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Prompts for AI-less Whumptober 2023

It’s finally time! These are your official prompts for AI-less Whumptober 2023! We have 31 days of wonderful whump prompts. Each day has a set of 3 different prompts to choose from! Alternative prompts will be posted under the cut.

Happy whumping!

Here are the alternative prompts for AI-less Whumptober 2023! There is one alternative prompt for every day in October.

AI-less Whumptober 2023

Drugging / sick / poisoned 

Overworked / insomnia / Exhaustion

Sensory deprivation / overstimulation / isolation 

Hiding an injury / betrayal / lying

Hostage / kidnapping / Held at gunpoint

Conditioning / mind control / forced to hurt someone else

Flatline / Restrained / CPR

Panic attacks / Dissociation / Seizure

Scar reveal / Interrogation / Presumed dead

Branding / Scarring / collar

Fainting / Paralyzed / Adrenaline 

Self harm / Sacrifice / Character death

Earthquake / Flood / Crushed

Bleeding through the bandage / Field medicine / no anesthesia

Experimentation / Muzzle / transformation

Amputation/ chronic pain / Hospital

Hypothermia / heat stroke / “You look a little pale”

Fever / vomiting / Warm soup

Taken for granted/ Left behind/ “Why wasn’t I enough?”

Dehumanization/ Stockholm Syndrome/ Master and servant

Blood loss / shock / Near death experience

Whipping / Punishment / Stress position

Begging / “Take me instead” / Forced to watch

Failed escape / hunted down / Too exhausted to keep running

 Nightmares / Flashback / “Why didn’t you save me?”

 Magical exhaustion or injury / Curse / Came back wrong

 Forgotten/ Locked away/ Immortal Whumpee

 Hair pulling / Oxygen Deprivation / Sweating

 “The easy way or the hard way?” / Bargaining / Forced to choose

 Possession / Mind Games / Coma

PTSD / Headaches / Crying  Here are the alternative prompts for AI-less Whumptober 2023! There is one alternative prompt for every day in October.

Bloody knuckles

Gunshot wound

Separated from loved ones

Drowning

Blackmail

Crying to sleep

Disowned by family

Electrocution

Forced feeding

Bullied

Suffocation

Abandoned

Grief 

Human Shield 

Self-defense

Lab rat

Memory loss

Misunderstanding

Hypnosis

Mutilation 

Mouth stitched shut

Nerve damage

Nervous breakdown

Words carved into skin

Stalked

Non-Consensual touching

Paranoia

Peer pressure

Prison

Silent treatment

Truth serum

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whumptober 2023 – day 1 (drugging)

God, he missed being high.

But not this kind of high.

Not when it wasn’t self-administered.

It was all blurry and messy – not only his thoughts, he bitterly realised. His vision was blurry and messy. His aching head was definitely blurry and messy. And his clothes were simply messy. Not to mention his throbbing forearm where crimson blood was dribbling slowly from, staining his once finely pressed shirt. He winced in pain as he flexed the muscles in his arm to see how bad the situation was.

It was really bad.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had missed a vein so badly. It was probably in his early twenties. But this… this wasn’t him. Couldn’t be. It was someone else. Someone drugged him.

As the fog in his brain began to lift, his thoughts became more and more organised. And that’s when fear kicked in: he had no idea where he was. Or why he was there. But most certainly, he couldn’t remember shooting up in the first place. Why did he do it? Maybe he had a fight with John again. Or worse; with his brother. God, when he finds out. He doesn’t have to find out, he reminded himself. All he had to do was get home, take a shower, and possibly clean up the ugly wound on his forearm before it got infected if it hadn’t already. But where was home? Where was he?

The questions darted into his head like bullets shot from a machine gun. They hurt. He looked around. He was leaning on a dirty waste bin in a trash-filled alley, probably behind a Chinese restaurant, judging by the sweet smell of rotting chicken, honey, and soy sauce. The sudden flood of information and the smell had their effect; he folded in half, retching. Nothing came up. Which was noteworthy. So, he hadn’t eaten or been home for some time. Not good. Not good at all.

Rubbing his mouth, he checked if he had his phone on him. He didn’t. Exasperated, he kicked the bin, which would have resulted in him crying out loud in pain because 1) he was barefoot, and 2) the bin was made of metal, but he was still coming down from whatever was administered to him, granting him a delightful bliss of temporary insensitivity. He glared at the reddening pinkie of his right foot while thinking. Where were his bloody shoes? Why would someone take his shoes and socks? Was he robbed? He checked his wallet now – surprisingly, he still had it in the back pocket of his slacks. Not a penny was missing.

Now, where was he? Yes, deducing. Before he could leave the scene and get on with his day, he had to gather as much information as possible to reconstruct the events that led him to that utterly inelegant place. Firstly, he was looking for a syringe or something indicating that the drugging happened there. No luck. His shoes? Nope. His phone? Same. A shiver ran over him. He couldn’t find his jacket or his beloved Belstaff either. Luckily, he had a couple of them ready to wear at Baker Street, but it always saddened him when he had to say goodbye to a coat. It was the third he had lost. And the first he couldn’t remember what happened to it.

Just when he reached the loud and busy main road, it started to rain. Great. It wasn’t the merciful or gracious kind of rain though; it was ruthless and… heavy. And very cold. It made him feel very cold at least. He cleared the dampened strings of hair out of his eyes. He was closer to home than he’d thought. It took him not more than fifteen minutes to enter the flat with the spare keys he secretly kept under his neighbour’s doormat. In the doorway, he shook himself like a wet dog and tried to unclog his ears from the nasty little raindrops that found their way inside them.

He barged into the living room and immediately started to unpeel the uncomfortably wet clothes that were clinging to his skin. Leaving the clothes on the floor as they were, he marched to the bathroom. Usually, a hot shower solved 99% of his problems. But that 1% was standing right in front of him. He hadn’t expected anybody to be at home at this time of the night let alone be awake. And looking at him. At his naked and bruised and shivering body.

“Good evening to you too, Sherlock”, John said as he turned on the light. Shit.

“He–hello, J’hn”, he tried to reply, but the drugs were still in effect, and even if they weren’t, the pure shock would have been sufficient for him to be tongue-tied.

“You’re joking, aren’t you?” the sandy-blonde-haired man scoffed. But before the detective could have answered, he continued. “Are you… are you high right now? What the hell did you do?”

“It’s not what it looks like, I promise,” Sherlock said with arms defensively stretched out in front of himself, revealing the big and nasty wound on his right forearm.

“Oh, God.” A change in his tone. “What happened?”

He dropped his arms and crossed them in front of himself. All he wanted to do was to collapse on the floor, lie on his side, and disappear.

“I–I don’t r’lly… I don’t know. I don’t know, John. I don’t…” he mumbled. Soon after he fell to his knees.

“Shh, Sherlock, it’s okay.” John quickly stepped to the sofa, grabbed a blanket, and covered the now uncontrollably shaking man. “I’m sorry I raised my voice. I’ve been worried sick for the last three days. You just… left. Without your phone, which is never a good sign in your case. And then you come back like this…” he sat down before the crying-trembling Sherlock Holmes and rested his hand on his thigh. John didn’t need to be a doctor to see how awful his friend looked. And he started to believe that Sherlock had told him the truth when he said he didn’t know what happened. However, he was indeed high.

“’m sorry. So, so sorry.”

“It’s alright, now rest. Just rest. Here you go, mate,” the doctor helped the tall figure lie down and put the Union Jack pillow under his wet-haired head.

“But–”

“We’ll discuss it in the morning, but now you should just sleep it off, okay? Good night, Sherlock.”

A big yawn, and Sherlock Holmes was finally asleep. It wasn’t a peaceful sleep, and his dreams were black and foggy, but everything could wait until morning. Everything.

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