short-form-whump

[short-form-whump]

The Whumper doesn’t look up when the door to their office opens. They sit at their desk with their attention buried deep into a mess of pages, trying but failing at finding answers within them. Their henchman enters and drags something - or rather someone - with them. They drag the bound Whumpee up to the Whumper’s desk and drops them in front of it between the two guest chairs. The henchman takes a seat in one of them as if they’ve arrived for an appointment, but the Whumper still doesn’t look up. The henchman waits until they do, greeting the Whumper with a small smile on their face as their eyes meet. The Whumper leans over the desk and barely looks the collapsed and battered Whumpee over before leaning back and ignoring them both. “I don’t have time for this, I don’t even know who the fuck that is,” the Whumper growls, looking back down. The henchman stands and looks around, their eyes landing on a pitcher of water resting on a table across the room. Before the Whumper can say anything, they’ve grabbed it and are dumping it on top of the Whumpee’s bloodied and dirtied head. The Whumpee lets out a grunt and gasps in air once the water tumbles off them. “Because the only thing that smells better than a stray dog is a wet dog, right?” the Whumper says angrily. The henchman grabs the Whumpee by the back of their coat and lifts up their face, and the Whumper stops muttering to themselves about the now-wet floor when they see it. The Whumper slowly stands in their chair and the henchman just keeps smiling. “I know they say you shouldn’t meet your heroes, but there’s exceptions to every rule.” The Whumper nods as they take in the sight of the revealed face of the familiar and now-shivering Whumpee. “Indeed there are.”

#whump #whumpblr #whump writing #whumpee #whumper #whump scenes #whump blog #captured

[short-form-whump]

The Caretaker leans their head back against a concrete wall, trying for what feels like the hundredth time today to forget where they are. They consciously suppress any feelings that rise up - any wondering about the Whumpee, about themselves, or about the future - like a parent protecting their child, except the enemy is their mind and the child is their soul. The only thing worse than being brought broken people to fix is the waiting between them - then there’s always the lurking fear that it will be someone they know and care about. The door to the locked room that holds the Caretaker bursts open with unusual urgency, causing the Caretaker to jump to their feet. They watch as two people drag someone in who’s unable to find their own footing, their head hardly held up and bloodied hands barely curling under their own power. It’s only when a panicked henchman screams “Do something!” that the Caretaker realizes they’ve brought in the Whumper. The Caretaker pauses in shock as one henchman tries to hold the Whumper’s head up by their chin while the other impatiently grabs at the Caretaker’s shirt with rage: “Do something!” The Caretaker nods and scrambles forward to kneel in front of the semi-conscious Whumper, putting their own hands on their sweat-drenched head to steady it. They try to find the Whumper’s pupils between strands of hair and blood, and when they do they see their normally bright but ice cold eyes as dim, faded, and wandering. Their eyes are like two lost souls stuck in an endless loop of moving one way then jumping back, again and again. “You know what to do, right?” the henchman holding the Whumper pleads, and the Caretaker sees them as equally hapless. The Caretaker just nods and directs them to a table as they take in their own shaky breath, not ready to address how it feels to be seeing this person - of all people - need their help.

#whump #whumpblr #whump writing #whumper #whump scenes #whump blog #caretaker #captured #whumping the whumper

[short-form-whump]

The Whumpee kneels on the ground in a row of other captives, their hands all bound behind their backs and each one’s uniform in varied states of undress. The Whumpee’s jacket is missing buttons from being ripped open while others have torn sleeves and cut shirts. The guard watching them stands a bit taller and adjusts their gun when they hear a series of footsteps approaching. The Whumpee looks up and watches as the Whumper and several others approach the group. The Whumper doesn’t waste time walking from captive to captive in the row, towering above and looking each of them up and down, one at a time. They are looking for something that they’re not finding and let out an aggravated sigh as they scan each person. That is, until they reach the Whumpee. It’s there that they stop. The Whumpee tries not to look at them at first, but the Whumper then crouches and meets their eyeline. The two look at one another coldly, and the Whumpee has no trepidation in their stare. The Whumper studies the Whumpee’s face, then lifts their hand to touch the Whumpee’s jaw. They try to turn the Whumpee’s head, but the Whumpee resists. The Whumper then grabs them by the chin and forcefully turns their head, revealing a tattoo at their hairline that’s faded but undeniable. The Whumpee’s gaze returns defiantly to theirs when the Whumper lets go. The Whumper whistles for someone to come over, at which point the Whumpee is pulled to their feet. “Hope to see you again someday,” the Whumper says cordially as the bound Whumpee is grasped roughly in front of them. “I pray that you do,” says the Whumpee.

#whump #whumpblr #whump writing #whumpee #whumper #whump scenes #whump blog #captured #defiant whumpee

[short-form-whump]

The night is hot and quiet as the Whumpee sits in the passenger seat of a parked car. They hold their one arm stiffly with the other, their elbow bent beneath the tight grip of their bloodied hand. They are quaking with every breath but also frozen in place, undoubtedly in shock. Next to them, the steady hand of the Whumper reaches forward and turns the keys to stop the engine. A warm wind blows through the open windows as the two sit in silence. The Whumper stares ahead at the dark farmland in front of them, scanning acres of fields with wild tree lines and blemished by abandoned trailers and barns. “When I was young my brother beat me up so bad I thought I was gonna die, and I practiced in my head the story about what happened,” the Whumper says. “We were kids so I thought about how I was gonna tell our dad. I told myself over and over what happened, how it happened, every last detail about what he did to me. But when I finally saw my dad, I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t tell him I lost, how bad I lost, even though it was written all over me. And now, all these years later and after all that effort to remember it all, I can’t tell you much about it outside of it having happened in a beat up old barn like one of those.” The Whumper looks over at the Whumpee, a gesture that’s enough to agitate the Whumpee’s quivering even more. “So if you’re thinking of how you’re gonna go telling some little story, I wouldn’t.” The Whumpee looks at the Whumper through shaking pieces of sweat-drenched hair. “This your way of saying that time heals all wounds?” they manage to ask their captor. The Whumper shakes their head. “It’s my way of saying that nobody’s gonna care what happened to you. Not even time. Your whole self will become some broken down place nobody goes to. And although the crash is loud now, someday I will just be the broken window of your whole rotten barn.” The Whumpee closes their eyes, torn between whether to pledge to themselves to remember or to forget.

#whump #whumpblr #whump writing #whumpee #whumper #whump scenes #whump blog #captured #beaten #psychological whump

[short-form-whump]

The Caretaker’s eyes are having trouble focusing on the pages in front of them. In their office at night, they flip between pages on a clipboard with a pen hovering in their hand nearby, but can’t bring themselves to write a word. They hear a sound at the door but don’t look up. “Who is it,” they say in a drowsy sing-song voice, half expecting the nurse to be there. When there’s no response they look up and see a silhouette of something larger than a person in the door. Their heart skips as they can’t make out who or what it is. Just then the shadow splits as a person is shoved forward into their office and another remains framed by the door. The Whumpee is who was shoved past the threshold, and they struggle to stand from where they crawl injured on their knees. The Caretaker stands but doesn’t approach them, their eyes fixated on the outline of the Whumper still in the doorway. “I need a favour,” comes the low voice of the Whumper. “Wanna guess what it is?” they ask in a tone that’s anything but playful. The Caretaker lets their gaze fall briefly to the battered Whumpee. “Take this ball to the end zone and finish the job?” the Caretaker ventures. The Whumper doesn’t move and just stares back at them. “You’ve got one hour. Send them out front when you’re done. Nobody follows.” With that, the silhouette leaves and the Caretaker and Whumpee are left alone in the dimly lit office. The Whumpee can scarcely hold their head up, but says to the Caretaker through bloodied teeth: “Maybe keep your guesses to yourself next time, doc.”

#whump #whumpblr #whump writing #whumpee #whumper #whump scenes #whump blog #caretaker

[short-form-whump]

The Whumpee grits their teeth as the Whumper looks them over. They feel a bit like a banged up car that’s been in an accident the way the Whumper walks around them and studies the damage. The Whumpee can only guess what their face looks like, but they are well aware of the wounds on their body that the Whumper is fixating on. The Whumper’s eyes follow the blood on their shirt to its epicentre and tugs the Whumpee’s shirt away from an angry gash. It’s the Whumper who grits their teeth now. “Tell me who,” the Whumper says. The Whumpee doesn’t answer. The Whumper can barely keep their composure as they ask again. “Tell. Me. Who.” The Whumpee, who has kept it together for so long, feels the sting of tears forming in their eyes as they avoid the Whumper’s pressing question. The Whumper roughly grabs the Whumpee by the neck and pushes them into the closest wall. They hold the Whumpee there as they shout, “Tell me who thinks they can touch my things.” The Whumpee looks up at the ceiling and tries to be anywhere but there as tears start to escape their eyes. They can only shake their head slightly with the Whumper’s hand holding them in place. “Please,” the Whumpee begs quietly. The Whumper sees the Whumpee won’t divulge and loosens their grip, a storm still rising within them that is urged on by the surprising helplessness they feel when they look at the hurt Whumpee. They let go of the Whumpee entirely and pause, sitting with the conflicting feeling. “Leave it with me,” they say eventually in a tone that’s, for once, more of reassurance than revenge.

#whumptober 2023 #no.28 #sacrifice #oc #whump scenes #whump #whumpblr #whump writing #whumpee #whumper #whump blog

[short-form-whump]

The Whumper’s fist opens slightly as it stays pressed against their mouth as a small gesture of invitation. “Sit,” they say. “Please.” The Whumpee steps forward and takes a seat at a table in a bar across from the Whumper. The wood chair creaks loudly in the quiet room and draws the attention of the Whumper’s henchmen standing by each door. The Whumpee slowly raises and rests their hands on top of the table. The Whumper has a lit cigarette resting in an ashtray and half-empty pint glass in the space between them. “You look tired,” the Whumper says. “You look old,” the Whumpee’s raspy voice retorts. The Whumper smiles from behind their fist, revealing their crow’s feet which blend with the scars around their eyes. “I sometimes feel like it’s time to retire,” the Whumper says, lowering their hand and laying it flat on the table in a mirrored gesture with the Whumpee. “But what a waste it would be to not use my mind reading power.” The Whumpee stares at them flatly, looking both battered and exhausted. The Whumper looks them over, then after a short pause they pick up the cigarette. “Nobody would be here to listen to that loud and clear wondering of yours: Just how fast could I get that glass, smash it into the table, and stab that piece of shit right in the face.” The Whumpee’s chair creaks from shifting their weight and their eyes dart to the pint glass before coming back to the Whumper’s intense glare that’s just daring them to do it. The Whumper takes a slow drag of their cigarette and puts it out on the table, ascribing a final paraphrased thought to the Whumpee while they do: “Lord, grant me the strength to accept the things I cannot change. And the wisdom to know when I’m backed into a corner with no way out.”

#whumptober 2023 #no.26 #you look awful #oc #whump writing #whump #whumpblr #whumpee #whumper #whump scenes #whump blog

[short-form-whump]

The Whumpee’s hand quakes as they reach blindly around the front of their shirt. They gasp for air but almost none seems to get into their body. Trembling hands search around their own collar to try and loosen it, all the while their hair starts to saturate and spill across their sweating forehead like palm leaves in a heavy storm. The Whumper stands a few feet away and watches with indifference. The Whumpee leans against a wall to keep themselves upright while the Whumper and Caretaker watch. The Caretaker can’t take it and steps forward to help but the Whumper’s outstretched hand stops them. The Whumper’s eyes meet theirs, silently cautioning them from interfering. The Whumpee manages to pull open their collar, but they find it gives no more air, and no relief. The storm rages on and they start to groan from the strain of trying to catch their breath in their panicked state. “Surely I told you what our father used to say to us in moments like this,” the Whumper says to the Caretaker. “Figure it out. Didn’t he?” they say to the Whumpee. “Figure it out. The one time you’d actually want him to hit some sense into you. Thinking that if only he would just smack you then like he smacked you any other day if the week, maybe you could find a way out. Some way out from underneath of the crushing fear. But he wouldn’t. He’d find a new way to hurt you by refusing to hurt you.” The Caretaker steps forward again, unable to watch the Whumpee struggle alone, and the Whumper lays a hard slap across their face that knocks them to the ground. The Whumper growls at the Caretaker as they shout with a finger pointed squarely at the Whumpee: “I said they will figure it out.”

#whumptober 2023 #no.24 #neglect #oc #whump writing #whump #whumpblr #whumpee #whumper #whump scenes #whump blog #caretaker

[short-form-whump]

The Whumper sits next to the Whumpee and stares ahead into the rapidly dimming sky. The Whumpee’s gaze follows their captor’s lead and stares ahead too, but they can’t help but steal glances at the exhausted-seeming Whumper. They look absolutely deflated, their only sign of life being their hand slowly rising and falling only to bring a cigarette to and from their lips. “I’m sorry I’m not good company tonight,” the Whumper says flatly. The Whumpee shrugs nervously. “No offence, but that’s true every night.” The Whumper half smiles as their hand lingers near their face at the last drag. “My father died today. He was a priest, the old twisted fuck.” The Whumpee isn’t sure what to make of the disclosure, but decides to make the most of the chance to know more about the heretofore cryptic Whumper. “Priests can’t be fathers, though. Can they?” The Whumper runs the tip of their finger back and forth across their brow and just shakes their head slowly. “I saw that he died - and not nicely by the way - and I don’t think about him dying. I just keep thinking about the hypocrisy. As if the worst sin, of all the sins he committed, was the lie. Lying not only about me, but deigning to pretend in front of a whole parish that he would never.” The Whumpee nods and sees that the Whumper’s cigarette is almost all ash as it rests in their lowered hand. In this moment, the Whumpee has a sobering realization about the way the Whumper had framed the news. “You saw that he died.” The two sit silently for a moment before the Whumpee finishes their thought. “Are you going to see me die?” The Whumper turns and meets their gaze with glassy eyes as they take a long, final glowing drag of the cigarette just as the sun is snuffed out by the horizon. “Depends. Are you as big of a hypocrite as he was?”

#whump #whumpblr #whump writing #whumpee #whumper #whump scenes #whump blog

[short-form-whump]

The Caretaker has their head bowed as they kneel in front of the Whumper. From a few feet away from the raised porch where they stand, the battered Whumpee can only watch on helplessly. They witness as their friend holds their hands feebly out within view, their body quaking at each stifled bloody cough. Their ragged breaths come in quick succession as the Whumper stands before them, a pistol pointed at the Caretaker’s head. “Don’t do it. It’s me you want,” the Whumpee pleads. The Whumper turns their head slightly, but their aim remains affixed to the Caretaker. “I think you know me well enough by now,” the Whumper states. The Whumpee can’t help themselves. “Unfortunately, yeah.” The Caretaker, who would have normally smiled at this, can only focus on taking shaky breaths and remaining upright. “Original sin,” the Whumper says. “I once taught you about original sin, didn’t I?” The Whumpee takes a step forward. Without pause and as if the Whumper is their mirrored reflection, so do they. The gun is now inches from the Caretaker. The Whumpee stops in their tracks. “How we are all born carrying sin in our hearts. Not because of what we did, but because of what someone else did. And fair or not, it was all decided long before any of us got here.” The Caretaker nearly loses their battle with consciousness and tips forward. The Whumper deftly catches them with one arm, then turns and holds them against their chest facing the Whumpee. “Someone pays, my boy,” they say, now pressing the gun into the temple of the bloodied and ill Caretaker. The Whumper all but whispers: “And I don’t care who.”

#whump #whumpblr #whump writing #whumpee #whumper #whump scenes #whump blog #caretaker #whumping the caretaker #gunpoint

[short-form-whump]

The first thing the Whumpee sees when they wake up is the sight of the sky. The bright blue and faraway clouds hold still but the tops of trees and power lines whip by quickly. The sight is quickly dizzying, so they shut their eyes and try to remember where they had gone to sleep. They could not recall. A short whistling noise prompts them to open their eyes again and try to look where it’s coming from. It is the Whumper sitting in the backseat of a moving car - right next to the Whumpee, and uncomfortably close with their thighs nearly touching. The Whumpee frowns and realizes that they didn’t put themselves to sleep. The Whumper is eyeing the Whumpee but their whistle was signalling the driver. “The doctor is in,” the Whumper says flatly. The Whumpee starts breathing harder, which newly calls attention to both their gag and restraints keeping them firmly sat in the car. They panic as they look at their captors - one familiar and one not. The Whumper runs a fingertip back and forth along their brow, looking straight ahead and seeming somehow smaller than they remember. The Whumpee then sees the reflection of the driver’s cold dark eyes in the rear view mirror and can tell it is their looming presence that has shrunk the Whumper. “At least somebody’s home inside one of your fucken skulls,” the driver says icily. The Whumper keeps rubbing their brow and avoiding meeting eyes with the silenced Whumpee, and the Whumpee feels the seat shake as the Whumper’s leg quakes nervously. They pull at their restraints and grunt into the gag, but neither the Whumper or the driver seem to care.

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[short-form-whump]

The Whumpee hits away an offered cup of water. It bounces off the table in the small interrogation room and splashes a conspicuous wet stain against the concrete wall. “I’ll say it again - I don’t take anything from people like you.” The Whumper just blankly stares at them, then wipes their thumb under their nose with a habitual sniff as if they were having a bump. The Whumper looks clinically at the water stain on the wall before looking back at the Whumpee. “And yet you take so much of my patience.” The Whumpee spits indignantly in the direction of the Whumper. The Whumper’s response is so swift that there’s barely time to think. In a heartbeat, the Whumper’s chair is thrust backwards as they stand and reach across the table and seize the Whumpee by the front of their jacket. The Whumper pulls them around like a ragdoll and slams the Whumpee’s back against the wall and presses them against the wall with a fist wrapped in their clothes. “It’s not the disrespect that gets me, it’s the moral high ground that you think you’re on,” the Whumper growls. “As if it’s ever that easy. As if I choose where I am. As if I don’t have my own masters,” they say, pulling the collar of their shirt down to show a small glimpse of their brutally branded skin. The Whumpee can only cough as they listen, struggling for breath and ignoring the taste of blood in their teeth. “You and your ilk love to live as if there is a greater good, but there is no such thing. And your belief in it is a sickness.” The Whumpee weakly grabs at the Whumper’s arm that keeps them pinned to the wall, but they can scarcely manage a meaningful struggle. “You may hate me, but you know nothing about me. And your ‘greater good’ is nothing more than the shared delusion of the unencumbered few.” The Whumper lets go of the Whumpee and leaves them there for now. They’ll be back soon enough to get what they want.

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[short-form-whump]

The Whumpee’s vision starts to come back, the blackened edges fading away as readily as they had caved in. The view through their eyes is still cloudy as they suck in air between pained coughs, the sweet relief of breathing countered by a sharp persistent pain from where their neck had been squeezed tight. It takes a moment before the Whumpee recovers and realizes they are still in the Whumper’s grasp - except instead of being in their chokehold, they realize that the Whumper is now almost cradling their head. The Whumpee’s chest heaves as they raise their arms up and push the Whumper away from them, scrambling backwards on the floor until they hit the opposite wall of the small room. Although only moments before the Whumper was choking the life out of them, now they see them weakly sunk into the floor unable to hold themselves up, let alone both of them. The Whumper’s eyes are filled with tears as they shake their head. “I couldn’t,” they say. “I couldn’t.” The Whumpee holds a hand to their throat protectively as they watch the Whumper’s hands suddenly jerk out with renewed but unchanneled aggression. The Whumper punishingly hits themselves hard in their head before tightly grabbing fistfuls of their own hair. “I couldn’t stand seeing it again,” the Whumper wails behind the wall of their arms. They let out a scream, then a long pained moan that devolves into sobbing. “I’m sorry I didn’t stop,” they pitifully cry out to someone that’s not the Whumpee. Whoever it is is not with them any longer. “I’m so sorry.”

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[short-form-whump]

“What are you thinking?” The question does what it’s meant to do and rouses the Whumpee from a sort of daze. The Whumpee shifts in their chair and shrugs, avoiding meeting the eyeline of their therapist. “I don’t know, I’m thinking about some shit a normal person would think about.” The therapist raises their eyebrows. “What does a normal thought sound like?” The Whumpee lets out an exasperated breath through closed lips. “It sounds like ‘what am I eating for dinner tonight’ or whatever.” The therapist nods. “And what does an abnormal thought sound like?” The Whumpee pauses before answering. “It sounds like ‘who’s eating me for dinner tonight’,” they admit. The two sit quietly with the thought, long enough for the silence to tease the next words out of the Whumpee. “Actually you want to know what I’m really thinking about?” they say to break the silence. “I’m thinking about how I chipped his tooth. Right here,” they say, referring to the Whumper and pointing at the bottom of one of their own front teeth. “And what the moment felt like when he realized what I did. How he spat it out. How he felt it with his thumb, and how he licked the blood off his lip from his nose. How he looked disgusted, both at the tooth and at me, and how I just… laughed.” The therapist leans forward. “I’m thinking about how it was proof he was not infallible. And if this could be a chink in the armour... it meant…” The therapist urges them on. “Take me back to what happened. Walk me through it.” The wind in the Whumpee’s sails suddenly fades. The prompt falls flat, and it doesn’t take long before the Whumpee’s gaze deadens once again. Their momentum is gone, and they’re left sitting and looking at their beat-up hands as if they belong to someone else. “No point in thinking about dinner,” the Whumpee says flatly. “I don’t feel much like eating anyway.”

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[short-form-whump]

The Whumpee sits on the battered wooden floor of an empty room. A window near them is broken inward, and glass is strewn around them on the floor. Everything is silent. The early morning sun has breached the quiet dark of the room, and the Whumpee has long since stopped panting with fear awaiting for someone to return. As the sun fills more of the barren room, it reveals to them slowly that there’s nobody in the dark corners, and nothing in the shadows. The emerging sense of safety - or the closest thing to it they’ve felt in a while - makes the Whumpee let down their guard at first, and then altogether stop feeling much of anything. More time passes and the world of numbness that they’re living in doesn’t wane for anything, not even when the Caretaker is now crouching in front of them. The Whumpee looks at them with dull eyes as if they’d run into them for a second time in an elevator the same day instead of it being the first time they’ve seen each other in weeks. The Caretaker looks like they’ve been waiting to meet the Whumpee’s eyeline for a while. “You OK?” the Caretaker asks quietly. The Whumpee nods. “I’m fine, why wouldn’t I be?” the Whumpee says. The Caretaker leans over and looks the Whumpee over on both sides, but mostly their left. “You know that your ear is bleeding?” they say. The Whumpee lifts a hand to check their head, but before it gets there they see that even their hand is bleeding - probably from the glass shards on the floor. The Whumpee can’t make sense of what’s happening and just nods, unsure of what to do. The Caretaker looks behind their own shoulder at someone else unseen in the doorway and shakes their head with a subtle sideways wave of their hand. They clear their throat and try to find the Whumpee’s eyeline again. “We’re going to leave together, but only when you’re ready to go. Is that alright?” they ask gently. The Whumpee doesn’t notice any new feeling, or any sensation of it at all, but they hear that their own voice again it sounds like they’re crying when they speak: “I’m not supposed to go anywhere.”

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[short-form-whump]

The Whumpee’s body seems electrified as a current of anger races through their veins. The Whumper just watches, amused bordering on delighted at the sight. “I didn’t always know about you,” the Whumper says, knowingly adding fuel to the fire. “You used to seem so straight-laced. Well, compared to who you were with at least. Who’d have thought you would be the firecracker?” The Whumpee shakes their head, trying but failing to avoid the sting of the Whumper’s words. “Don’t,” is all the Whumpee says with a cautionary raised finger that quakes in mid-air. The Whumper’s handcuffed hand holds the other wrist behind their back as they start to sing quietly. “Two little ducks went out one day,” they begin. “Over the hill and far away.” A rush of blood in the Whumpee’s ears drown out all sounds except their own racing heart, and their breathing quickens. The Whumper pointedly speaks the last words: “And only one little duck came back.” The Whumpee lunges at them and strikes them across the face. The Whumper hits the ground a moment before the Whumpee is on them. They strike the Whumper in the face over and over, and go so far as to grab the Whumper by a fistful of their hair, poised to slam their head hard into the dirt. The Whumpee barely manages to stop themselves as they stare down at the bloodied face of the Whumper who just grits their teeth and takes it all on. “You feel big now? Is this the payback you wanted?” the Whumper spits through reddened teeth while still in the Whumpee’s grip. “Does this feel like a win to you?” they growl, pulling harshly at their cuffs behind them. The Whumpee lifts themselves up and releases their grip, their breath coming in shaky pulls as they reel from their own outburst. The Whumper lifts themselves up as best they can, with one blood covered eye closed tight. “Believe what you want about me,” they say from the ground. “But it was always a fair fight with me. For both of you.” The two scarcely notice the sound of crunching gravel beneath tires as a van finally pulls up. “You remember that if you ever forget which one of us is the bigger monster.”

The Whumper closes their eyes and takes in the feeling of sunshine on their face as they stand handcuffed next to the Whumpee. “Not much of a better feeling than that.” The Whumper looks at the Whumpee, pointedly nodding at the Whumpee’s injuries - both new and old. “Except for the obvious of course.” The two stand quietly for a moment, the Whumpee doing their best to ignore them. “I still have dreams about it you know,” they add. The Whumpee to this point has been standing stoically awaiting a transport to pick them both up, but finds themself overcome with disgust at the Whumper in that moment. “Do you have to follow every whim in that sick head of yours?” the Whumpee says with disdain. The Whumper pretends to think about it. “Yes. A fantasy is no fun if it stays a fantasy.” The Whumpee grabs the Whumper whose hands are helplessly cuffed behind their back, and their angry face is met with one of smug calm on the Whumper’s part. “You can’t just make real every single thing that you cook up in your warped mind. You just can’t,” they let out. The Whumper has a realization and slowly smiles at the frustrated Whumpee. “You have them too, don’t you? Those fantasies?” The Whumpee lets the Whumper go and has to take a few steps back to try and un-tense their body and fists, battling an almost overwhelming instinct to fight. The Whumper watches the Whumpee almost lose control and just shakes their head in both disbelief and delight. “I knew there was a reason I liked you so much.”

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[short-form-whump]

The Whumper’s measured manner doesn’t change, but they do pause for a moment as they look at the Whumpee in a new light. Something about their eyes - the shape of them, the colour of them, maybe both - makes them realize something. Whatever it is, it doesn’t register at first with the Whumpee, whose mind is barely present as they sit across from the Whumper in a small, dim interrogation room. The Whumpee raises their glance from where it had been locked on the table between them. They notice the Whumper - as physically intimidating as they’ve ever been - seem to soften in their quiet and uncharacteristic gestures. “What now?” the Whumpee says, a barked warning to deflect whatever the next psychological trick the Whumper might be trying to play on them. The Whumper just looks at them. “What if I told you I knew your father?” the Whumper eventually discloses. The Whumpee just scoffs, not letting yet another torturous train of thought sent by the Whumper into their head. “I don’t have a father.” The Whumper leans forward, bringing themselves further into the shared light between them. “Everyone has a father,” they say matter-of-factly. The Whumpee feels a wave of disgust rise out of them along with their venomous words: “Yeah? Even sick fucks like you have a father?” The Whumper runs a finger along their eye, a gesture that is a cross between the wipe of an invisible tear and the mimed application of war paint. “Sick fucks like me, as you so kindly put it. Uncaring people. Powerful people. People who desire to hunt, to forge, to rule. Who don’t stay where their seeds are planted. People who don’t care to reap what we sow when we can just take what we want.” The Whumpee watches their captor’s half-lit face harden once more and revert back into the monster they’ve come to know. “We are the fathers.”

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