#whump wheel

[dndwhumpee]

sooo i realized when i deleted my old acc it made people unable to access my super cool whump wheel :( IM SORRYYY

https://pickerwheel.com/?id=ZhgZS

Picker Wheel - Spin the Wheel to Decide a Random Choice

Picker Wheel is a wheel spinner for a random picker. Various functions & customization. Enter choices or names, spin the wheel to decide a r

[stars-hide-our-fires]

Whump Wheel Event

Self-sacrifice

Taglist:

@leaderwhumpee

@theloveofwhump

[whumparoni]

@leaderwhumpee's Whump Wheel Event Masterlist!

Phew! Probably not the most proofread thing in the world, but I'm happy with it! :)

link to the event rules!

Prompt #1 - left behind

Prompt #2 - interrogation

Prompt #3 - forced to choose

Prompt #4 - "focus on the mission"

Prompt #5 - "I'm so fucking sorry"

Prompt #6 - anxiety attack

Prompt #7 - choking

Prompt #8 - "stay with me"

Prompt #9 - "you don't have to do this"

Prompt #10 - buried alive

[pippinoftheshire]

Here’s a whump wheel for all you whumpers because i was bored lol

Picker Wheel - Spin the Wheel to Decide a Random Choice

Picker Wheel is a wheel spinner for a random picker. Various functions & customization. Enter choices or names, spin the wheel to decide a r

[labtrauma]

⸻ ACHILLES HEEL .

LEADER'S WHUMP WHEEL EVENT | @leaderwhumpee PROMPT #1: STABBING

During a reconnaissance mission in an abandoned warehouse, Clare is ambushed and cut off from her team, leaving her alone with her attackers.

WORD COUNT: 1,519. CHARACTERS: Clare (whumpee), unnamed whumper(s). SETTING: Mark of the Butterfly. MASTERLIST(S): Clare's masterlist, Whump Wheel Event (WIP, no link yet).

!! CONTENT WARNINGS !! Lady whump, physical violence (kicking + hitting), manhandling, stabbing, hand mutilation, loss of magic.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm gonna see if I can actually manage get 10 of these done. This is my first Clare whump that takes place in her canon story! Yay!!

[TAGS: @ghostingwings @screams-n-shackles @loonybun @doctorsawyer @stars-hide-our-fires @wlw-whump -- go here if you'd like to be added to my tag list!]

There's a terrible pounding in Clare's skull, compounded by a fierce ringing in her ears. The sensation spreads through her whole body, leaving her feeling unsteady, as if she's being rocked on open water. She feels dizzy. She feels sick.

Where is she? What's going on?

Her good eye blinks open. Her vision swims in and out of focus. Shapes, fuzzy and indistinct, move around her. Eventually, through the ringing, she makes out voices.

She blinks again, forcing her vision to sharpen. The world comes in with a bit more clarity, and she realizes that she is on the ground. Smoke hangs in the air around her, but rather than kindling, she smells gunpowder. The moving shapes resolve into people, clad in what she can only describe as pseudo-miltary gear, fully suited up with cloth masks pulled over their faces, hiding both humanoid noses and bestian muzzles alike.

All at once, she remembers what's going on.

Clare and her team had been tracking suspected Corruption activity in what she'd believed was an abandoned warehouse. Several unresolved disappearances were linked to the site, and at the very least, it had the markings of a potential Saevirelum relay point. But it's painfully clear now that the building was never abandoned, and that whoever these people are, they are not Saevirelum.

A fight had broken out. At some point, the metal scaffolding Clare was standing on was blown out from under her. She doesn't remember much after that, but judging by her positioning and the pain in her skull, it's safe to assume that she fell.

She tries to lift her head, but a sharp jolt of agony forces her back down. Her head throbs, and she groans.

"Hey! She's over there!"

Her eye flies open. Panic tightens around her chest like a vice. It doesn't matter how much pain she's in. Whatever injuries she's sustained won't kill her, but staying here probably will.

Teeth bared, breath stuttering, she forces herself up onto her elbows, then her hands, dragging herself upright. She tries to force her legs beneath her so that she can run—

But suddenly, something strikes her in the side, and she's thrown back onto the ground.

Concrete rises up to meet her spine, and she lets out a broken wheeze as the air is ripped from her lungs. Her diaphragms spasms as she fights to get her breathing back under control, and once she finally manages to suck in a breath, the first thing that leaves her mouth is a string of curses. "Fuck, fuck fuck fuck!"

A dozen silhouettes come to loom over her, backlight by the light which seeps through the holes in the roof. They're all talking, sneering, laughing.

She scrambles backward, the heels of her combat boots scrambling for purchase against the rough concrete floors.

"Not so tough now, are you?" comes a man's voice.

Clare bristles with anger. Her gaze darts to the side, locking onto the speaker—a bestian with fur patterned in dark browns and blacks, feline features carrying a batlike cast. He stands apart from the others, the only one bold enough to go unmasked.

When he smiles, his teeth are razor-sharp, like a vampire's. Or, y'know, a bat's.

Her magic stirs without conscious command, spilling through her veins and buzzing gently along her nerves. The sensation, familiar and powerful, races to her fingertips, where sparks crackle into thin, writhing wisps between her fingers. She struggles to shape them into something useful—a weapon, a barrier, anything that'll put some space between herself and this snickering pack of hyenas.

But the pounding in her skull and the vertigo dragging at her limbs impair her focus, and before she can act, someone kicks her again.

Then again. And again.

Her ribs feel bruised, maybe even fractured. She can't tell. She's coughing, wheezing, breath tearing in and out of her chest. Black spots bloom at the edges of her vision. Everything hurts.

What are you doing, Clare? Her internal voice snarls at her. You've taken on armies alone while you're bleeding. Pull yourself together and fight!

She grits her teeth and reaches for her magic again, forcing it to answer her call. Her vision snaps back into focus just as a pair of hands lunge for her, and with a raw, almost feral cry, she slashes at them. She only knows her magic cooperated when blood sprays across her face and the ground, and the person recoils, screaming.

The victory is brief. Almost immediately, a dozen hands seize her, dragging her backward and slamming her against the nearest wall. She yells, arms thrashing, legs kicking furiously. Rage turns to panic when she realizes that she isn't getting anywhere.

"Get your filthy hands off me!" She cries, twisting and thrashing.

A hand collides with her face, cutting her off with a pained yelp. She growls, ready to snap back with even more force, when—almost in unison—two people seize her wrists and slam them against the wall, pinning her there. She tries to wrench herself free, but more people rush in to keep her where she is. She fights, twisting in their grip, but more bodies crowd in. Hands clamp down along her arms, locking them in place. Two people drop their weight onto her legs, preventing her from kicking. Voices overlap, barking questions about rope, restraints, weapons.

Her breathing spirals, fast and shallow. She feels like a butterfly pinned behind glass, a trapped animal in a cage too small. She arches her back against the wall and screams.

Then, without warning, a white-hot burst of pain sets her world aflame.

At first, she has no idea what happened. An agony like she's never felt before shoots through her arm to the rest of her body. Her vision spots out, and for a moment, she swears she lots consciousness. She hardly even realized that she'd been screaming.

When she comes to, her entire right arm hurts so much that even her fingertips feel like they are bruised and broken. Sparks of energy crackle along her nerves, pulsing once, twice, before dying out, leaving behind a hollow numbness in it's wake.

Clare's heart drops into her stomach. Oh no, no, no no no—

She forces herself to turn her head, and when she sees it, she nearly faints.

A knife sticks out of her palm. It's been driven straight through her hand and into the wall behind her, effectively pinning her in place. What terrifies her isn't the stabbing itself, but that the knife has pierced her mark, severing the conduit for her magic.

"That's a funky tattoo you've got there." A voice drawls. The same bestian kneels beside her, grinning like he's done nothing wrong. "The scarring will probably fuck it up. Sorry, babe."

They have no idea what they've just done.

"Oh god…" Clare's breath comes in short, ragged gasps. Her whole body shakes, her heart hammering as she begins to hyperventilate. She doesn't even register the pain, only the indescribable terror of seeing the weapon sticking out of her mark.

She feels her magic slipping away from her, retreating back into the unreachable receses of he body. She tries to reach for it, but she feels nothing. Her body, once a weapon, a conduit of unstoppable force, feels suddenly fragile, ordinary… and mortal.

Tears prick at her eyes. She shakes her head frantically. "No, no, no!"

The bestian's ears twitch; his tail flicks behind him. He narrows his gaze, studying her face before letting his eyes drift to her hand, connecting her sudden loss of composure to the injury.

A hand lands on her thigh, grounding her in the moment. "Hey," he murmurs, leaning close, heedless of the way she flinches back. "Why's that making you freak out?"

His voice carries curiosity, not accusation. Clare swallows hard, panic tightening her chest. Even in her frantic state, she's quick to realize that, because fighting is off the table, she has to try to find another way out.

"Wh… what do you want from me?" She quavers, her voice small and fragile.

He studies her, then his eyes widen as something clicks. A laugh bursts from him, shocked and incredulous. "HAH! Haha, no fucking way. You're telling me Demiguardians have a weakness that glaring? How have you not been caught and killed before now?"

Shame creeps up Clare's neck, warming her face and bringing tears to her eyes.

Her silence only seems to confirm his discovery. He laughs louder, waving his teammates over excitedly. "Guys, guys!" he calls. "We got her! She can't do fuckin' anything! Look!"

Clare dips her head so they can't see her expression. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to steady her breathing. She feels like such an idiot.

Suddenly, a furred hand cups her chin and lifts her face. She gasps, trying to recoil in panic, but his grip tightens, claws digging into her skin. She grunts in pain.

"Hey, don't cry," the bestian coos, his face inches from hers. "Now you can just relax. No more fighting, no more running… just let us handle everything, hm?"

[gunslinginnhogtyin]

Where the wheel stops :333

Send me “Where she stops...” for a starter using the whump wheel // @townofcadence

Hypnotized

There’s something different about Butch when Artair comes to visit that day; when the door opens, his face doesn’t light up with a smile nor does it appear there’s any recognition in those eyes. In fact, they’re distant. There is no feeling within him beyond that of a vague desire—what it is, is unknown. The way in which he moves makes it seem as though he’s on autopilot, as if this is routine.

He slowly pushes the door open a little wider and passes Artair as he steps outside, his legs carrying him in what seems to be an aimless direction. Even his tail lacks the expression it usually had, drooping behind him and dragging across the ground as he walks. His piglet, Valentine, headbutts Artair’s legs affectionately and snorts up at him in greeting, seemingly none the wiser to her fathers odd behaviour.

[rosalind-hawkins]

Are you still taking new asks for the Whump Wheel? If so... more Carryshipping please? 👀

Well I won't say no when you ask so nicely! ☺️ Anybody is free to submit a Whump Wheel ask still, but I am also working on a new shipfic ask game (based on @sesshy380's mystery prompt one) that I'll be doing soonish!

For the Whump Wheel Ask!

Okay, you get a fantasy AU for this one! Hope you like fantasy!

Ryou is an elven warlock (spooky boy supreme sold his soul to Zorc for magical powers), Tristan is a human paladin (strong moral compass, lawful good), and Joey is a dragonborn warrior (dragon!Joey gives me life, and he's a fighter at heart). They're on a quest to find the Magical MacGuffin, or maybe just being adventurers for the fun of it, and get lost in the woods on their way to their next destination. While lost, they encounter a band of highwaymen and while together they manage to fight them all off, Joey still takes an arrow to the side! Oh no! He tries so hard not to let it show how much the injury hurts him, because he's a big tough guy, but Tristan calls him out and forces them to set up camp at least temporarily so that he can safely remove the arrow from the wound and get it properly dressed. Ryou is fascinated with the injury (he's not the slightest bit put off by gore) and tries to comfort Joey with the assurance that he's going to have a really cool scar as a result. When Joey is patched up, they head back to the town they'd just left in order to find a healer. Ryou keeps the arrowhead as a souvenir, Tristan gives Joey a stern talking to about being careful and not taking risks (that's how he shows his care), and Joey is just very embarrassed to have been caught by the arrow at all. Once he's feeling more better, Tristan tells Joey that he can always make up whatever fun story he wants for explaining the scar, and that does cheer him up quite a bit.

[sholiofic]

Whump wheel pleaaaseee! :) Biggles, von Stalhein, possession

Thank you so much <3

I got two of these! Clearly it is Meant To Be.

Anonymous asked: From the Whump wheel, Biggles &/ EvS, Possessed? I was thinking possessed!Biggles could be interesting (and scary!), but I'd be ecstatic to read anything you write for the Biggles fandom!

It was startling to Erich how he had known immediately that Bigglesworth wasn't quite right. Those narrow, boyishly pretty features were so habitually calm, so controlled, so filled with Bigglesworth's certainty of purpose that it was infuriating to him sometimes; he wanted to shake Bigglesworth until he shocked him into a reaction, even if it was anger or hate. But this was something different, a snakelike coldness that looked so out of place that Erich had to force himself not to stare.

When Bigglesworth pushed him into the wall with unexpected strength, Erich couldn't quite explain why he just let him do it, even though he could have tried to overpower him, shot or stabbed him. Instead he found himself with his back against the stone wall and Bigglesworth's slim forearm pressed to his throat. The hazel eyes glittered with a viciousness that was as wrong as a machine gun in the hand of a nurse.

There should have been a quip or a comment or a statement on his life choices. Instead, the cold hazel eyes simply stared at him for a moment before Bigglesworth said quietly, "Stay out of my business, Erich." 

Then he let him go and turn his back as if Erich wasn't worth the effort to bother with.

Erich staggered a little, getting his balance. He stared at the slim, straight back of the man in front of him, as Bigglesworth ignored him completely.

Something was wrong. And he needed to do something about it -- no matter what part of his mission he had to betray.