Break Rocks; Breaktime

Break Rocks; Breaktime

Augusnippets day 5: drunk caretaking | concussed caretaking | feverish caretaking

Word count: 495

Trigger warnings: implied/referenced vomiting, injury, minor blood, implied/referenced slavery

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“Wakey wakey, eggs ‘n bakey!” Brier chirped quietly.

With a jolt, Karmic finally came to, eyes snapping open wide and pupils … probably slitted to nothingness, since she couldn’t see them. His thin sleep cocoon raced away in a rush of frost, but his instinctive attack stopped, the consequences of how he’d twitched catching up. He didn’t do anything so loud as groan or curse, but his face said everything about how heavily he regretted waking up.

“Brier,” he said after a strained moment. He was starting to categorize all the bumps and scrapes he had—she saw his fingers flex subtly, then a cascade up his limbs as he made sure all his joints were in working order. She also saw when he got to his twisted ankle, judging from his obvious wince.

“Hi, Karmic!” Brier murmured. “Checked you for internal, spinal injuries, you’re good. No breaks in your ankle, just sprained. No lumps on your head. Your pupils are the same size, too! You’re not gonna vomit or kill the sun, right?”

“No,” Karmic said, rolling his shoulders, then stared sulkily at his turtleneck, which was slightly torn, spattered with blood, and covered in rock dust. His gaze flickered over to Brier for a split second. “Fun fact about your head, though.”

“I think I slammed head-first into the ground,” Brier admitted. Nothing else would make ol’ reliable earth damage her so much. The concussion would go away in two days, sure, but it was impressive that she was concussed at all. “We got off lucky.”

(A sprawled, unmoving form; blood seeping into the river. Yes, they’d been lucky.)

“I’ll say,” Karmic muttered, now staring up the slope they’d tumbled down. “How did we get down here? And how am I …?”

“… Um. The metal mage could conjure magic-canceling shackles,” Brier said. One of her hands curled into a fist. “Another slammed you with a sleep spell instantly after.”

“Fuck,” Karmic spat. His hand aborted a movement towards his deep, obvious eyebags.

“We’ll fix it,” Brier said. Hopefully they could. A weakness to sleep spells because of lack of sleep aside, those eyebags really weren’t healthy. “The teleporter tried grabbing you when you dropped. And I ….”

(A burn, starbursting and charred on the side of a pale neck. Nightmares, hostility; a newfound hatred for small, locked places.)

“That’s a telling skill range,” she said. “So I threw a boulder. And accidentally caused a little rockslide.”

“A little rockslide, she says,” Karmic mocked, fingers ghosting up to make sure the collar of his turtleneck was intact. “Those fucking slavers”—his lips peeled back to reveal fangs—“better be alive.”

“Waiting for the guard to pick’em up!” Brier confirmed, pointing at three lumps of rock, then turned her sway at the motion into a turn, presenting her back. “Up! I’ll be your legs, you’ll be my brain.”

There was a mutinous pause. Then arms circled her neck—she hefted him up, wavered, then started walking.

hey

hey friend

dont kill yourself tonight ok

you have a really pretty smile and i know its not always easy to manage one but itd be a bummer if we never had the chance to see it ever again

youre really important and you matter a lot so stay safe and try and have a nice sleep

I think one thing people forgot about terfs is how RACIST they are towards women of color (god forbid be a trans woman of color) and how those people uphold white supremacist views of gender.

Whumpees being forced to call Whumpers 'sir' or 'master' is an all time classic, but what about Whumpers forcing Whumpees to call them by pet names, such as 'love' or 'darling'?

@augusnippets Path of Hurt

Day 10: execution/fake execution/begging for mercy

CW: minor whumpee, mock execution, government corruption, abuse of power, imprisonment, framed for a crime, future captivity

Itzal (he/him)

Word count: 756 (a bit longer but I couldn't resist)

The Champion taglist: @emmettland , @ostensiblywhump , @scoundrelwithboba

They don't listen when he says he hasn't killed anyone. When they shove the gag into his mouth and secure the strap at the back of his neck, Itzal realizes they're not going to listen to anything he has to say.

He doesn't want to die.

It didn't make sense. There wasn't a trial. No evidence given that tied him to the supposed death of whatever unnamed Lapis guard they mentioned.

Only twenty-four hours between Itzal getting brought down to this prison and learning they were going to kill him.

‘ “Rebels don't get trials,” ’ they had said, sneering laughs lapping up the tiefling's terror.

He cursed them. Would've trashed and clawed up his cell had the shackles at his wrists not held him down. Would've tormented the guards with illusions had his magic not been suppressed. All he had were his words and he used them. Such fragile pride they had that they'd waste time and resources to silence a seventeen year old vandal who dared to insult them.

Itzal's anger spat until they gagged him.

He realizes now part of that anger had been fueled by denial. Armored guards clutch his bound arms as they drag him towards the courtyard, and dread clutches his gut.

He's going to die.

He tries so hard to fight. Bucks at the grasping hands until their grip is hard enough to bruise. Lashes out with his horns until one guard grabs one to force his head still. The blindfold around his head is wet with tears he failed not to shed.

He should’ve been more careful. Should've picked a safer, less public spot for his last graffiti run. Should've went home when his mother told him to and wait for a different day. 

His mother's face flashes into Itzal's mind. His father's. His little sister's. 

What's going to happen to them?

He won't even get to say goodbye. 

The screech of a metal door opening preceeds a waft of warmth as the sunlight hits his skin. The Crescentine sun is always harsh in the summer. The guards force Itzal to his knees in the dirt, latching the chains to a bolt in the ground so he couldn't stand. Couldn't flee. He balls his hands into fists to hide how much he's shaking. 

“Itzal Azarola,” a voice booms from behind. “For the crimes of treason, accomplice to murder of a government official, defacement of government property, government slander, and resisting arrest, you have been sentenced to death under orders from the Cerulean Constellate.”

Treason?

It doesn't seem real. It can't be real. This has to be a nightmare. He'll wake up home in his bed and be safe.

There's more noises. A rifle being loaded. His heart hammering in his chest. 

He will wake up soon. He doesn't want to die.

A click of the safety being released. A muffled sob escaping his lips.

He doesn't want to die.

“Fire!”

HE DOESN'T WANT TO DIE!

A trigger being pulled. 

A deafening blast sends him reeling, all other sound drowns under the piercing ring in his ears. His head throbs. His body collapses. He hopes it'll be quick. He hopes it'll be over before he feels it. He-

He's still alive.

The pain of a bullet tearing through his organs doesn't come. No smell of blood or burning flesh. The world still dark under a blindfold he can still feel on his face. Itzal is still alive.

More hands grab him. The chain is released from the ground and he is being carried away. His legs drag uselessly. His muscles feel like gelatin. His mind in a fog.

Why?

He should feel relief but instead there's a void. Nausea burning up his throat he has no choice but to force down because he's still gagged. 

What's happening?

Was there a mistake? Is he actually dead and his thoughts now are from his ghost trying to cling to life? Where are they taking him? He still can't see. No one's saying anything. What're they going to do to him now?

They drop him on hard stone. “Is this the one you wanted, Lady Matar?”

The blindfold is removed. There's a woman standing in front of Itzal. Short red hair and red eyes. Cloaked in the luxurious vestments of the Constellate. Lady Matar. High Martinet Scarlet Matar.

The master of judicial law stares down at the young tiefling, drinking in the tears on his face.

The way she smiles at him is the most terrifying thing he's ever seen.

“Yes. I will be taking him now.”

Strands

Augusnippets Day 2: platonic bathing | hair care | makeup

Word count: 500

Trigger warnings: none

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"Are you done yet?"

A nearly-inaudible, long sigh came from behind Brier, before Karmic said, “Say that again, and I’ll cut your throat instead of cutting your hair.”

“Young lady, do not make me turn this car around!” Brier said, dropping her voice low, then giggled. “That’s what you sound like right now.”

“Young lady, do not make me stab your carotid with these scissors,” Karmic immediately deadpanned back. Said scissors made a snick-snick noise, slicing through more of Brier’s hair.

“Ha, see—? Oh no, shh, shh, I’m sorry, Sor, sorry, sorry, rest your tired eyes,” Brier sang, fingers running over Sor’s fur. The touch of magic in her words made the cat settle down again, his eyes sliding closed. Brier hummed a few aimless notes, slowly stroking down the length of Sor’s spine, before she reached out from under her protective cape for the half-made straw sandal she’d abandoned to placate Sor.

“You—” A yawn interrupted Karmic’s sentence—it was silent, but Brier could hear his jaw creak, could picture the one eye Karmic always kept open when he yawned. “You’ve done that … three times now? You’re putting me to sleep, dirthead. You’ll end up lopsided and laughed at because you enforced naptime on your hairstylist.”

“I can’t help it!” Brier whispered, starting to weave a careful distance from where Sor was dozing across her lap. “Don’t move while a cat is on your lap or you’re the worst human in the world, that’s the rule. You know that, that’s why you put him there to begin with.”

“It’s for your own good,” Karmic said, unrepentant. “Every time I thought about your sheer amount of split ends, I fantasized about freezing you into a giant block of ice except for your head and giving you a haircut. You got off easy.”

“I guess I did,” Brier sighed. “Honestly, who can blame me? He’s trapped me, but he’s the cutest trap in the world.”

“Correct answer.” The tug of the clips in her hair released, and a comb glided over her scalp without meeting any resistance. “Okay, now I’m done.”

“Yaaay!” Brier quietly cheered, now having the freedom to turn her head. Karmic was leaning back a little to inspect his work—his face was as severe as ever, but there was a softness to the corners of his eyes, and a jaunty, almost triumphant trill had risen out of the quiet, mellow tune his emotions had become.

“Thank you!” she continued. She tilted her head, and said, “Is there something you want help with for your hair?”

A beat, as Karmic went still, both in body and emotions. Then he huffed, the meditative tune coming back, and as he turned in the direction of their broom closet, he said, “I think Sor’s got you occupied at the moment.”

As he walked away, Brier smiled, eyes catching on the tufts of hair on the floor. After all, she’d learned how to listen for the ‘later’ implied, how he’d never said no.