Whump Em All 2026

the angst of a panic attack or meltdown or seizure, the visual of scars and braces and crutches and nasal cannulas and hospital monitors beeping away, the idea of overcoming struggle and the limits of the human body. it's all beautiful whump for their gifs and fics and comics.

but the second they see someone needing an EMG or bronchoscopy, someone using a power chair and needing help getting into a building and advocating for their accessibility, someone using their inhaler, someone with stumps or disproportionate limbs, the mere idea of an ostomy bag or incontinence? you need to tag that, that's disgusting, that's triggering, nobody wants to see all of that.

I'll make you a deal. Donate $5 (€5) or more to ANY Palestinian fundraiser, show me the receipt, and I'll write you:

A 300+ word whump drabble using generic characters and the tropes of your choice. I will write anything (yes, anything) including NSFW if you're 18+

OR

6+ whump prompts/inspiration on your topic of choice

OR

A custom whump OC. You can take your pick of whumpee, whumper, or any other archetype. I'll have you answer some questions on your preferences, and will custom-tailor your adoptable character to your tastes.

Not comfortable picking one fundraiser over the other? Donate to Gaza Funds, and they'll distribute it to the families where it can do the most good.

Rex almost deletes the email out of reflex. Vic has this annoying habit of using Rex’s address to sign up for free trials of random shit—he has, like, five Club Penguin accounts at this point, it’s getting ridiculous—so if he doesn’t recognize the sender, it’s probably spam, and he likes to keep his inbox tidy.

        But something makes him pause, cursor hovering over the trash button, eyes narrowing.

        Out of idle curiosity, or something, he opens it. The address doesn’t show a name and there’s no message, but there’s an mp4 file attached. He cocks his head and hits play.

        His stomach sinks as Whiskey’s face comes into view behind the static. That stubborn bucktoothed shitstain doesn’t know when to fucking quit. You’d think he’d learn after what Rex did to him.

        “Hey, big dog,” Whiskey’s drawling voice comes through. “Got a little surprise for ya.”

        The camera view unfocuses and turns around, giving Rex a dizzy glimpse of…the weight room? What the fuck is he doing in there? How did he even get on campus? Why is—

        Rex’s line of questioning comes to a screeching halt as the camera focuses again.

        Vic.

        Oh fuck. Oh, Christ, no. No no no.

        His boy. His hands are yanked above his head, tied in—in cable, Jesus fuck, Whiskey has him tied to one of the machines. Rex almost misses what the bastard is saying thanks to the roaring of blood in his ears.

        “...we were fuckin’ friends, man! We were chill!” Whiskey’s boot flies into frame and connects with Vicky’s jaw. Rex almost pukes right then and there. Those were teeth that went flying.

        “But you had to go and sic your fuckin’ dog on me. Couldn’t just pay up. Couldn’t be a fuckin’ man, Montez.” More hits. Whiskey’s boots, fists, a fucking metal baseball bat. Rex’s knuckles are white on the edge of the desk.

        Why isn’t Vic fighting back? Rex wants to scream, but his jaw is locked in place. Vic’s got practically a foot and 50 pounds on Whiskey. He should be able to wipe the fucking floor with the guy. But he’s just dangling there, blood and spit and tears all down his face, his bad leg pointing the wrong fucking way under him, not even running his mouth, not fighting, not even when Whiskey pulls out a fucking switchblade. Vic makes a broken little gagging sound and just barely struggles to pull away, whining formlessly as Whiskey cuts jagged lines across his chest, slicing through inked skin like it’s the most casual thing in the world. Rex is as paralyzed as Vic seems to be. Why isn’t he fighting, screaming, biting, saying anything, breathing…

        The camera flips around to show Whiskey’s ugly fucking face again, grinning, splattered with blood and breaking a sweat from the effort. “You should probably get down here, big dog. By the time you get this…well.” Whiskey holds something up, something small and plastic and reflective.

        A syringe.

        Rex is shaking. He was clean. His boy was clean.

        “I dunno how much I gave him, honestly,” Whiskey says, conversationally. The camera flips back around, and Rex almost puts his fist through the screen as Whiskey’s hand goes to Vic’s face, tipping his chin up. “Smile for the camera, bitch! You got anything you wanna say to your man?”

        Vic’s lips move, just barely. Rex can’t make out words. The camera goes in close, and he can see how Vic’s pupils are huge, bloodshot eyes all black, no warm brown left in them.

        He’s not fighting back because he’s too fucking high to move.

        “Anyways. Come get him. Or don’t. You could come get me, but he might not make it if you do. He’s pretty fucked up.” The camera flips back to Whiskey. “And if you do come get me, at least bring me my fucking money, alright? Dumb bitch didn’t have anything on him. Aight, bye.”

        The video ends.

        Rex stares blankly at the screen for a long, nauseous, furious moment.

And then he starts running.

[Fic by the exceptionally talented @bxtterflystxtches , who I have the honor of collaborating with for this event. Please show him some love!]