the car running. Punches in the door code. Probably breaks the latch, because it takes an eternity to unlock and he doesn’t have the fucking time to wait before pushing his way through.

The house when he enters is stifling in its silence, with not a slice of life to be found.

The living room is empty. Roy rounds the kitchen, eyes drawn  the tile, but there’s nothing – no body that’s gone cold. Nothing still and lifeless and moulded in the shape of his best friend.

He takes the stairs two at a time. If his knee screams, he doesn’t hear it. The distance between himself and the physical world remains at an arms length as Roy bangs open the bedroom door. The curtains are pulled shut to the world, and every mound of clothes on the floor casts shadows on the cave walls.

The bathroom is similar, empty and lifeless and undefinably wrong in a way that escapes Roy’s limited focus, beyond the fact that neither contains Jamie.

After he checks the guest rooms, his soul pulls him back towards the bedroom to stand in the doorway. It’s clawing at his chest, the feeling that he’s just missed him. That if stands on the precipice of this cliff, he’ll hear it. A pitiful whine, a croak, something, anything to prove there’s still air or a heartbeat or just a fucking chance that Roy isn’t too late.

But there’s nothing, and nothing is what walks down the stairs. Nothing stands in the middle of the living room, a lighthouse rotating back and forth looking for signs of life in a terrifyingly placid sea.

Small signals catch his attention, buoying him to one last strand of hope. Jamie’s bag, bright orange like a safety vest, waves for his attention. Jamie’s wallet with all its evidence of existence. His shoes; bright red, a happy red. Nothing like the scene Roy’s been envisioning. His cellphone charger-

His phone.

Roy fumbles his phone from his pocket. The stupid fucking gecko flashing across his screen when all Roy needs, all he wants, is a fucking glimpse of what he’s searching for.

He dials the number.

Billy Joel calls to him from outside.

Roy throws open the sliding glass door so hard he’s amazed it doesn’t shatter.

Sat against the wall of his house with knees tucked tight against his chest is Jamie. He stares up at him, stunned, his mouth mouth agape

“You told me to go outside,” he croaks.

His hair is stringy and unwashed under Roy’s hand. Tears streak his face. His complexion is sharply pale against the dark of his stubble, and his pupils blown unnaturally wide. Something chalky and wet sticks to his chin, and a matching patch on the back of his sleeve, and there’s apparently a whole upturned bottle of pills lost in the dark rank of his bedroom where Roy didn’t see it.

But he’s alive. Roy can feel his heartbeat where he presses him against his chest. He can feel warm puffs of air against his neck as Jamie sobs, as he apologises, as Roy rocks him, uncertain and unknowing of the future.

But he’s alive.

That’s a fucking start.

[pigeonwhumps]

Overdose

Sanctuary masterlist

Taglist: @littlespacecastle @mirasmirages @flowersarefreetherapy @whumpinggrounds @cepheusgalaxy

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

Augusnippets day 30: self-harm | addiction | overdose

Anita overdoses.

469 words

CW: minor whump (Anita's 15), medication (tablets), overdose, suicide attempt, past rape (not explicitly mentioned but this takes place in the aftermath), transphobia, PTSD, Anita's pov which I think needs warning for here

Anita pops the pills out of the foil one by one, dropping them into the little cup beside her on her bed. She doesn't like taking pills. But after today, she won't have to again.

She won't have to do anything again. Or feel anything ever again.

Her heart will no longer pound every time she catches a glimpse of school uniform. Her stomach will no longer threaten to exit her body at the sound of raucous laughter. She won't have to take the long route to the park if she's ever brave enough to go because the normal route passes the alley where–

Well.

She can't take this anymore, she can barely leave the house, can barely breathe even on good days. Every time she looks at herself she hears the words of her– the others. She's not a proper girl because she can't take it, and she looks like this, but she isn't anything else either so what is she? Not human? Not worth anything?

Will she even bother to defend herself if they come back? They could, they're not in jail, maybe not ever. They could attack her any time she leaves the house. And everyone knows, they could hurt her too.

Not that it doesn't all hurt, inside her head, all the time. And her injuries haven't healed yet either.

She just needs everything to stop.

That's all the pills ready. The whole packet. That should be enough.

It has to be enough.

Anita takes a swig of grapefruit juice and holds it in her mouth, then sits a few pills on top and swallows it all down with some more juice.

And then she does it again. And again. Until all that's left are two empty cups.

That's it, then.

She leans back against the headboard and closes her eyes, drifting for a little bit. She wonders how long this'll take to work.

There's a soft, "Mrrp," and she opens her eyes, frowning.

"I thought I shut the door."

Mittens jumps on the bed and brushes up against her, headbutting her side with a more insistent, "Mrrp."

She chokes on a sob as she scratches the old cat. "Oh, sweetheart, I'm sorry. It's–"

"Fine" is what she means to say, but she can't. She can't. It's not fine. And she's not sure she's as ready to leave as she thought she was before Mittens came in.

She's so tired.

She doesn't want to stop petting Mittens. Ever.

She reaches out her free hand for her phone and dials three numbers, strength waning.

"Emergency services, what service do you require?"

"Ambulance," she slurs, eyes slipping shut.

"What's your emergency?"

"Overdose. Address is 2B Crescent Building, SE6 5SG."

When did it go dark? She doesn't remember it going dark.

And then she doesn't remember anything at all.

[honeycollectswhump]

Augusnippets Day 30

day 30: self-harm/addiction/overdose (+ relapse)

CW: drunk whumpee, alcoholism relapse, self hatred

Whumpee was already way past her first bottle when a knock rang through her tiny apartment, making her freeze up, her blood suddenly feeling like ice ripping through her veins. She was supposed to be alone today, hiding her dirty little secret behind closed doors and dark rooms. 

Not even a week. A pathetic, short week. 

That’s how long she managed to stay sober, with nothing keeping her going except the disappointment hanging over her like a guillotine, and the certain knowledge that she wouldn’t last anyways, that the next bottle was only a short time away.

That didn‘t make the expectations of ongoing sobriety disappear, so she would just drink alone again, forgo the gentle care of her closest friend, and drown in her shame like she used to. It was better this way perhaps.

Her sluggish drunken heart sped up at the thought of who could be standing in front of her door, soon discovering her secret act. There was no chance at all she could seem sober, and Whumpee was horribly aware of that. She probably stank of poison and was stumbling like a brainless idiot. She hadn‘t spoken yet since she cracked open the first bottle, but if she had any sense left in her, she knew her obvious slur would prove her crime. 

A second, more pressuring knock followed and Whumpee could feel tears of frustration and fear pooling up. What if someone called the police on such a dirty little addict like her? They would have every right to do so. She was doing nothing but wasting breath and downing vodka like water. 

What would they do to her? Perhaps they would take her away, drug her out of mind so she could never make a bad decision and lock her away? No, you disgusting junkie bitch. You probably wish that they‘d do that to you. They are gonna throw you out like the trash you are and take your vodka too. They know how worthless and pathetic you are

Whumpee shuddered, gripping the bottle like a child‘s toy as if it could bring her comfort. Perhaps it did. Perhaps it was the only stable thing, the only thing she could rely on, even if the reliable part was her own destruction.

She stumbled closer to the door, the doom awaiting her. Maybe she could hide, pretend not to be home at all, even though that thought was laughable even to her wasted mind. But then the world tilted, ripping her legs from under her and making her crash loudly into the wall, a dull thud reverberating through her skull. 

Her vision swam, a pounding headache no longer ignorable and she was just too fucking drunk to do anything but let her head loll forward and give herself to the ever-growing nausea.

„Whumpee? Are you okay?” 

Fuck.

There was nothing she could do, except retch into her lap to the sound of her friend’s keys jingling in her door.

@augusnippets

[missr3n3]

Augusnippets Day 30

self-harm/addiction/overdose

Cut Down the Altar TW: suicidal thoughts, mental breakdown, self harm word count: 274

@augusnippets

[07/14/2007]

Joshua's shaking knuckles went white as they gripped the sink. Slipping away from the Hawthornes during dinner was all too easy. Everyone knew what Kayleigh's cooking could do on a bad day – save for Kayleigh herself. A muttered complaint about an upset stomach, and he could be alone with his thoughts.

Rather, he could be alone to battle his thoughts.

I don't belong with them. They'll figure out how unsalvageable I am any minute. I don't know why any of them bother, least of all Izzy.

I wasn't made to be loved.

Some thoughts would come out of nowhere like a stray bullet, saying things that couldn't be true yet felt true.

Thoughts so spontaneous, they didn’t feel like his own.

Joshua buried his head in his hands, fingers gripping his brass curls tight.

Gripping, then pulling.

The thoughts would pause for a moment when he was in pain. A single gap in a constant battle for Joshua to find balance, regain his footing.

A gap that didn't come for once.

Hair pulling wasn't enough. Overgrown, dirt-stained nails digging into his shoulders and leaving red welts wasn't enough.

Let's see if they found this one yet.

Joshua had to get much cleverer about hiding spots for his own “self-medication" after the last time Isaac caught him. Luckily for Joshua, Isaac was a decent teacher in the art of hiding contraband, though his relief looked much different from Joshua's.

Only a few seconds into looking through the medicine cabinet, Joshua found what he was looking for.

The shine of the steel blade as it lined up with his pale skin was sickeningly inviting.

[howtowhumpyourhiccup]

This Choice Is His

Summary: Augusnippets 2024 Day 30. Set in a Modern AU, Sci-fi AU. Mind Full AU. With Astrid safe, Hiccup decides that enough is enough.

Warnings: Suicide Attempt

Rating: Mature

Dead Dove: Yes

Words: 462

Prompts: Self-harm, Overdose

Fandom: How to train Your Dragon

Characters: Hiccup

Pairing: /

Author's Notes: Hiccup finally decides that enough is enough.

Enjoy!

-XOXOX-

Toothless, Meatlug, Hookfang, Stormfly, Barf and Belch they’ve all been confined to their individual dens, the containment chambers they were in, in the very beginning. They are being punished, though not as severely as Hiccup, who finds himself in a cell down in the basement.

He hasn’t eaten, his mother refuses to see him, the Wingmaidens try to ignore him. He betrayed them all by helping Astrid escape, who couldn’t provide them anything useful so long as she was that injured. He’s left completely alone. Whatever power those implants in his brain gives them, his skull-splitting migraines have grown to the point of total numbness and no one has come to help him.

And unlike that incident when he tried to take care of it himself, stitches far from healed, skull not mended, he can’t dig them out himself this time.

But not all is lost as the door handle moves downwards, it opens and Sharpshot appears.

“Hey lil’ Bud,” Hiccup looks at him, trembling, sweating, curled up on the mattress-less metal cot. Sharpshot chirps at him and easily walks through the bars with a box in his mouth.

Hiccup sits up and almost blacks out. The world spins, for a second he does fall limp. Sharpshot watches him quietly, he can feel the pain on his end of the connection. All his dragons can feel it.

That’s why he brought him the box. They’re painkillers that he snuck out, Hiccup asked for them.

Holding onto the cot with all his might to avoid falling, he accepts them and with effortful smile that looks awkward pets the Terrible Terror on the head. He opens it up, a tired frown on his face. It’s a full, previously unopened box. Luckily, he has a bottle of water on the floor next to him, can’t let your million bucks worth of a science experiment die of thirst, after all.

But he didn’t necessarily want it to treat his migraine.

He can’t ever fight her, not when Valka can literally make it so he doesn’t breathe. Who knows what other bodily function she can just stop. There’s nowhere he can go that the microchip in his back can’t lead her straight to. He’s trapped and he’s tired. Of his mother, of missing his father, of the unending pain, of not belonging to himself, of bearing this weight of a righteous mission he never got to agree to.

He’s so tired and he wants it all to end. He and Toothless murdered a man and that was the final straw. All he needed was to make sure Astrid got out and she did. She and Minden haven’t shown back up here or the dragons would’ve told him.

So he can rest easy now, knowing no one will ever be hurt by him again. He pushes the first of many pills out.

[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.