The Whumpee Struggled Against The Cuffs That Bound Their Wrists To The Arms Of The Chair.

The Whumpee struggled against the cuffs that bound their wrists to the arms of the chair.

They mumbled profanities under their breath as they heard footsteps nearing the room, trying to somehow escape in a matter of seconds, but of course, that didn't happen.

The Whumper came into the room with a large smile and a bag in hand.

"Oh [Whumpee's name], I have a fun surprise for you!" The Whumper cooed as they neared their victim, pulling the object out of the bag.

The object was a anesthesia masks.

"See? Doesn't it look just... exciting? The drug that I will have run through it is a project I have been working on awhile. Once you get the drug into your system, it will slowly start to harmlessly... harm you." Whumper explained.

"Okay long story short, it will make it feel like your organs are being torn apart slowly when in reality, nothing is really happening." They added before slipped the mask on and over Whumpee's head, covering their nose and mouth.

Whumper was soon handed a small gas tank, hooking it up to a tube that connected to the mask.

"Okay... I think I got it." Whumoer muttered before turning on a switch. A gas-like substance quickly flowing through the tube, through the mask, and of course... reaching Whumpee.

Whumper crouched down in front of Whumpee, staring into their eyes until they say them widen. The drug was working and it was only going to get worse.

For the people who makes custom beautiful designs in ACNH and posts the code: I worship you. You are amazing. Thank you so much!

Whumpee gets taken by surprise by an anesthesia mask forced over their face from behind. 

Trope: Self-Sacrifice

Not the easy ones.  Not diving in front of a bullet, not ‘take me instead!’.

No.  Those are simple.  Diving in front of a bullet is an impulse decision - there’s no time to weigh options, there’s just a gun in your face and a sudden pain.  No time for thinking, calculating, trying to force reason past growing panic.

Not ‘take me instead!’ because you will get taken and you will hurt but you know that it’s for someone else, that they have you both, you’re outnumbered and outmatched and the only thing left is to choose.

No.  Those are too easy.  There is no mental anguish, no tear as your mind wars between saving yourself and saving others, as every step ticks down your clock.

I want the ones that have to walk into the villain’s lair.  The ones who have to make that decision, that agonizing decision of leaving safety and comfort to what will be their end.  The ones that start walking before their decision’s been made, because their mind is screaming at them to stop but their body knows what it has to do.  The ones where every shuddering step feels like torture.

The ones where the gravity of their decision finally hits them.  They are going to die.

They won’t get to finish that book they’ve been reading, will never know the end of the story.  They have a list of shows to watch a hundred long and it will lie unfulfilled till the end of time.  There’s a museum they never got to go to.  A trip they planned months ago.  Food that they’ll never taste again.  There are so many things they wished to do, if only they knew that today is the day they die.

And the people.  All the people they’re going to leave behind, all the people who will never get a goodbye - they pause, half a dangerous thought to go, to tell them, to say goodbye and goodbye and goodbye - but it will never be enough.  The march continues as they think about everyone they hold dear, their smiles and their laughs, with the certainty that they will never see them again.

And finally, the end in sight.  The dread is worse, the anticipation nearly tangible as they walk through the lair with hands raised in surrender.  Every step feels like tearing nails because they want it to be over already.  They made their decision and every heartbeat is a violently suppressed hope.  

They just want it to be over.  Now.  Before they start crying.  Before their legs give out.  Before they lose what dignity they have left.

And they see the smirk, the laugh, the order to kneel, and they know that it won’t be quick.

In a dungeon somewhere, a Stoic Whumpee is strung up by the Whumper. Wrists shackled as far apart as they can go, leaving their bare, bloody chest exposed and vulnerable.

Whumper is about to start the next round of torture when they order the henchmen to bring in Caretaker, in hopes of humiliating Whumpee. When Caretaker sees their protector they immediately break into tears.

Just as Whumper is about to begin, neither of them expect the Caretaker to break free, dart towards the Whumpee, and lock their arms around them. With their head buried against their chest, they sob, “Don’t hurt them, please! I need them. I’ll do whatever you want, just let them go!”

Whumpee freezes as a wave of unspoken emotions rushes through them. How they’ve missed Caretaker, worried about them since their capture. They tense their fists in the metal restraints as they wish above all else, to wrap their friend in a protective embrace.

Alas, they can only relieve the pain with an exhale, as they loosen their body and bow their head to rest on Caretaker’s. With a reassuring smile they whisper, “Protecting is my job, remember? Don’t worry about me. Take care of yourself. I’m gonna be okay, I promise.” Whumpee places a kiss on top Caretaker’s head.

And as quickly as they were dragged in, they were dragged out again. Kicking and screaming for the Whumpee.

Trope: Clutching the Opponent

They get punched, hit, choked.  A knife sliding into their ribs, a gun pressed over their heart.  They gasp in shock, in pain, woozy, light-headed.

Their opponent fists a hand in their hair.  Or a hand around their neck, intimate and horrifying at the same time.  Or they don’t touch them at all, just stand still and smile as bloody hands clutch frantically at the hand holding the knife, as desperate fingers scrabble at the hands around their neck, as trembling hands fist into loose clothing as the gasps get quieter, as the flailing becomes less frantic, as wide eyes dull and close.

Perhaps their opponent catches them.  Sadly, gleefully, gently laying them on the floor, pausing to brush hair out of a bruised and swollen face.

Or perhaps they don’t.  Perhaps they just take a step back and grin as fingers still and hands slip, as a body crumples to the floor.