Wolfthefluffy

whumpee shakes their head. curls up tighter into themself. what's the point, if all that awaits them is more endless agony anyways?

a low cry of despair slips past their lips as whumper grabs their hair and pulls them up. "I said," two heavy slaps followed by a warning squeeze to the back of their throat. "get the fuck up."

whumpee trembles, trembles, trembles. tasting blood, feeling it dribble past their chin. it won't stop. what's the point?

Because you can pry this trope from my cold, dead hands, I present—

CHLOROFORM WHUMP PROMPTS

It's just so... delightfully dramatic >:)

These can also double as kidnapping/capture whump prompts.

*~*~*~*

HERO X VILLAIN

Villain genuinely likes Hero—that's the whole problem—which is why they choose the cloth over the knife they're supposed to use tonight. "Consider this a professional courtesy," they murmur, lowering Hero to the ground far more carefully than the job requires.

Hero reaches the edge of the building with nowhere left to run. Villain stops several steps away instead of rushing them. "Jump if you want," they say evenly. "Either way, you're coming with me."

Villain doesn't have time for a fight tonight—the reactor's already counting down—so they don't even bother monologuing before the cloth goes over Hero's face. "Nothing personal," they mutter, dragging Hero's dead weight behind a support beam. "I just need the city empty for six more minutes."

Villain lets Hero get one hand on their mask before the cloth does its work, and the mask stays half-peeled, revealing just enough to make Hero's last conscious thought a furious, useless I knew it.

Instead of mocking Hero, Villain catches them before they hit the ground. "I'd love to monologue," they sigh, "but we're already behind schedule."

Hero hears Civilian’s scream from the next room just as the cloth slams over their face. They spend every last ounce of strength trying to get back to it. "You're very good at your job," Villain admits. "That's why I had to remove you first."

Hero watches their team getting closer on the tracker clipped to Villain's belt. Villain notices where they're looking and grins. "They're only... forty-seven seconds too late."

Reinforcements appear at the end of the corridor just as Villain starts backing away with Hero. Villain casually waves with their free hand. "We'll return your hero eventually."

BOUNTY HUNTER

"Alive," Whumper reminds themself under their breath as Whumpee lands another elbow to their ribs. "The poster said alive."

Whumper has to switch arms halfway through because Whumpee is putting up far more of a fight than expected. "Seriously?" they mutter, readjusting their grip. "Do you ever make anything easy?"

"You're worth a ridiculous amount of money," Whumper says, tightening their grip when Whumpee starts struggling again. "I'd appreciate it if you stopped trying to lower my hourly rate."

Whumpee slams a boot down onto Whumper's foot. Whumper winces, adjusts their grip, and deadpans, "Adding 'steel-toed boots' to next year's budget."

"I'd apologise," Whumper says as they wrestle Whumpee's wrists behind their back, "but this is literally my dream job."

Whumpee finally goes limp. Whumper waits another few seconds anyway, then sighs. "You faked it better than the last guy."

Whumper glances between the increasingly tattered wanted poster and the now-unconscious Whumpee. "...They forgot to mention what a pain in the ass you are."

SPY

Whumper waits until Whumpee has finished checking the room for bugs, hidden cameras, and exits before stepping out from behind the curtains. "Done?"

Whumpee recognises the hold immediately. They taught recruits how to break out of it. It doesn't work nearly as well from the other side.

Every escape technique Whumpee knows requires leverage. Pinned against a wall with someone stronger than them, they're useless.

Whumpee catches Whumper's wrist with both hands and forces it inch by inch away from their face. Every muscle shakes with effort. Then one hand slips.

They reach for the hidden knife sewn into their sleeve—or the concealed pistol at their hip—but their arm suddenly feels too heavy to lift. By the time their numb fingers finally brush the weapon, they refuse to close around it.

"Go on," Whumper murmurs. "Profile me." They keep the cloth firmly in place while Whumpee's increasingly unfocused eyes desperately search their face for anything useful to remember.

Whumpee manages to tear the cloth away for one glorious second before Whumper simply catches their jaw and puts it right back. "That was your chance."

Whumper pats them down after they've gone limp, pausing when they find three hidden weapons. "See? This is why I brought the cloth."

DETECTIVE

The detective recognises the smell instantly. Their own notes said victims usually lost consciousness within minutes. Minutes. They've never hated being right more.

"You know," Whumper muses, tightening their grip just enough to stop another desperate attempt to pull away, "it's refreshing not having to explain what's happening." The detective's horrified expression says they already know.

The detective has spent years chasing a criminal who always seemed to know what the police knew. As Whumper casually quotes entire paragraphs from the detective's private notes, the horrifying answer finally clicks into place.

Whumper raises an eyebrow as the detective abruptly stops struggling and instead starts trying to hold their breath. "Ah," they smile. "So you have read the toxicology reports."

The detective slams Whumper backwards into a filing cabinet. Drawers burst open, papers exploding across the room. They wrench the wrist holding the cloth away for one glorious second—just long enough for a desperate gasp before Whumper drives them into the desk and the cloth is there again.

"Come on," Whumper taunts between strained breaths. "You were putting up a much better fight thirty seconds ago."

ROYAL WHUMPEE

Whumpee's crown crashes to the marble floor between them. It rolls away, forgotten in the struggle.

Whumpee tears at Whumper's wrist with both hands, twisting until the grip falters. The cloth slips away for half a second. They suck in one desperate breath before Whumper yanks them back against their chest.

"Careful," Whumper laughs as Whumpee nearly headbutts them. "I need you conscious long enough to fetch a ransom."

The orchestra never stops playing. Guests laugh, dance, and twirl beneath glittering chandeliers while Whumpee struggles behind a velvet curtain, hidden only a few metres away, desperately trying to turn their face away from the sickly sweetness of the cloth pressed over it. "Listen," Whumper whispers, breath tickling Whumpee's ear. The music swells. "They don't even know you're gone."

"Do you know how many kingdoms would go to war over you?" Whumper murmurs, tightening their grip. "Let's see how much they really love their heir."

UNDERCOVER/TRAITOR

The meeting room is empty except for their teammate. Whumpee stops in the doorway, their stomach dropping as they meet their gaze. The smile they get in return is all the confirmation they need. Before they can shout, their teammate crosses the distance and clamps a hand over their mouth.

"You figured it out," Whumper murmurs, tightening their grip. "Unfortunately... so did I."

The last thing Whumpee sees before everything blurs is Whumper calmly straightening their uniform and walking back toward the others... alone.

*~*~*~*

“Ya know… I never really thought about how nice of a color blood is. Heh.” Whumpee let out a single breathless laugh like they’d just run a few miles.

Caretaker turned to see what Whumpee was going on about this time.

“You’re late again, Whumpee. And what the hell are you—” Their heart stopped and they froze as they took in the scene in front of them.

Whumpee was there, leaning unsteadily against the wall like gravity was fighting them to stay upright.

Whumpee looked up at Caretaker with a smile. Dazed, eyes and a dopey expression on their face. Clearly a bit out of their mind.

“T-too bad its hurts sso muuch t-to ssee it,” Whumpee slurred.

Nightmares | Missing Time | Concussion

CW: aftermath of noncon, injury reveal, bruises, concussion, blood

@juneofdoom

*~*~*~*

Villain knew Hero was waiting up for them before they even opened the apartment door. Golden light spilled beneath it, and the television murmured softly on the other side.

They closed their eyes briefly before unlocking it and stepping inside. The warmth of the apartment hit first. Then Hero’s eyes.

They were curled into the couch in sleep clothes, one sock missing, book abandoned face-down beside them. Their expression sharpened immediately when they saw Villain.

There it is, Villain thought tiredly. The worrying.

They loved Hero for it. 

God, they loved them for it.

Which was precisely why they couldn’t bear this.

“You’re late,” Hero said softly.

Villain slipped off their gloves one finger at a time to hide the slight tremor in their hands. “Work.”

Their voice sounded normal. Calm. Dryly amused.

Good.

The hallway swayed slightly when they started walking.

Less good.

Villain compensated automatically, smoothing their gait before Hero could comment on it. Years of practice made the adjustment effortless despite the nausea clawing behind their eyes.

Shower. 

They just needed the shower. Wash off the blood, the hands, the smell.

Then they could come back out and smile properly and let Hero fuss over a fake headache or a pulled muscle and everything would be fine.

“You’re bleeding,” Hero said.

Villain touched absentmindedly at the side of their neck. Their fingertips came away red.

retrieval team for objects in the backseat

custodian of the parking garage tickets

"All clear my way"

en-route dining concierge

Based off of my SOA magic system that should probably post, because yesterday was my birthday, these are basically my truest fave tropes

When heartbreak/grief affects a character's magic

Magic backfiring often having the same effects as a gun backfiring

When the stress and trauma is genuinely killing the character

The variance of scars caused by magic. Necrotic scars from dark magic. Colorful scars from haphazard spellcasting. Lighting scars that refuse to fade. Leathery skin from overuse of fire magic. Discolored fingertips, foggy eyes, rapidly graying hair, gimme gimme gimme

Nose bleeds from overuse? A class. But what about... tinnitus, blurred vision, dizzying, loss of appetite, weight loss, tingling/numbness, loss of balance, paling skin, weakened immune systems, muscular pain, oh I could go on

Soldiers collapsing mid battle from using their magic too much

Squad mates holding up their comrade so that they can keep casting magic, despite their weakness and inability to stand for themselves

Watching magic trace through someone's veins before it conjures into reality

Magic whiplash, magic friendly fire, magic misfire? Yes yes and yes

Curses are such a common thing, that they're basically a disability, and yes people discriminate against the cursed of course

inspo by @/hurtwithallthecomfort

content: living weapon whump, whump aftermath, past trauma, chronic pain whump, rocky recovery, recovery fic, comfort

The difference was stark and jarring. Caretaker had seen Whumpee in their days of service, the unstoppable killing machine that would stop at nothing to carry out orders — and they saw Whumpee now, frail and sickly, bedridden most days. It was unbelievable.

"Whumpee?" they called quietly, in case Whumpee was once again asleep in the middle of the day.

They stay out of whumpee’s line of sight, standing behind their hospital bed. “Drink this,” they snap, hating how they have to command this broad-shouldered ghost of a person. Without their armor, without their mask, whumpee looks like a wraith. There’s nothing behind their eyes. They play with the hospital blanket with twitching hands that have strangled and maimed.

When whumpee hears the order they stiffen to attention and take the cup offered with those still-shaking hands. But the cup slips through their fingers and lands in a puddle on the tiles.

They immediately tense up, shoulder blades flung so far back they touch. Their breathing quickens, waiting.

But nothing happens.

their mind drifts in and out of tangibility. there’s a dull pain in their side that they elect to ignore. they shouldn’t react to pain. handler would be disappointed, especially after all that conditioning. 

living weapon focuses on a figure coming into their line of sight. the figure crouches down. handler. handler looks… conflicted, almost. handler is always so self-assured…

living weapon should stand. they begin to gather their strength to do so when handler places a hand on their chest. handler’s hand is trembling.

“hey,” handler says. handler’s voice is directed to living weapon, but handler’s focus is torn between them and the moved battlefield. “status?”

“downed,” living weapon answers automatically. their voice is more strained than they expected it to be. “hit sustained to the chest.”

handler gives living weapon a glance-over to confirm that. handler has no reason to ask what can be so easily observed. 

“yeah,” handler mutters. living weapon watches handler stand up again, and they find themself unable to clearly see their handler’s face. 

silence stretches, bar for the sounds of battle some half-kilometer away. handler gazes down at living weapon, who stares right back. 

handler should walk away. that much is obvious. handler is needed elsewhere, somewhere that isn’t watching living weapon bleed out in the dirt. handler doesn’t know enough first aid for this. handler couldn’t convince the medics to save living weapon. 

handler certainly doesn’t know how to make death more comfortable. not when living weapon only seems confused. 

“did i do good?”

the question comes as handler begins to consider leaving living weapon where they lie. handler returns their attention to living weapon. “what?”

“did i do good today?” living weapon asks again. handler can hear the struggle for breath. their eyes, once so sharp, are glassy. 

handler’s mind blanks. handler should not answer that question. at least, handler doesn’t want to. but it’s handler’s job. handler issues praise. handler gives feedback. and handler is not doing well for that job right now. 

(Title subject to change)

Going Once, Going Twice

———

“And it’s really a true killing machine? It doesn’t look all that strong.” The man circling the weapon observes.

“I can assure you, all of our weapons are reinforced internally. This way, them being overly bulky won’t blow any sort of cover. A perfect disguise.” The guild handler promises. “But if you like, I’d be happy to put on a demonstration. Seeing is believing, and we want our products to speak for us. Not only our reputation.”

The high ceilings of the Guild Hall sends Handlers voice echoing. It’s a beautiful room. White marble floors, gold columns stretching up to the ceiling, red banners bearing the guild crest draped along the walls. It’s empty right now, save for the weapon, standing at attention before it’s handler, the prospective buyer, and a few weapons still as statues posted by the doors. Weapon doesn’t move as the potential buyer steps back, considering. They don’t flinch, don’t react at all to the prospect of demonstration. It’s nothing they haven’t been through before.

“Yeah, alright. Let’s see what it’s got.” The man agrees.

“Excellent.” Handler snaps his fingers towards the weapons near the door, and they leave the room. Then he turns back to Weapon. “Command issue.“

Weapon perks up, eyes glued to handler. “Ready to receive, sir.”

“We’re doing a demonstration. A man will be brought out, and handed a few weapons. You are to ensure he doesn’t harm me, or yourself, and take him down. Without killing him. You know what, let’s say no harm either, to prove your control. You will not begin until I say so.”

“Yes sir.” The moment Weapon agrees, the ones from before return, dragging between them a man who struggles and kicks with all his strength. It’s no use against weapons, but he does put up a fight. He has a few visible injuries, but not many. Probably to prove to the buyer that the weapon can handle someone in good health. The weapons drop the man, and leave the room, one of them pausing to pass Handler a wicked looking knife.

Weapon watches impassively as Handler places the knife in the prisoner's hand. The prisoner pauses, bewildered, for only a few seconds before his eyes harden and he raises the blade, lunging at Handler.

“Begin.” Handler says simply.

Weapon moves fast, shoudler checking the man so that he loses the path towards Handler. The prisoner stumbles back a bit, but then he bears his teeth and swings his knife at the Weapon, who dodges easily. Weapon drops, and sweeps the man off his feet, careful to catch him before he hits the ground, then dropping him again from height that won’t hurt. It acts before the prisoner can rise, pinning him with one arm, and stepping on the blade so the prisoner can’t free the knife. The man thrashes a bit, but it’s useless. Once satisfied he won’t get up. Weapon turns towards the handler, who is smiling.

“Very good.” He turns towards the buyer, “As you can see, our products are very precise, efficient, and controlled. They don’t need to deal any damage to subdue a threat. And if you’re looking for something else, well…” Handler takes a step back. “Command issue, take the knife, throw it away, and let him up.”

Weapon does so, chucking the blade halfway across the room, and taking one step back and allowing the prisoner to scramble to his feet.

“When I say so,” the handler continues, “kill him. And no blood. I hate when there’s blood in here.” Handler reaches into his holster and pulls out a gun, tossing it to the prisoner, who fumbles with it for a second, before raising it and training it on Weapon, expression desperate and panicked.

“Go.” Orders Handler, a second before the bang of a gunshot rings out. Weapon dodges the bullet with ease, then the next, closing the distance between him and the prisoner without so much as a graze touching him. The man’s eyes are wide and scared, but he doesn’t speak until Weapon is close enough to see its own reflection in the prisoners pupils.

“Ple-“ Weapon doesn’t let him finished, snapping the man’s neck and letting his body fall. The weapon takes a step away, folding its hands behind its back and waiting for Handlers next order.

“That is impressive.” The buyer admits, almost begrudgingly. Handler grins, and clasps his hands the way he does when closing a deal.

“Our weapons are trained out of all humanity. Its goals will only be your goals, should you choose to purchase. They feel no fear, they will never speak against you, all you need to do is aim it at your enemies, and it will do the rest.”

“And the price?” The buyer asks skeptically.

“It depends on the particular model. This one is a bit higher end, but I’d be glad to show you some others.”

“Let’s say the price for this one.”

Handlers grin widens. “Nothing you can’t afford sir, and I assure you, it’s worth it. Come here. Kneel" Handler throws the order over his shoulder. Weapon strides over, stopping just in front of handler and dropping to its knees. Handler grabs its face and turns it towards the buyer.

“Note the features? The lack of scars or distinguishing outward traits? This one blends in flawlessly, perfect for covert missions. And as you’ve already seen, it’s efficient and deadly.”

The buyer eyes the weapon up and down. “…Covert is good. I’ll take it. Where do I sign?”

“Right this way.” Handler chirps, releasing weapons face to lead the buyer away. The buyer hesitates, eyeing the weapon, but handler just smiles. “It won’t move until I tell it to, or until you give the order, since once we come back in this room, you’ll be the master.”

The man smiles at the thought, and follows Handler. Weapon doesn’t move a muscle as it listens to them leave.

The weapon kneels there for a long time, with only the body of the prisoner for company. Its knees begin to ache, but it’s easily brushed aside. Weapons don’t feel ‘achey knees’. They don’t feel anything at all. The weapon doesn’t try to shift to reduce the ache as it looks into the empty eyes of the prisoner.

You wouldn’t know, but it’s mercy. It thinks. You die a person. That’s mercy.

They were a person once, it recalls. The memory has nearly been beaten out of them, they can’t remember much from that life, but once they were a person. When they first arrived here, the person they were felt like they would rather die rather than be a weapon. They tried to, a couple times. It hadn’t worked. Now they were this. And they felt nothing about it all.

They wonder if their new place will be like this one. The dark, empty quiet room with nothing save for absolute necessities. One would never imagine such a room existed right beside the opulence of the hall, but just out of sight, there was the armory barracks, where the weapons lay when they weren’t in use. If Weapon could feel anything, they might miss that place. The quiet breathing of the other weapons around them who understood what it meant not to be a person anymore. It was almost…comforting.

Weapon doesn’t move, but turns its senses back to the present as the footsteps of the buyer and Handler reapproach.

“Weapon, look here.” Handler orders. It obeys. The buyer is holding a thick file, and Handler is holding a small shiny disk with numbers etched into its face. The weapon recognizes it. That’s the disc that was used to brand it and mark it as guild property. The numbers are it’s callsign. It tenses as handler passes the talisman over to the buyer.

“Don’t lose that. It will obey the one who holds it.” Handler warns the man before turning back to weapon. “You are now under the command of this man. You will obey his orders, so long as they do not violate the law of the Guild. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir.” The weapon turns to the buyer. “Ready to receive orders, sir.”

Handler turns to the man, beaming. “How’d you like to give your first order? Go on. Tell it something.

The man hesitates, fiddling with the disc, looking at the Weapon knelt before him.

“Stand.” Orders the man, with a touch of uncertainty. The weapon obeys, rising to its feet. The man raises an eyebrow, and smiles.

“Come here.” The weapon walks closer.

“Stop.” The weapon freezes. The man grins wider like a child that’s just received a new toy.

“Very good.” Says Handler. “Now that that’s settled, remember they tend to respond better to officially issued commands when on a long mission. All the documents you need explaining specifics are right in that file there.”

“Got it.” The man flips through a few pages of the file before shutting it. “Pleasure doing business with the guild.” The man says, smiling.”

“The pleasure is ours.” Handler replies earnestly. “Best of luck in your endeavors, though with its help, you won’t need luck-“

“Yeah, yeah. Save the spiel. I already bought the thing.” Handler's eye twitches at being interrupted, but he says nothing. The man turns back to Weapon.

“Follow.” He orders. “Stay two steps behind.”

“Yes sir.” The weapon agrees. They measure their steps very carefully as they leave the place of their creation. They feel nothing about that at all. No one notices as they shoot one last glance to the broken body of the prisoner on the floor.

Everything Wants to Kill You

Who Made You So Pretty?

Sticks and Stones Carved from Bones

Bleeding Ice

Broken Leather

Dying As One