Mediwhump May - Seizure

The Greatest Showman (2017)

Merry Whump of May - Day 7

“Write what you know.”

Box

Magic

Cell

(BBC Merlin)

@themerrywhumpofmay

“If- no, when, we get out of here, I’m going to write a book about what an idiot you are.”

Merlin sighed and rested his head against the wooden bars. “Well, write what you know, I suppose.”

“How could you think stopping to ask for directions could ever be a good idea? I knew where we were going.”

“We were lost and they looked friendly enough.” Merlin turned away from the bars and looked down at Arthur. “Look, how long are you going to complain? Maybe we should try figuring out how to get out here?”

“You figure out how to get us out.” Arthur drawled from his spot on the floor. He was lounging on the one and only pile of damp hay in the cell. The bruises from the attack were still fresh and swollen across his cheek and eye. “I’ll continue to complain, thank you very much.”

Merlin gently rubbed the bump on the back of his head. He looked around the cell for what felt like the hundredth time. They had been taken to a sort of cave lair, a wooden holding cell built into the rock wall. It was sturdy. And they had a guard at all times. 

Merlin licked his dry lips. 

He couldn’t use magic. Arthur was here. 

They were stuck, for now. 

Why had they been captured anyway? Maybe they planned to ransom the prince? Merlin puzzled over it until his head began to throb again. He sat down and closed his eyes. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve given up.”

“I haven’t.” Merlin murmured and leaned his forehead against the lattice of wooden bars. “I’m thinking.”

Arthur barked out a laugh. “Good luck with that.”

Merlin frowned and made himself bite back several rude remarks. 

It was at that moment that a few more bandits, or whatever they were, appeared in the chamber and opened the cell door.

“Oh thank goodness, you’ve come to your senses-” Arthur got up from the floor.

“Stay where you are.” The woman who had opened the door, green eyes blazing in the torchlight, pointed at Arthur.

Then she pointed to Merlin. “You. Come.”

“Me?” Merlin swallowed hard.

“Now.” She ordered.

Arthur took a step forward. “Look, he’s just a servant-”

Another of the bandits pointed a crossbow at Prince Arthur through the cell bars.

Arthur stopped, hands raised. 

Merlin picked himself off the rough stone floor. His head throbbed. The woman then grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out of the cell. Merlin threw one last look at Arthur before he disappeared around the corner, deeper into the cave tunnel.

Merlin was taken to a smaller, darker chamber. The walls were wet and moss was growing there. He was forced onto a chair in the middle of the room. 

“My name is Deryn.” The green-eyed woman spoke while the others tied Merlin to the chair. “That’s all you need to know about me. As for my companions, ignore them. You will speak only to me; whether answering my questions or begging for mercy. Do you understand?”

Merlin swallowed hard. The ropes binding him to the chair were rough and were painfully tight. His heart was racing. What did they want with him?

“Do you understand?” Deryn repeated.

“Yes.” Merlin rasped. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat.

“Good.”

One of the bandits handed a large, flat wooden box to Deryn. The wood was dark and cracked with age and carved with strange symbols. Merlin tried to make them out in the flickering torchlight. But they swam and danced before his eyes. 

Deryn walked forward and set the box on Merlin’s lap.

“Here.” She said, “Hold this for me.”

Merlin, arms bound behind him, could not help but watch as she lifted the lid off, wood scraping, and revealed an enormous, golden collar. It was wide and flat, resembling a darkly glimmering crescent moon. There were fastenings at the two tips. It was old. Very old. Merlin could sense it. 

Merlin licked his dry lips and looked back up at Deryn. “What do you want, Deryn?” He asked. 

She did not answer.

Deryn picked up the collar by the two ends, leaned forward, and fastened it around Merlin’s neck. It was heavy and cold against his skin. Deryn set the box aside. 

“This is a very ancient treasure.” Deryn circled around Merlin and ran a finger over the minute carvings on the collar. “It was found a long time ago and was passed down through my family. It’s been called a blessing. And a bane. Let me show you how it works.”

Deryn brushed a curl of her dark hair back, took out a bone-handled knife, and plunged it into Merlin’s gut.

Merlin opened his mouth to scream, to breathe, to cry. But he could not draw breath. The pain was a fire in his stomach. It blazed through him. He shuddered and realized he’d closed his eyes, tears leaking over his cheeks. 

He opened his eyes to see Deryn again. She pulled the knife out.

Agony again. Merlin began to wail, low and keening, each breath he took to cry out was misery. 

A wound to the stomach was a death sentence. No one could fix that kind of injury. Not even Gaius. Why had she decided to kill him? Panting and curled over his wound, Merlin watched Deryn wipe off her knife.

“It is a very powerful treasure. One that I’ve had to protect my whole life.” Deryn said. “It should reveal its purpose now.”

And just as she spoke, Merlin felt the pain intensify. He choked.

Every nerve around his wound began to blaze even more. He was dying. He had to be. How could he endure this? 

Restrained by the chair, Merlin began to tremble and shake, screaming and screaming and screaming. The collar was killing him. 

Hours passed. Or many minutes. Merlin could not tell. Sweat poured down his face, mixing with tears. 

Eventually, he noticed that Deryn had approached him again and lifted his shirt. Merlin caught sight of his stomach. No, it couldn’t be.

The wound was gone. There was blood. And a thin, pale scar. But no gaping knife wound. Nothing.

“It heals.” Deryn let Merlin’s shirt drop back down. “Painfully. So,” Deryn brought a chair over and sat down in front of Merlin. “I’m going to ask you some questions. If you refuse.” Deryn held up the knife. “You know what to expect. No surprises.”

Merlin felt the blood leave his face. He threw up all over his lap.

“Let’s get started.”

Sometime later, Merlin found himself being dragged, arms supported and legs limp. Then he was dropped. Someone was calling his name. Every inch of him throbbed, raw with remembered pain.

Merlin felt himself being turned over and he cracked his eyes open. 

He found Arthur above him and a rough hand touching his cheek. There was something soft beneath his head. 

“Can you hear me? Are you alright?” Arthur’s voice was far away. “Where are you hurt?”

Merlin could not help but attempt a smile. 

He wasn’t hurt anywhere. It was all healed. But he still shivered and ached. And it still felt like he had the collar on. He could feel its phantom weight around his neck, cold and heavy. 

“Fine.” He managed to rasp in answer to Arthur’s questions. Merlin closed his eyes again. He was so tired. “Not… hurt.” He sighed.

“How am I supposed to believe that when you’re covered in blood?”

“Magic?”

Merlin heard a soft laugh above him and felt a cool hand push his sweaty hair back from his forehead. He drifted. 

Merlin awoke to yelling. And pain. 

His eyes snapped open. 

Arthur was being held back by two of the bandits. 

And Deryn was there, standing over Merlin. “Come along.” She ordered. 

Swaying and still half-asleep, Merlin struggled to his feet and followed her.

The moss-covered cave room. The box. The collar.

It began again. 

But Merlin was ready. 

Last time, he didn’t know what to expect. But now he did. No surprises. 

As soon as Deryn fastened the golden, crescent-shaped collar about his neck, Merlin kicked out with every ounce of magic he had. 

He burned his bonds away. He threw Deryn across the room and heard her spine snap. Then Merlin ran. He knew the way. Falling, half-conscious, he ran to Arthur. 

Merlin raised his hands and ripped and tore the wooden cell to pieces. Wood splinters flew. Dust hung in the air. Shouting. Crossbow bolts flew. 

“Arthur!” Merlin roared. 

Merlin looked at one of the bandits and they burst into fire and sparks. Screams. 

They ran. Out of the cave. And into the cold night.

Merlin didn’t realize that they had stopped until he found himself in Arthur’s arms. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll get you to Gaius. He- he’ll fix you up, I promise.”

Arthur was laying him down on the cold, wet ground. In the light of a weak dawn, Merlin could see two crossbow bolts sticking out his chest. How had he not noticed?

Arthur’s hands moved to Merlin’s neck, around back, to take off the collar.

No. 

Merlin flung his hand out and pushed Arthur away. “Don’t.” He gasped. 

The collar was the only thing keeping him alive.

“Take out the bolts.” Merlin begged. “Not this.” He touched the gold collar. 

“I don’t understand.” Arthur’s eyes were wide. And frightened. 

“It’s magic.” Merlin’s thoughts were too fuzzy to properly explain. “It heals wounds. Take the bolts out. Let it heal me.”

Arthur moved forward, grimacing. “Right now?”

Merlin huffed out a laugh. “Should I schedule a better time for you?”

At that, Arthur gave him a watery smile. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Merlin took Arthur’s hand and guided it to one of the bolts. “Let’s get started.”

"Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell; And in the lowest deep a lower deep, Still threat’ning to devour me, opens wide, To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven."

Paradise Lost - John Milton

Merry Whump of May - Day 3

(Mystery Men - 1999)

@themerrywhumpofmay

Roy ducked into the bathroom, flung on the cold tap and splashed water on his face. It stung. Lukewarm and stale. Blood dripped into the grimy porcelain sink. Roy drank from the faucet and spat out pink water. He caught sight of his reflection in the smudged mirror. The lightbulb above flickered and blinked. He touched his cheek and winced. 

That would be a black eye tomorrow. 

The lightbulb flickered out and the bathroom went dark. 

“Ah, man.” Roy sighed, reached up, and unscrewed the dead bulb.

Bulb in hand, he pushed back out into the bar.

“Come on, Roy, chip in.” Eddie said as he counted cash out on the bar. Jeff was adding coins to the mix. The bartender was standing behind the bar, looming over them, arms crossed.

“What’s all this?” Roy slipped the dead bulb in his jacket pocket. He would tell the bartender about it in a minute.

Jeff looked back, nose crusted in blood. “We are paying the gentlemen for the damages done to his establishment in the scuffle.”

They happened to be walking by half an hour ago when they heard screaming coming from the bar. Turned out that five or so guys were robbing the place. Of course they had to step in. And it had gone the way it usually did. Badly.

But that’s what superheroes did. They tried. 

“Damages?” Roy sidled up and stuffed his hands into his jeans pocket for his wallet. “What damages? We got the guys, didn’t we?”

“Well…” Eddie started and trailed off as the bartender strode around the bar.

“Broken window?” The bartender pointed to one of the large front windows, shattered glass lying all around on the floor.

Roy frowned. He was tired, and dizzy, and sat down on a barstool. “When did that even happen?” 

“Two of them threw you through it, Roy.” Eddie supplied.

Roy nodded, then stopped, because his head hurt too much for that much movement. “Right, right.”

“Tables and chairs.” The bartender continued. HIs shouting was painfully loud. 

A table or two leaned on broken legs and a few chairs lay in pieces. 

Roy did remember falling into those. So did his back and ribs.

“And the upholstery!” The bartender pointed at one of the booths, the red leather pierced with several forks.

“That was him.” Roy pointed at Jeff. “He’s the fork guy.” “Thanks, Roy.” Jeff rolled his eyes and shoved his change across the bar. “Pay up already.”

Roy opened his sad, deflated wallet and pulled out his last few ones. “All I got.” And slapped it on the bar. “I’m going.”

And now he had no more money until payday. Great. Just great. He moved towards the door to the outside, limping a little. His knee was swollen and stiff.

The bartender blocked his path. “Uh-uh, oh no, look at this place. That isn’t nearly enough!”

Roy stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets, one hand found the dead lightbulb. His fingers wrapped around it as the bartender continued to shout.

Roy nodded a little. “I understand. I can come back tomorrow and help clean-”

He was cut off. The bartender continued to point out every bit of damage, a finger jabbed into Roy’s sore shoulder.

Roy lowered his eyes. He grit his teeth. Breathe in. His head pounded. Breathe out. His heart raced. Felt the blood leave his face. He balled his hands into fists. Pushed past the guy.

Stumbled into the alleyway. Trying to breathe. Trying to stay standing.

Rouy staggered as far as he could go and leaned against the cool, brick wall.

Finally his ears stopped ringing. Someone was talking to him. 

Roy looked up. 

“Roy, you okay?”

Eddie and Jeff stood there, Eddie’s hand on his shoulder.

“We did break quite a lot of things, but he was quite unpleasant to you, Roy. Don’t let it get to you.” Jeff was trying to scratch away the blood from his nose.

Roy just focused on breathing.

“You’re not looking so hot.” Eddie sighed. “Are you hurt?”

“A bit.” Roy panted. “Maybe. Not really. No. I’m fine. I just- You know. Yelling. I’m fine. I think I’m gonna go-” He took his hands out of his jacket pockets.

“Jesus, Roy!” Eddie exclaimed. “Oh boy, do we need to get something on that. Jeff, you got any gauze left?”

“What’s wrong?” Roy blinked slowly.

Jeff did a double-take. “Oh my lord. I’m going to be-” He retched a little. “How did you do that?”

“What?” Roy was getting annoyed now.

“Your hand.” Eddie gripped his wrist. “Don’t touch anything.”

Roy looked down at his hand.

The lightbulb.

He had gripped it so hard that it burst. Exploding into his palm and fingers. His whole right hand was covered in blood and glass splinters. Funny. He couldn’t even feel it. 

Blood pattered down onto the gravel of the alleyway. “Hospital.” Eddie ordered.

“Hospital.” Jeff gagged. 

“Ah, man.” Roy fainted.

Whumpay - Day 11

Main Challenge - Ineffective Medical Care - Medical Torture Mini Challenge 11 - Dialogue - “Who did this to you?” Original Work - Ashfirth Farm

Rabbit unwound the handkerchief from his neck and mopped his brow. “Good day, sir. Come to help mend the fence with me?” Rabbit finished his joke with a grin.

Caldwell froze with a smile on his face. His smile disappeared. His mouth opened. All he could do was stare.

Rabbit was quick to notice and his grin faded. “Mr. Caldwell?”

Caldwell’s eyes dropped to the ground and then anywhere but Rabbit. “How did you come by those?”

“What?”

Caldwell reached out slowly with his riding crop and pointed to Rabbit’s neck. “Those.”

Rabbit reached up and put a hand to his neck. As soon as his fingers touched the puckered, rope-like, shiny scars, Caldwell saw Rabbit do something absolutely uncharacteristic.

Rabbit became embarrassed.

His eyes fell to the ground. His fingers fumbled as he tied the handkerchief about his neck again. He picked up his tools and got back to work.

Rabbit’s face was turned away when he tried to sound casual, lighthearted even. “Oh, yes. An accident, long ago. I’m sorry you saw that. It’s quite ugly.”

Caldwell didn’t miss the way Rabbit’s hands shook.

He usually would not pry. But seeing his friend so affected had him curious. Or that was what he decided he felt. He ignored the growing flame of worry and grief; the accident had to have been so awful that the normally unapologetic Rabbit would feel the need to hide it, and lie.

Caldwell got down from his horse. “Mr. Bell, what manner of accident befell you that would give you those scars?”

Rabbit Bell froze while trying to repair the pasture fence. “It’s nothing.”

Caldwell got down on his knees and began to help his tenant with the repairs. “It is not. Your hands are shaking.”

A long moment passed where Rabbit continued to stare down at the grass, tools held tightly within white knuckles, lips pressed hard together. Finally, he thrust the tools into Caldwell’s hands and stood up, laughing a little too bitterly for Caldwell’s liking.

“I told you that studied at the Kings Mages College in London.” Rabbit began, then stopped again.

A full minute passed by Rabbit paced back and forth.

Caldwell forgot the repairs he’d attempted to help with and just watched his tenant. Finally, he prodded Rabbit.

“Yes, you told me that you were a graduate from the college.”

Rabbit nodded and stopped pacing. He took a deep breath and spoke once more. “They perform research on a regular basis on the pupils and fellows of the college. This scarring is from one such research project.”

“What kind of research…” Caldwell trailed off. He couldn’t find the words. In addition to that, he felt like he was going beyond what could be considered polite inquiry. “I apologize.”

Rabbit sighed. He was trailing a finger along the handkerchief that covered the scars. Another moment passed and he took it off again. His shoulders drooped. His face took on a few lines that Caldwell had only seen when Rabbit was properly upset.

Caldwell stayed very still, as though Rabbit might bolt at the slightly movement.

“Because most spells require a vocal component, the research was done on only a few students. Gifted students.” Rabbit chuckled darkly.

“They wanted to understand what part the vocal cords played in spells. So,” And here Rabbit’s pallor became almost green.

“They immobilized the student with a paralytic and exposed the vocal cords surgically. The student was then asked to perform a specific set of spells while the vocal cords were observed. No pain relief was provided.”

Caldwell felt his stomach turn and struggled to keep his breathing under control. After he fully processed what Rabbit had just said, he felt a wave of anger overtake him.

“That’s barbaric.” Caldwell stood up and dropped the tools. He took a step towards Rabbit. “Mr. Bell, I cannot believe that learned men would stoop to such torture.”

Caldwell once again examined the scars. A central line ran down Rabbit’s throat with a few perpendicular scars. A cruel surgery. Was there any purpose to it?

“What were their findings?” He growled. “Other than a new method of torture?”

Rabbit smiled but it did not reach his eyes. “Nothing.”

“Barbaric!” Caldwell fumed. “Utterly barbaric!”

“The fellows at the college would not agree with you.” Rabbit kept the handkerchief off for now. “It was a necessary act of service in order to further the pursuit of mages studies.” Rabbit sounded as though he were reciting something.

“Necessary, my arse!” Caldwell did not agree with it.

Rabbit laughed, a genuine laugh, and set his hand upon Caldwell’s shoulder. “Thank you for your support, Mr. Caldwell.”

“I believe any reasonable man would reject such an act.”

“A reasonable man, yes, but not a scholar.” Rabbit’s small smile revealed that some of his old humor was back. “You are a reasonable and an honorable man, Mr. Caldwell.”

Caldwell felt himself relax a little but a prickling anger still needled him. He wanted to do something for Mr. Bell, something to take the pain of these memories away. He had this itch to give comfort. But how? And why was this feeling so strong? Caldwell’s eyes rested upon Rabbit’s lips.

His cheeks were burning but it was a cool day. “You are too kind, Mr. Bell.”

The tension around Rabbit’s shoulders seemed to disappear and he bent down to the ground to continue his repairs on the fence. “Not at all, sir.” He replied.

Caldwell swallowed hard and got back on his horse, which was grazing nearby. He rode back to the manor in a daze.

Fringe S03E10 (The Firefly)

Merry Whump of May - Day 1

(The Man From U.N.C.L.E. 2015)

@themerrywhumpofmay

“You should not be here.”

This was the first thing that Solo said to Illya in two weeks.

“Too bad.” Illya whispered and finished uncuffing Solo from the metal chair. The dim bulb above made it hard to parse Solo’s expression, as did the bruises. 

“You should have left.” Solo stood slowly, arm wrapped around his chest. He leaned over and spat dark blood on the floor before speaking again. “Why didn’t they bring you in?”

Illya jerked his head towards the door, holding out a pistol.

Solo took it.

Illya took the lead and left the room. “They tried.”

He heard Solo wheeze out a laugh softly behind him.

They finally got outside and Illya led the way to the first car he spotted, halfway down the street from the warehouse. It was unlocked. But no keys. 

While Illya hotwired the vehicle, Solo eased himself into the passenger seat, groaning in pain.

The engine rumbled into life.

Illya slammed the door closed and caught sight of Solo’s face. His head was back against the headrest and his brows were furrowed. The harsh light of day brought the bruises into sharp relief. Yellowing greenish contusions that were healing. And darker, reddish purple for newer ones. 

Illya gripped the steering wheel hard and set his foot against the gas. “Are you ready?”

“No.”

“Good.”

They sped off into the sunset.

An hour later, sun down and surrounded by dark trees, Illya pulled the car to the side of the road.

“We have arrived at milepost-” Illya turned and noticed his companion was asleep. “Solo.”

No answer.

Illya reached out and just barely touched his shoulder when Solo gasped awake. He pressed as far away from Illya as the car door would allow.

“Solo.” Illya retracted his hand and filed that reaction away for later. 

“Y-yes.” Solo relaxed a little. “What?”

“We have arrived at milepost 8. This is where we start walking.”

Solo sighed. “That sounds like the last thing I want to do.” His voice was hoarse.

Illya left the car and circled around to Solo’s door and opened it. “Too bad.”

Solo unfolded himself gingerly from the car. “Where-” He stopped to breathe. “Are we going?”

“Remote cabin.” Illya retrieved two bags from the side of the road from underneath some bushes, damp with dusk dew.

Solo limped over and took the map, compass, and bag Illya held out to him. “How remote?”

“We will arrive by dawn if we make good time.”

Solo swore, coughed, and swore again as he slung the bag over his shoulders. 

Illya paused for a moment and looked his partner up and down.

“What?” Solo asked. Hunched over. Already panting. 

“Can you?”

“Can I what?”

“Make good time?”

Solo straightened up immediately. Even in the darkness of night, Illya could see his jaw was set. Eyes gleaming.

“No pain, no gain.” Solo grated out. 

“That does not make any sense. Follow me.” Illya led the way into the dark trees.

A few hours later, Illya stopped and waited for Solo to catch up. “Water.”

Panting, Solo nodded.

They both drank from the canteens in the bags and caught their breath. The forest was thick with trees and brush and the hillsides were steep with slippery pine needles and rocks. It was slow going. Slower than Illya had hoped. But it could not be helped. 

He watched his partner take out the map and compass. 

“Flashlight?” Solo wheezed.

Illya stepped over and flicked on his flashlight.

Solo took a small step back, map shaking in his hands.

“Th-this is the location?” He pointed at a small pen mark in the middle of the map.

Illya stopped where he was. “Yes.”

“Right.” Solo sighed, held the compass into the flashlight’s beam, turned a pace or two to the right. “We need to be going this way.”

“We should take a break.” Illya did not want to push Solo too hard. The way he was favoring his chest suggested a broken rib. Or more. And that could not be all. The point of rescuing Solo was not to kill him in the process. 

“Sit down.” Illya urged his partner.

“No.” Solo pocketed the compass and map again. “Sorry, but if I do that, I won’t get up again. We keep moving. Unless, you need a break?”

It was dark but Illya could hear a little smile in Solo’s last words. At least he felt well enough to needle Illya. 

“We keep moving.” Illya agreed. 

The first tatters of dawn were showing when they reached the cabin. They were cold and damp from a mist that had settled into hills. Feet wet from fording a few streams. They trudged inside. It was bare bones. Cool and musty. A fireplace. A table. Kitchen sink. Bed in the corner. 

“This is honestly worse than the warehouse.” Solo drawled, panting. He dropped his bag to the creaking wooden floor planks.

“Be grateful.” Illya sniffed and set down his pack on the rough table. “You are safe here.”

“Yes, safe from a hot bath.”

“There is a gas generator and well-water. This is better than most hotels.” Illya dryly said.

Solo edged closer to the kitchen windows and stripped off his jacket and damp shirt slowly and painfully.

Illya stayed across the cabin, despite how much he wanted to help.

Finally free of the shirt, Solo let it drop to the floor and looked down at his torso. In the dim dawn light from the grimy windows, Illya could see a mess of mottled bruises, the worst of it dark like thunderclouds over Solo’s ribs.

Illya realized Solo was falling before Solo did.

A brief moment. A sway. Eyes glazed. Eyelids fluttering.

Illya strode across the cabin and caught Solo as he went down, head hanging limply. The heat coming off Solo’s body was concerning. And he was slick with sweat. 

Solo’s faint only lasted a moment.

He began to thrash in Illya’s arms, pushing away. Frantic. A rough sob tore from his throat.

“Stop.” Solo’s voice was barely a whisper. “Don’t.”

Illya did not drop Solo to the floor but lowered him as carefully as he could as Solo struggled. And then he backed away.

“Sorry.” He muttered.

Solo propped himself against the kitchen cabinets, panting, eyes wide and wet. Tears threatened to fall.

“Sorry.” Solo coughed. “I don’t-”

“It is fine.” Illya cut him off. “They beat you. I know. I am sorry.”

Solo just breathed and shook then closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“You are safe now.” Illya knew there wasn’t anything he could say that would fix this. But he tried. “You rest. I keep watch. I will keep you safe.”

A few tears hit the wood floor, soft sounds, the only sound. 

“Thanks, Peril.”

Whumpril 2023 Day 18: “Take me instead.”

L.A. Confidential (1997)

Open Range | 2003

Soo many good tropes here;

- ambushed unbeknownst to caretakers

- left for dead

- worried fatherfigure

- fading in and out of consciousness

- bridal carry

Found this movie through @whumpywhumpas 🌟

More gif sets for this movie coming!!!

Sep-Oct 2024 Whump Events

autumn is approaching! 🍂 here's a long one, since october is the big month for creation events, and september has a lot going on this year too! so much to choose from!

i've also made a post detailing upcoming g/t events here on my g/t blog. you can check that out if you wanna do something for that community!

September events starting this month:

🔤 Alphabet of Whump (@alphabetofwhump), prompts here, a 26-day whump event

🧸 Sicktember (@sicktember), prompts here, a 30-day sickfic event (this is its last year)

💀 Whumptember (@whumptember), prompts here, a 30-day whump event

🎶Seven Songs of Suffering (@snakebites-and-ink), prompts here, a 1-week whump event taking place the second week of September

🐉 HTTYD Whump Week (@httyd-whump-week), prompts here, a 1-week HTTYD fandom whump event

😱 Horrortember (@horrortember), prompts here, a 30-day horror event

Single-day September celebrations:

🎊 International Whump Day is September 12th. Celebrate however you like!

💬 Comment Day is September 15th, info here: @comment-day. Leave some nice comments on your favorite creations! (Not whump specific)

October events starting next month:

🎃 Whumptober (@whumptober), prompts here, a 31-day whump event. this is also the most-participated-in whump event of the year, often attracting people outside the whump community.

🌩️ Voltober (@voltober), prompts coming soon, a 31-day whump event

💧 Angstober (@angstober), prompts here, a 31-day angst event

🔮 31 Days of Horror (@31-daysofhorror), prompts potentially coming soon, a 31-day horror event

📼 Halloween Horror Bingo (@halloweenhorrorbingo), signups coming soon, a horror bingo-prompt event

🫀Goretober is a flexible gore event where people traditionally create their own prompt lists. If you don't want to make your own, there are many floating around in the Goretober tag already. Here's a few: one / two / three / four

📵 AI-less* Whumptober (@aiIesswhumptober), prompts here, a 31-day whump event

*Note to clear up any confusion brought on by the name: Neither Whumptober event includes or promotes the use of AI-generated works, the latter event is just more intense about it. Whumptober's AI policy is "We will not reblog or promote any works we know to be generative AI-created" and AILWT's AI policy is "No AI content of any kind is allowed". False claims spread last year about Whumptober allowing AI, but this is not and has never been the case, and I want to make sure no misinformation is spread from my post.