#whump bingo prompt

[jamiesfootball]

Some Sentences Sunday

Roy fights back the urge to block the screen, to use hands and fingers to blot out the movements as Jamie shuffles artlessly across the bed. The chains make progress difficult, and more than once he slips, knees losing purchase and sending him sprawling against the headboard.

Roy grits his teeth. He glances again at the photo on the table, and tries to hold in his temper.

"Looks like he's trying to break out," Roy answers wryly. No point in lying when it's right there on the screen. Still, his heart lurches like a misfiring car when he adds, "That's not my problem too, is it?"

"No so long as he stays quiet," warns Fuckface.

Roy's ears perk. There it is again. That accent, the careful denseness of the vowels. Like a child attempting to build a snow man on a warm day. Solid, but likely to collapse.

The accent is definitely being put on for his sake, he just can't figure out what lurks underneath.

[julespromptly]

prompt #28

“i would die for you” “but would you live for me?”

[whumpster-dumpster]

I've seen people making their own whump bingo cards lately and thought it looked fun so I made one dedicated to these lovely fever tropes 👀 Feel free to use if it inspires you!

[katsmtmsdoodles]

Reblog for bigger sample size! Based on this post by @rigorwhoring

Part 1 | Part 3 | Part 4

[killacharacterbingo]

Blood Loss

Bleeding to death, or exsanguination, is the medical term for death occurring as a result of losing blood. On average, a person will enter hypovolemic shock after losing 1/5 of their blood. The amount of blood in a given person's body depends on their age and size.

Hypovolemic shock in and of itself is life-threatening, as the loss of blood (or other fluids, though we're sticking to blood for this prompt) causes the heart to falter and organs to fail. If the bleeding is not stopped, the person will die shortly after without having to wait for the effects of shock to claim them.

Exsanguination occurs due to injuries, trauma, illnesses, medical conditions and some medications (like blood thinners, which impede the blood's ability to properly clot.) It can take as little as five minutes to die with an open, untended wound, to several days if the bleeding is controlled or slow.

It can happen due to internal or external bleeding. And, since the symptoms of bleeding out per se are not painful (though the initial injury probably will be, if it occurred due to injury or trauma,) they may go unnoticed or midiagnosed.

[blackrosesandwhump]

Immortal Whump Bingo

I made an immortal whump bingo card based on the prompts I posted the other day 😈

Feel free to use!

Thanks to @a-crumb-of-whump and @brutal-nemesis for the inspiration!

[a-crumb-of-whump]

I made a bingo card for anyone who wants to use it:D

[whump-writings]

holds out random bingo card I saved

:3 ill be doing it with my oc seek. Send me asks >:]<

[hithertoundreamtof23]

Fic #40!!! 🎉

Summary: A Stephen Strange variant finds himself face-to-face with Cassandra Nova. (Gap filler based on the name-drop in Deadpool and Wolverine).

WARNINGS: Major Character Death (mentioned in Deadpool 3), various mentions of past trauma including brief torture, death, depression, suicide attempt, and family issues

Excerpt:

“You are different, you are broken. Hell, all of your variants are broken, and you-” her fingers made contact with his forehead.

It was like a hurricane came over him; waves crashed into his frontal lobe and winds blew his thoughts around into a jumble that made it hard to resist.

Bad things happen bingo: Can't Go Home

Fandom: Doctor Strange, Deadpool and Wolverine (2024)

[jamiesfootball]

Signed up for a Bad Things Happen Bingo card, and uh. Saw a prompt.

'Shock collar'

Shock collar whump? Jamie shock collar whump? Jamie fucked up backstory shock collar whump?

Whump below the line. mind the tags

"Stop it!" he shrieked, and the stupid fucking pubescent cracking of his voice sent them all into fits again. His thoughts weren't stringing together, head stuffed tight as humiliation pooled under his skin. "Fu- quit it!"

Denbo grabbed him from behind and his mind went blank.

His legs dropped out from under him, trying to scramble away from the bigger man, but he was stronger, fully grown where Jamie was still stretching for the weight the physios wanted him to be at. Denbo moved him like a puppet, hands gripped tight around the bones of his shoulders, holding him steady while Bug sprung forward with the collar and and his dad laughed hysterically, choking on his drink.

Up close, the collar was a small and inoffensive thing, not even as thick as his dad's belt.

His mind screamed.

"C'mon, Jam-Jam," Bug sing-songed, sloppily patting him on the cheek. "Don't be like that. Heard you were getting all fancy, wearing a bit of jewelry these days -- we're just gon' see how it looks on you."

Jamie turned and bit his hand.

Bug screamed.

His dad laughed.

Denbo slapped him round the head.

His ears rang. Bug shook him loose off his hand, and Denbo let go of his shoulder to cup a hand up under his jaw, tilting his head back so that his neck was bared and vulnerable to the air.

He swung his free arm to scratch out Bug's eyes, but Bug caught him easily -- him and Denbo holding him spread open by the arms like a moth to a pinboard while his dad howled with laughter from the kitchen.

He heard the distinctive clink of glass on glass as his dad poured them all new shots.

He heard a strangled, "No!" rip from his own throat as Bug fumbled the collar around his neck. For a moment, his greasy hand slipped, and he let the collar hang loose and limp around Jamie's neck while he wiped his hands against the front of his t-shirt, right over the City logo.

He clicked the collar shut, and something broke in Jamie's chest.

He pulled the remote out of his pocket.

He hit the button.

Jamie's knees jerked out from under him.

It didn't hurt the way he thought it'd hurt. Felt like getting flicked really hard in a neck, but all over. It didn't really hurt. It didn't.

His eyes stung. He dug his nails into the carpet.

Denbo was cursing, "Fuckin' hell! Warn me next time, man. That could've shocked me."

"Ah, sorry 'bout that. But fuck, he really fell didn' he?"

[julespromptly]

prompt #24

“i won’t beg” “you did last night” “last night was a fluke”

[thegaynessarchives]

MY FIRST BAD THINGS HAPPEN BINGO CARD IS HERE!!!

Send me requests from here and I will write them! :D God I love these things so much

I will be getting more probably lol

Unrelated/userboxes:

[ashleybenlove]

The worst thing about writing for a fantasy series set in the Viking times is that a lot of my humorous references would be anachronistic

Can't exactly make references to soap operas and Kdramas but gods I wish I could.

Oh wait, this is fanfiction, and I can do whatever I want!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[ninja-go-to-therapy]

Defeated and Trophied

@badthingshappenbingo

Prompt: I would love to see your interpretation of Branch being captured instead of Floyd, like the original concept in the movie. Used for Defeated and Trophied.

Fandom: Trolls (Dreamworks)

Character: Branch

Trigger Warnings: kidnapping, torture, multiple mentions of death and being killed, though nothing graphic

1744 words

Fear was an old friend to Branch.

It had been a rare acquaintance back when he was a child — back in the days in which his biggest concerns had been thunderstorms and a dark room. 

From the moment he’d turned grey, it had crept its way beside him, a creature that would never grant him peace again. 

After all, no one else was around anymore to chase it away for him.

As he’d grown up, it remained consistently by his side. It was a constant voice in the back of his head, screaming at him to watch for bergens, boil the drinking water, always be ready for that which longs to kill you. 

Yes, fear was an old friend indeed. But he’d learned early on how to hold it close to his chest. One slip up and he could be devoured. 

So when he woke up in a diamond bottle, two massive creatures looming over him, he didn’t show his terror. He didn’t scream as he so wanted to, and most importantly, he would not resort to begging.

They were tall, comparable to a bergen in that regard. But where bergens were stocky creatures, these were lanky. Their skin was shiny and hard-looking, a far cry from the soft fluff of a troll.

Whatever they were, he’d never seen one before. 

His stomach churned with anxiety. Normally, he was knowledgeable enough to at least have some idea of what monster he may have been dealing with. But this… he didn’t know if these things wanted to eat him or worse. 

He knew what Poppy would do if she were here. At the thought of his girlfriend, his heart leapt into his throat. Was she here? Had they gotten her too?

No. He didn’t see her anywhere in the massive room. Thank god. He knew she could take care of herself, but the thought of her being trapped in a claustrophobic diamond prison left him with a bitter taste in his mouth. 

“Who are you?” He called out cautiously. He waited for a response, but the pair — one boy and one girl, he was pretty sure — hardly even reacted to the noise. 

They were both looking at the bottle he was trapped in, yet somehow they remained ignoring him. 

“Hey!” He yelled, quickly losing patience as he pounded a fist against the purple-hued glass. “Let me out of here!”

The boy looked at him (or rather, the jar as a whole, like Branch was nothing more than a pretty decoration inside) with trepidation. “Do you think it’ll work?” He asked hesitantly, like he couldn’t even hear the shouting. 

“Oh,” the girl said, scooping up the jar carelessly and sending Branch tumbling, the wind getting knocked out of him as his body knocked against the hard walls. “It will work.”

“What the hell!” He shouted, furious at the lack of acknowledgement. “Let me out! What do you want?”

With her free hand, the girl held up a small ball…? Examining it closer, though, Branch could see that it was connected to the jar he was held in, making it almost reminiscent of a perfume bottle.

What the hell?

He didn’t know what to expect, but the coming sensation wasn’t something he could have prepared for. All at once, a horrible pressure erupted from the center of his chest, like — like some invisible force was trying to get in.

Distantly, he could feel his body being lifted slightly off the ground, levitating no more than a few short inches. It was hard to even notice, through the agony. It didn’t get any colder in his prison, but he could feel the warmth being pulled out of his skin.

The pressure seeped from his body quickly, and he could almost feel it going right up and out of the bottle, being spritzed like a fine mist over the girl’s body.

As his body dropped down, thudding against the floor, he could hear her belt out a ridiculous riff.

“Wh…?” He coughed, pressing a hand over his heart from his new position on the floor. It felt like a part of his very soul had been sucked right out of him. He felt empty. What was going on? What was happening?

“Wow,” the boy said, reverent of the notes that had just come from the other’s mouth. “Let me try!”

“Wait—” Branch wheezed, unable to catch his breath before being subjected to this again. He tried to brace himself, but it did little to help.

It was almost more intense the second time around, and leaving him feeling somehow even more hollow than before. 

He was shaking from the cold by the time his body dropped back to the floor the second time.

“What are you doing to me?” He croaked, dizzy and freezing.

There was a malicious smirk on the girl’s face, the first thing finally directed at him. 

His heart pounded in dread. He was going to regret even asking, and he knew it. 

———

“He’s kinda cute,” Veneer said, shaking the jar slightly and sending Branch stumbling on unsteady feet back and forth. “Don’t you think so, Vel?”

Velvet glanced back at her brother from where she was touching up her makeup. “Not really,” she said, disinterested.

“Oh, come on, he’s like a feral little chihuahua!” Veneer said, proceeding to coo at Branch. “Who’s a good little troll?”

With the minuscule energy he had left, he glared as strongly as he could. “I will kill you,” he growled. As such a proportionately small creature that was barely standing and also trapped inside a sad little bottle, Branch couldn’t imagine that he looked very intimidating.

“Ugh, feisty thing,” Veneer whined, setting the jar down on a side table. “I don’t know why you’re so upset,” he said, “we take perfect care of you, don’t we? I mean, sure we have to keep you in a little jar, but it’s not like you’re dead or anything.”

“Your talent is being put to much better use on us,” Velvet chimed in, “You should be grateful! It’s not like you were using it for anything important. But thanks to you, we’re currently charting at number one!”

“Did you at least credit me somewhere?” he asked drily.

Veneer leaned over, stage whispering to his sister. “Should we have given him creds?”

“No, you moron! Ugh, come on, we’re going to be late for the photoshoot.”

———

Branch woke from his not-quite-sleep as he’d learned to get used to: by being jostled around like he was a fucking doll.

He groaned weakly, blinking his eyes open to the slightly sleep-blurred vision of a massive eye staring back at him.

After nearly two decades of anticipating a bergen around every corner, his instincts told him he was about to be fucking eaten. But he wasn’t quite so lucky.

“Oh, good,” who he finally recognized as Velvet said, completely flat, “it’s still alive.”

Had he the energy, he would have flipped her off… or something. But as it was, he just curled in on himself, wincing in anticipation. He knew what was coming. It was all the self-proclaimed pop princess (and oh, how that title made his blood boil) ever really interacted with him for.

“Just do it,” he growled, far from complacent, but simply desperate for the bad part to be done and over. He just wanted to rest. 

How long had he been here, now? Two weeks? Three? He’d completely lost track. 

Was Poppy looking for him? What had she thought when he’d just vanished into thin air? What if she gave up on him?

No. That was a stupid thought. He knew her better than that. On their first adventure together, they had literally seen Creek get eaten, and she’d somehow still been determined to save him. And, somehow, she’d been right. Of course, Creek had turned out to be a no-good traitorous piece of shit garbage man, but before that reveal, Poppy had been determined to get him back.

As hard as it was for him to fathom the idea that anyone would ever stay by his side as she had, he was always one to look at the facts. He knew she would refuse to give up until she got him back. He knew, no matter how long it took, she would find him.

As comforting as that was, it also left him feeling wary. Velvet and Veneer weren’t exactly the type that could be subdued by a hug.

He cried out in pain as his talent was drained from him, gasping desperately for breath. He didn’t have much more to give.

“You can’t…” he panted, gritting his teeth. “Can’t use my talent f-orever. S’not sustainable.” He said, snarky as he could manage through the bone-deep exhaustion.

“Oh no,” Velvet lamented, drawn out and dramatic, “whatever will I do?” With little warning, she tossed the jar to Veneer, who only barely caught it.

Branch didn’t have the strength to brace himself. Every inch of his body ached from being thrown around like this.

Velvet draped herself over her makeup chair, legs kicked over the arm of it. “If only I’d thought of that before,” she pouted as Veneer drained another dose from him, leaving Branch’s vision unfocused. “Oh wait! I did.”

“You did?” Veneer asked, apparently unaware of whatever his sister was up to. That seemed to be the common trend, Branch had noticed. 

“Yes, dummy. I told you this troll was a part of BroZone, remember?”

His heart sank at the mention of his br—his former brothers. What did they have to do with this?

“I forged a letter,” Velvet continued, “it will lure the rest of the band here to save their stupid little brother, and then,” her eyes glinted with greed, “we’ll have plenty of troll to keep us on top.”

A thousand bad memories threatened to overwhelm him at once. He could feel his emotions swirling in his chest, and for a moment he was certain he was going to vomit them up. Instead, he managed to scoff out a laugh.

“Yeah,” he said, forcing himself to remain flat and unemotive. If he’d done it for the better part of twenty years, he could do it now, even if he was slightly out of practice. “I’ve got bad news for you. There’s no way in hell any of them are coming for me.”

“Just wait and see, little troll,” Velvet said, confidence unwavering. “Just wait and see.”

[killacharacterbingo]

The AO3 Curse

The AO3 curse is a myth among AO3 authors regarding how, when one seems to be doing well in writing and posting their fic (good inspiration flow, stable update schedule, etc.), bizarre and negative events in their life are bound to find them. This, obviously, interrupts the update schedule and leads to the "AO3 authors are built different," or "AO3 authors work harder than the devil" memes.

AO3 author's notes are occasionally unhinged, offering extreme circumstances for which an update is delayed. Authors will apologize to their readers while explaining the hindrance was due to anything ranging from homelessness, to a house fire, to a beta reader being incarcerated, or severe medical complications. Compilations of scrreenshots of author's notes of this caliber make the rounds on websites like Tumblr and YouTube, which in turn perpetuate the myth of the AO3 curse (along with the stereotype of AO3 authors being particularly sturdy and hard-working) in a never-ending cycle.

This prompt takes the myth seriously if so desired, as if there truly were a curse haunting anyone who posts a fic on AO3; or alternatively errs more on the side of being a crack/meme-y death, such as other prompts on this list. Either way, the AO3 curse plays a prevalent role in the character's death.

[blackrosesandwhump]

A Punishment Most Vile

A Month of Whump: Impalement

March of Pain 2024: Miserable

BTHB: Slammed into a Wall

Fandom: Original work

Synopsis: The servant boy of an evil magician finds himself in deep trouble and suffers the painful consequences.

CW: torture, magic whump, punishment, impalement

The magician’s workshop smelled of stale magic, pungent and fermented-sweet and unsettling. The orphan boy held his breath as he straightened a stack of ancient books covered in thick blue dust. Given the kind of magic experiments the magician conducted, that dust could be anything. The powdered skin of some strange creature, or maybe the remnants of an experiment gone wrong. The orphan boy didn’t want to find out.

He shouldn’t have to find out, he thought, turning from the books to the puddle of murky, foul-smelling liquid pooled in the back corner. He was eighteen. He should be learning alongside the magician, helping him with his work rather than cleaning up his messes like some dumb servant. Helping him, rather than suffering the punishments brought on by his anger.

You are a servant, though, came the little annoying voice in his head. That’s all you are.

And as usual, he argued back.

No, no, I’m not!

You’ll never amount to anything, will you? You know that.

Just watch! I’ll prove you—

“Are you quite finished?” said the magician from the door. The orphan boy jumped and almost slipped in the murky pool.

“Almost, sir,” he mumbled. “There was a lot of mess to clean up.”

“Is that a criticism?” said the magician.

“No, sir.” The boy turned away, hiding his smirk.

But the magician saw it anyway. His gloved hand shot out and seized the boy’s throat, lifting him just barely off the ground, so that his toes dragged across the grimy stone. The boy choked and spluttered, scrabbling at the powerful hand around his neck.

“I would expect,” said the magician, in a voice dangerously low and cool, “that you would know your place by now. But I see you still need to learn.”

Calmly, as if tossing aside a piece of trash, the magician threw the boy across the room. He slammed into the stone wall and crumpled, whimpering, in a heap.

Just a servant. Nothing but a servant. Nothing but a—

“On your feet! Stand up!”

The boy stood, shaking, knowing what was about to happen. Another punishment. And all because of his stupid mouth and his stupid thoughts.

There was a flash of magic; something hit his chest hard, driving him up the wall with its force. He stuck there, feet dangling off the ground, unable to move. The magician muttered an unintelligible word. The pressure in the boy’s chest magnified to an intense pain, radiating through his pinioned body. He clenched his teeth against it, willing himself not to scream, not to betray his agony and satisfy the magician’s whim.

“You will remain there until you learn what I’ve tried to teach you,” the magician ordered, turning on his heel.

His back was turned.

The boy looked down.

A glowing shaft, oily black despite its underlying green hue, protruded from the left side of his chest. Tendrils of dark magic trailed from its end, smoky and foul.

The boy dropped his head back, squeezing his eyes shut against the shattering pain, against the pulse of his own failure in his impaled heart.

“Don’t worry. I won’t let you die. That would defeat the purpose of this lesson, after all.” With that, the magician left, and the boy hung alone in his punishment, with only his own tormented thoughts for company.

@marchofpain @amonthofwhump @badthingshappenbingo