The Whumpee’s eyes open, but they see nothing. It takes a few moments to orient themselves as they realize they are blindfolded and sat in a hard chair, wrists bound behind them and ankles bound to its legs. The chair creaks as they shift their weight, but it’s the sound of something else that they fixate on. Slight, small tick tick ticks. The squeezing noise of latex gloves. The sound of careful breaths in and out that belong to someone else in the room. “That’s annoying,” the Whumpee says aloud. The Whumper is sat at a workbench with a single warm light cast over a dismantled and very old looking compass. Their gloved hands hold the watch and a small tool, and they take their eyes off it just for a moment to give a fleeting glance at the Whumpee. “You weren’t good to your friend here,” the Whumper states plainly. The Whumpee snorts. “You giving out lessons on how to be good to your friends?” The Whumper continues picking at the compass and pulls it apart piece by piece. “Some people find these sounds soothing, you know,” they say as they lay each of the tiny pieces down with soft clacks on their wooden workbench. “Me included.” The Whumpee shifts again in their chair and the realization dawns on them as to what the Whumper has taken. The Whumper continues. “Maybe something to do with watching people work when you were little. Reassuring guidance. Expertise.” The Whumper lifts the small plate marked with cardinal directions and holds it beneath the light. “Someone to show you the way.” They lower it and look again at the Whumpee, this time for longer as they notice the Whumpee’s battered body start to become tense. The Whumper shakes their head as if disappointed. “You’re the very picture of a person who’d walk around with a broken compass.”

“Getting a little long in the tooth, aren’t we?” the Caretaker says to the Whumper. The two of them stand side by side in a graveyard, several rows back from the front of a burial. Between the forest of black-clad people there stands the Whumpee near the front, their head lowered and hands folded in front of them. The Whumper’s eyes are locked on the Whumpee as they respond quietly to the Caretaker. “I don’t mind getting a little wrinkled. Too many people don’t live long enough to see their first one.” The Caretaker grits their teeth behind closed lips as they look straight ahead. “What makes me think you’ve seen to that personally?” The Whumper smiles at this and shrugs with mock helplessness. The Caretaker is unnerved by how glib the Whumper is being, and for the first time turns to see them fully. The Whumper’s imposing stature conflicts with their congenial presence at a time like this. It’s only then that the Whumper turns to leave, but first says quietly to the Caretaker: “If I were you I’d watch your pet, looks like you forgot to feed it today.” The Caretaker watches them leave and suddenly hears the crowd around them start to murmur. The officiant slows their speaking as the sound of someone saying the words “are you alright” over and over starts to overtake the group’s focus. The Caretaker catches sight of the Whumpee whose gaze still locked downwards, but their face is ashen and they don’t answer the people speaking to them. They start to lose their footing and the crowd around them gasps as they fall to their knees. The Caretaker pushes their way through the rows of people to get to their friend, but can’t push from their mind the thought that the Whumper must have done something - however impossible - even if they just willed something to happen.

An icy wind whips across the churned rows of dirt in a farm’s field. The Whumpee’s fists grasp the terrain as they tremble on all fours, collapsed to the ground just seconds before. The Whumper stands over them, their own heavy coat billowing around their figure while the Whumpee shivers in their lighter clothes. The Whumper sees the Whumpee’s hands in the soil and their stoic face twists a little as they feel a rush of pride. “Tilled it myself this year. My daddy and my daddy’s daddy tilled theirs too.” The Whumpee leans their weight forward onto their hands as they spit blood onto the ground. “There,” they say. “Watered it for ya.” The Whumper walks ahead and kneels next to them, and defies the Whumpee’s expectations by laying a gentle hand onto the back of their neck. They hold it there like someone about to grab a dog by the scruff of their neck, but instead decides to caress them. “Do you think we were all born knowing how to make things grow? Like it’s some kind of innate knowledge that everyone has, like some instinct that any person with some dirt and some seeds and some time can make this happen?” The Whumper pauses, and so do their fingers on the Whumpee. “Or do you know the truth that someone needs to show you? Needs to teach you the hard way?” At these words the Whumper opens their grasp and squeezes the Whumpee’s neck hard, lifting them slowly up from the ground. “Needs to work you until your hands bleed, and your muscles scream, and push you until you can’t take it anymore.” The Whumper’s teeth are gritting so hard as they speak that they sound like they might break. They flip the Whumpee over and hold their upper body above the ground while their lower half drags limply. The Whumpee struggles to breathe as they face the night sky while the Whumper continues. “The way this land is. The way I am. It ain’t instinct, boy. I’ve had many teachers.” They hiss their last words: “And I’m not done teaching you your lesson.”

The Whumper’s hand hovers over a full wine glass as they stand and look at it thoughtfully, torn about whether to let their grasp close around it. The Whumpee watches them from where they sit in the room - unbound but still captive. The Whumper’s hand eventually touches the rim of the glass but then releases it as though it were white hot. This makes the Whumpee laugh. The Whumper looks at them, which makes the Whumpee laugh even more. Their formerly split lip threatens to open again, their rib cage is sore from being beaten, but in spite of it all - they laugh. “I’m sorry,” the Whumpee says as they try to compose themselves. “I just… I see it now.” The Whumper’s eyes lower again to the glass and they look at the reflection of the overhead lighting in the deep red mirror of the liquid. “See what?” The Whumpee tries to smother a smile. “What you like about it. Seeing me… cower.” The Whumpee clenches and unclenches their fist as they speak, their body confused by the surreal feeling of alluding to their ongoing trauma aloud. “I see now in your eyes - by the way your fear manifests - I see why you like it so much.” The Whumper rests their hand on the table next to the glass without touching it. “You’re right. I am afraid. But not for me.” They grab the glass and lift it to their mouth, drinking the liquid inside without savouring it, then resting the glass back on the table with the lightest of hollow clacks. “For who then?” the Whumpee asks. The Whumper grabs the bottle and starts to refill the glass. “You’ll have to see, won’t you?”

The Caretaker’s eyes widen as they see who has stepped out from the darkness surrounding both themselves and the Whumper. They are standing across from the Whumper at a basement meeting place lit by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling midway between the two of them, but the two of them are newly not alone. The Whumper’s stoic face allows for the smallest of smirks as the Whumpee steps in front of them like a guard, interrupting the space between the Whumper and Caretaker. The Whumpee’s face is somehow familiar but completely different. It looks like stone - weathered and cracked in some places with red lines like the dark veins of marble swirling over their brow and down to their chin. The Caretaker looks at the Whumper when they speak. “I’m not usually a fan of your surprises, but I’ll take this one.” The Whumper remains silent. The Whumpee frowns at the Caretaker. “Don’t talk to him.” The Caretaker looks at their friend, taken aback at feeling treated like a stranger. Or worse, the enemy. They look again at the Whumper when they say, “What is this?” The Whumpee advances on the Caretaker threateningly. “I said don’t talk to him. You want to talk to him, you talk to me.” The Caretaker takes a few steps back to avoid being knocked over. The Whumpee glares at them angrily like an attack dog, and behind them the Whumper is pressing a thumb to their lips to keep from smiling. The Caretaker looks closely in the eyes to try and find a sign of the person they know. “You know you can’t believe what he says. You remember that, right?” the Caretaker whispers. The Whumpee clenches their teeth behind their cheeks. “Funny, I’ve heard the same said about you,” the Whumpee growls coldly. Behind the unflinching Whumpee, the Whumper gives a small shrug, pretending to be helpless to the circumstances. “What can I say? I can be incredibly persuasive.”

“Do you mind telling me how you learned to do that?” The Whumper leans against the bars of their cell and uses a single finger to lazily point at the Whumpee as they ask the question. The Whumpee is holding a knife and is using it to slowly peel the skin off an apple in one long piece. They briefly look up at the Whumper before resuming their concentration on the task at hand. The Whumper watches them for a minute before speaking again. “Skin’s the best part. It’s where all the nutrients are. Shame to throw away something that looks so good, too.” The Whumpee tries to ignore their captive but can’t hide the beads of sweat that are budding on their forehead as the Whumper’s voice gets under their skin. The Whumper notices. “Are you sure you don’t want to tell me how you learned to do that?” The Whumpee’s knuckles are white around both the apple and the knife’s handle. Their hands are shaking as well, and a rage builds in their chest that they must fight to avoid throwing the knife straight at the Whumper’s exposed hands. Instead they lift their head and meet the Whumper’s eyes with theirs. “A teacher that needs credit for everything the student does is the worst kind of teacher,” they finally say. The Whumper just smiles. “Can’t be that bad if it worked. And we both know it’s not the only thing you remember how to do.”

The Caretaker’s hands raise slowly as the Whumper aims their gun at them. The Whumpee is on their knees next to the Whumper, their balance unsteady and their head lolling as they try to stay upright. The Caretaker’s face grimaces as they realize they can’t keep quiet about their friend. “You can’t keep doing this,” they say desperately. The Whumper’s head cocks while the gun remains steady. Deadpan, unmoved, they ask: “Why?” Only the sound of the Whumpee’s struggled breaths fill the air. The Whumper repeats themselves again earnestly. “Why?” They look down at the Whumpee, then back to the Caretaker. “What reason is there for me to not get what I want? I have the power, I have the means, I have the wherewithal,” they list off. “So why can’t I?” The Caretaker’s heart sinks as the Whumper’s gun swings from being pointed at them to being pointed at the Whumpee’s head. “Look up,” the Whumper commands. The Whumpee is too dazed to comply at first. “I said look up,” the Whumper commands again. The Whumpee struggles to lift their head, but slowly complies and pulls their chin from their chest to tilt their head back. The Caretaker takes in the sight of their friend’s exhausted and bloodied face. “Your friend thinks I can’t do what I wish. What do you think?” the Whumper asks the Whumpee, the gun still aimed at them emphasizing the directness of their question. The Whumpee just manages to meet the Caretaker’s eyes and shake their head. The Whumper, satisfied, looks back at the Caretaker. “I agree. It is none of their business.”

short-form-whump:

“I was never good with history,” the Whumper says, a finger tracing the papers strewn across the Whumpee’s desk in their studies. Open books on pages with black and white photographs and many texts about war litter every surface. The Whumpee sits slumped in a chair with one hand covering their eyes while they hold out their opposite arm. It is bloodied and pinched at the top of their bicep by a tourniquet tied right where their dress shirt was ripped off. “Maybe that’s why you have a habit of repeating yourself,” the Whumpee mutters, then winces from pain. The Whumper flips the pages thoughtfully. “I have a hard time accepting it as something real. The dry text - this happened then this happened which caused this. Makes it hard to feel like it was truly an experience the way you and I are experiencing this very moment. It is missing a good storyteller to bring it to life.” The Whumper walks over towards where the Whumpee sits and observed them with as much emotional distance as they did the books. “Speaking of which, I would love nothing more than to hear the story of how this happened. And why I was privileged enough to be informed about it.” They sit on the edge of the desk as the Whumpee lets out a long pained breath, their hand still pressed hard over their eyes to try and suppress the pain of their shredded arm. “Perhaps we can save it for after you’re done,” the Whumpee suggests. The Whumper shrugs and crosses their arms, then looks thoughtfully at the nearby medical bag. “Yes. A test of whether I remember my non-history lessons.”

The Whumper ties a final knot on one of the many needed sutures on the Whumpee’s arms. They work deftly but make no extra effort to spare the Whumpee any added pain. After they finish that one, they take a moment to rest their arms, placing their hands on their knees and looking at the Whumpee who is still hiding their face with a quivering hand. “I know I don’t have the best brand when it comes to listening to you, but I promise I am up for it now,” the Whumper says. The Whumpee lets out a shaky sigh. “Forgive me if I don’t accept that promise.” The Whumper nods. “I made some bad ones in our time together.” The two sit in silence as the memories of their last encounter fill both of their minds. There is no hint of guilt on the Whumper’s side, and perhaps more strangely, the Whumpee somehow accepts their help and presence. The Whumper picks their tools back up and goes to begin again on the next deep tear on the Whumpee’s arm, but the Whumpee flinches as soon as they feel the heat from the Whumper’s hands. Something about resuming their pain at the hands of the Whumper after a brief reprieve was all too familiar, too much to handle in the moment. “Are you waiting for me to say I did it?” the Whumpee blurts out, again pressing a hand over their eyes. The question seems to aggravate the Whumper. The Whumper roughly grabs the wrist of the Whumpee’s wounded arm and pins it to the armrest of their chair. The Whumpee gasps and clenches both fists, too stunned to speak as the Whumper stares them directly in the eye. “Break you once, shame on me. Break you twice…” They let the sentence hang in the air as they let go of the Whumpee’s wrist and resume picking up their tools.

The Whumpee follows the Caretaker into their home warily. Something is untrustworthy about their old friend, but they can’t put their finger on the reason why. They look around, studying their surroundings, thinking about everything that the Caretaker has told them recently. Things add up, but not all the way. Their eyes land on a stack of papers near the front door. The Whumpee reaches a hand out and pulls the top page down, exposing something on the second page that all at once feels like it affirms everything they were worried about. Proof of one lie that felt like proof everything was a lie. The Caretaker approaches them, and finds themselves quickly knocked back by a strike of the Whumpee’s arm. They stumble, and then fully fall when the Whumpee strikes them again. The enraged Whumpee climbs onto them and pins them to the floor. “How much have what you told me isn’t true?” The Caretaker tries to catch their breath but has their head knocked against the ground as the Whumpee shakes them by their collar. “Tell me why you’re lying to me!” the Whumpee demands, their eyes wide and body overcome by both rage and paranoia. The Caretaker summons the strength to grab the Whumpee right back and meet their eyes. Through a bloodied mouth and gritted teeth they say: “Because look at yourself. Just look at yourself.” The Whumpee pauses but doesn’t move their eyes from the Caretaker’s or release their grasp. “You don’t trust me,” the Whumpee says. The Caretaker shakes their head. “I can let you in my house, but you and I both know why I can’t let you in my head.” The Whumpee releases their friend and lets them scramble to a sitting position from the floor. “You don’t trust me,” the Whumpee says again, paranoia being replaced by hurt. The Caretaker wipes the back of their hand on their mouth and sees the blood. “Look at yourself,” the Caretaker also repeats. They slowly stand and leave the room as the Whumpee is left to stare not at their reflection, but at the floor.

The Whumpee leans against the wall behind them, their knees on the verge of buckling beneath their body. They manage to stay standing, but just barely, as the Whumper approaches. A fire alarm is sounding while the two are still inside an unfinished building that is quickly deteriorating from an explosion that rocked its base. The Whumpee coughs hard enough that their knees finally give out, and they fall hard onto the floor. The Whumper studies them. “You know, when I saw what you did to my brother, I never looked at him the same way again. It was him, but it wasn’t. I would see him but never as he was in front of me - only as he was when you were done with him.” The Whumper nears the injured Whumpee and looms over them. “The person I knew was replaced by a living record of what you did, and nothing more. I thought about that every day he was alive.” The Whumpee can barely bring air in and out of their lungs to breathe, let alone talk, but still tries to croak out a response. “I didn’t…” The Whumper won’t have it. “It’s too late now. I can’t erase that memory from either of us. But now, as luck would have it, I get to choose how I will see you. What I will see when I look at you. Never you as you are, or you as you will be, only you as you were in this very moment.” The Whumpee lifts a hand as they again try to speak, while the Whumper slowly and soberly pulls a knife from their waistband. “So I’ll try to make it count.”

The Caretaker’s shoes echo loudly in the corridor as they walk out of their office. Nighttime in their university building is typically quiet but never silent - even at a distance down the halls, quiet voices mixed with bursts of laughter can be heard of people using the building as a shortcut between the bar and their dorm. The Caretaker makes their way to the front entrance where there is a large atrium filled with windows and tall ceilings. Near the doors, they notice that someone sits on a bench just outside. The Caretaker pushes the door open and pulls their jacket closed as the hit of the nighttime chill goes right for their bones. They go to leave when they catch sight of the person on the bench. The person sitting there has their eyes closed and is sitting slumped as though they are drunk. Their own coat is wide open. The Caretaker approaches them and finds that they recognize the coat as one often slung over a student chair in one of their classes. “Hey,” the Caretaker says. “You alright?” The Whumpee’s eyes remain closed and their whole body remains still. The Caretaker approaches and goes to touch their arm, but for some reason thinks better of it. It’s at that time that the Whumpee jerks awake as if falling off a cliff in a dream. They look at the Caretaker wildly. “I’m so sorry, I’m late,” they say. The Caretaker steps back as the Whumpee stands and starts to look around. “My books, they were right here. Have you seen my book bag, sir? I promise I’m caught up.” It takes a moment before the Caretaker realizes there is blood on the Whumpee’s teeth, and they see it around the same time as the Whumpee’s knees give out beneath them like a string toy with the tension released. “Sir, I promise, I promise I had it all done, don’t kick me out,” they slur as they reach out and grab for the shocked Caretaker’s pant leg. The Caretaker looks around for help, and realizes that, for now, they are the help.

“I was never good with history,” the Whumper says, a finger tracing the papers strewn across the Whumpee’s desk in their studies. Open books on pages with black and white photographs and many texts about war litter every surface. The Whumpee sits slumped in a chair with one hand covering their eyes while they hold out their opposite arm. It is bloodied and pinched at the top of their bicep by a tourniquet tied right where their dress shirt was ripped off. “Maybe that’s why you have a habit of repeating yourself,” the Whumpee mutters, then winces from pain. The Whumper flips the pages thoughtfully. “I have a hard time accepting it as something real. The dry text - this happened then this happened which caused this. Makes it hard to feel like it was truly an experience the way you and I are experiencing this very moment. It is missing a good storyteller to bring it to life.” The Whumper walks over towards where the Whumpee sits and observed them with as much emotional distance as they did the books. “Speaking of which, I would love nothing more than to hear the story of how this happened. And why I was privileged enough to be informed about it.” They sit on the edge of the desk as the Whumpee lets out a long pained breath, their hand still pressed hard over their eyes to try and suppress the pain of their shredded arm. “Perhaps we can save it for after you’re done,” the Whumpee suggests. The Whumper shrugs and crosses their arms, then looks thoughtfully at the nearby medical bag. “Yes. A test of whether I remember my non-history lessons.”

The Whumpee keeps their lips pressed tightly together but can’t stop the air squeezing from their nostrils as the Whumper’s hand encircles their neck. They look the Whumper squarely in their eyes as they are held by their neck and pressed against the concrete wall behind them. Neither of their hands raise in defence, nor to try to pull the Whumper away - they merely stand and squeeze breaths from their nose, mostly out and not in. “Do you feel afraid?” the Whumper asks, their brow furrowed and jaw clenched as they press their hand powerfully into the Whumpee. The Whumpee feels the grip on their neck lessen only enough to permit an answer from them. They continue to stare the Whumper down like a dog trainer knowing to remain still but to stand their ground. Their confidence in this approach alone seems enough to disarm the Whumper. “Do I look afraid?” they say with a tight throat. The Whumper returns their gaze for a long minute before releasing the Whumpee entirely, consumed by a feeling of profound disappointment. “Leave it to you to take the magic out of a moment,” the Whumper says as the Whumpee coughs, acclimatizing to full breaths once again. They remind themselves not to get used to it - there was no indication of this encounter with the Whumper ending anytime soon.

The last guests are at the front door being seen out by the Whumper. The Whumpee keeps their head bowed as they wipe dish after dish with a cloth and mechanically set them aside on a nearby drying rack. They fixate on the task, but listen as the door shuts and the Whumper lets out a heavy breath through their lips. The sound of their shoes echoes in the now empty house, a slight drag making a “shh” noise between each step. They near where the Whumpee is and stop for what feels like an eternity in a long silence. The Whumpee imagines this is the moment that their cover is blown. All the work to get close to the Whumper only to have it all end this way, their surveillance and investment all for nought. The Whumper reaches a hand out, their arm extending and almost wrapping around the Whumpee, and stops the running tap with a push of their hand. “That’s enough,” the Whumper says. The Whumper then goes to the counter behind them and starts to pour themselves a drink, while the Whumpee tries to control their breath and stop a tremble in their hands before they break a dish. So this is how I die, they think to themselves. Playing pretend housekeeper for a psychopath. They turn around to see the Whumper has poured not just one but two glasses of hard liquor. The Whumper holds their own glass in their hand and use their other knuckle to rub their cheek. “You ever feel like you’re pretending to be someone else?” they ask aloud. The Whumpee feels a flush of fear in their face, convinced they have been caught. The Whumper sips their glass then growls as the liquid goes down their throat. “It’s all a show, isn’t it. Whoever you are in front of someone else, it’s not who you are when you’re alone. But what are you if there’s not someone to see it.” The Whumpee realizes the words may not be directed at them, but doesn’t quite relax. “It’s all just one big goddam show,” the Whumper says. They grab and then hold out for the Whumpee the other drink, which the Whumpee steps forward to accept. Their hand meets the glass but the Whumper doesn’t let go. The Whumper is frowning and studying the Whumpee as they keep their grip on the glass and the two stare each other down. “Isn’t it?” the Whumper demands pointedly. The Whumpee swallows hard, but keeps their grip as well. “What do you mean?” The Whumper’s look lingers but eventually they release the glass. They finish what’s in their glass and set it down on the counter. “It doesn’t matter. The show must go on,” the Whumper says, then leaves the Whumpee alone in the kitchen, paralyzed again by the thought that they aren’t really fooling anyone.

short-form-whump:

The Whumpee stands across from the Whumper, a homemade bar occupying the space between them. The Whumper reaches beneath the bar and pulls out a bottle of liquor that they set gently on the table top. The two never break eye contact in the dimly lit garage, and the world outside the open door is still and quiet in the country night. “I didn’t come here to drink,” the Whumpee states plainly. The Whumper’s usual menace is barely quelled by their casual appearance in their own home. “You may be an unwanted guest, but you’re still a guest.” They open the bottle and pour its contents into two mason jars, then screw the lid back on and grab one of the jars in their hand. They wait until the Whumpee touches their own glass before the two simultaneously take their drink, both downing it in one go, with the Whumpee’s jar hitting the countertop first. The Whumper nods at the Whumpee, impressed at their quickness with the harsh drink. “So what else have you been practicing since I last saw you?” The Whumper’s sentence barely finishes before the Whumpee unsheathes a knife and goes to attack their former captor. Even from across the bar the Whumper deftly dodges them, ensnaring the Whumpee’s arm like a bear trap and quickly removing the knife from the Whumpee’s clenched fist. “Still telegraphing, I see.” The Whumper pushes the Whumpee back, and the Whumpee takes a few steps to right themselves. The Whumper stabs the knife into the bar top and points a finger at their former captive. “This is why I gave up on you. All emotion and no skill.” The Whumpee goes to lunge at them a second time, but the Whumper subdues them again with a grab and twist of their arm. The Whumpee cries out in frustration and pain. “Telegraphing everything like you’re Alexander fucking Graham Bell.” The Whumpee rights themselves and backs away, feeling breathless and defeated in the Whumper’s presence. The Whumper takes the knife from the bar and throws it across the concrete floor, and the two of them watch as it skids to a stop lifelessly at the Whumpee’s feet. “Good for you for finding where I live, but I gotta tell you: I ain’t scared. Because you won’t kill me for the same reason I let you go: you’re no goddamn good.”

“You gone done it now,” another captive says to the Whumpee. The Whumpee rests their arms in between the bars of their shared cell, then looks over their shoulder at their cell mate who is lying on the floor with an arm across their eyes. “Thought I was sleeping didn’t you?” The Whumpee, irked, looks away. “Thought you were dead,” they admit which prompts maniacal laughter from their cell mate. “If only. If you ever get the guts to make it happen, boy, we’ll both be out of here. Not the first class ticket I been hoping for but I’ll take it.” The Whumpee ignores them, instead looking at their bloodied knuckles and flexing them thoughtfully. “It’s not that easy,” they say aloud, mostly to themselves. It’s then that they hear the outer door open, and they instinctively step back from the cell bars as the heavy strides of the Whumper and their right hand make their way towards the cell. The Whumper stands in front and nods at the Whumpee. “This one,” they say, which prompts the right hand to open the cell door and roughly pull the Whumpee out. They’ve rarely been directly face to face with the Whumper themselves, and it’s intensely uncomfortable. The Whumper’s fine suit belies their dirty deeds, case in point being how they deftly pull a gun out from inside their jacket and point it at the Whumpee. The Whumpee freezes. “I don’t get you,” the Whumper says. “Time and again, you let me down. You can beat someone within an inch of their life but you can’t go the final inch. Why is that,” they say, less as a question than a statement. They surprise both the Whumpee and the right hand by flipping the gun so that the barrel faces themselves and the trigger is in front of the Whumpee. The three of them stand in a painful minute of silence as the Whumper waits on the Whumpee to take the pistol from them, shoot them dead, and end their captivity once and for all. They don’t. The two stare at each other in the eyes, caught in a complete standstill between ethics and expectation. The Whumper pockets the gun and buttons their suit. “Fucking useless. Get rid of ‘em.” The Whumpee remains where they are as the Whumper leaves, and their cell mate is as stunned as they are at how the events unfolded. “I dunno, man,” the cell mate breaks the silence. “Seemed easy enough to me.”

The Whumpee stands across from the Whumper, a homemade bar occupying the space between them. The Whumper reaches beneath the bar and pulls out a bottle of liquor that they set gently on the table top. The two never break eye contact in the dimly lit garage, and the world outside the open door is still and quiet in the country night. “I didn’t come here to drink,” the Whumpee states plainly. The Whumper’s usual menace is barely quelled by their casual appearance in their own home. “You may be an unwanted guest, but you’re still a guest.” They open the bottle and pour its contents into two mason jars, then screw the lid back on and grab one of the jars in their hand. They wait until the Whumpee touches their own glass before the two simultaneously take their drink, both downing it in one go, with the Whumpee’s jar hitting the countertop first. The Whumper nods at the Whumpee, impressed at their quickness with the harsh drink. “So what else have you been practicing since I last saw you?” The Whumper’s sentence barely finishes before the Whumpee unsheathes a knife and goes to attack their former captor. Even from across the bar the Whumper deftly dodges them, ensnaring the Whumpee’s arm like a bear trap and quickly removing the knife from the Whumpee’s clenched fist. “Still telegraphing, I see.” The Whumper pushes the Whumpee back, and the Whumpee takes a few steps to right themselves. The Whumper stabs the knife into the bar top and points a finger at their former captive. “This is why I gave up on you. All emotion and no skill.” The Whumpee goes to lunge at them a second time, but the Whumper subdues them again with a grab and twist of their arm. The Whumpee cries out in frustration and pain. “Telegraphing everything like you’re Alexander fucking Graham Bell.” The Whumpee rights themselves and backs away, feeling breathless and defeated in the Whumper’s presence. The Whumper takes the knife from the bar and throws it across the concrete floor, and the two of them watch as it skids to a stop lifelessly at the Whumpee’s feet. “Good for you for finding where I live, but I gotta tell you: I ain’t scared. Because you won’t kill me for the same reason I let you go: you’re no goddamn good.”

my-dump-of-whump:

my-dump-of-whump:

I’m sorry but I just love it when when the whumper sits straddling the whumpee’s hips, keeping them pinned down. The Whumpee can’t do much to escape, especially if they are already weak, and the whumper is beyond in their personal space. The whumper has whumpee entirely at their mercy. Maybe whumper leans closer so that their face almost touches the whumpee’s. Maybe whumper’s hands make their way to whumpee’s neck.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhn

It’s at 200 notes

Just straight up vibing from this post.

The Caretaker pushes their stool back on its wheels and holds up their hands in submission, still loosely grasping the pen light they were trying to shine in the Whumpee’s eyes. The Whumpee recovers from the full body startled jerk that they had when the Caretaker was last close to them. “Don’t be sorry,” the Caretaker says before the Whumpee has a chance. The two sit in a barely-lit doctor’s office at night, and the only sounds in the room are the distant hum of city traffic and the Whumpee’s heavy breaths. The Whumpee’s face is covered in semi-healed cuts, and their body with bruises in the same state. The Caretaker sits completely still as they wait for permission to advance again. The Whumpee, still sitting on the edge of their own chair, shakes their head and wipes the sweat from their forehead, then shuts their eyes and gestures at the Caretaker to come forward again. The Caretaker wheels forward slowly, lifting their hands in plain sight, as they close the distance between the themselves and their friend. The Whumpee looks up at the ceiling and tries to keep their eye open as the Caretaker’s pen light nears it again. The Caretaker uses their other hand to hold the Whumpee’s chin still, which prompts the Whumpee’s jaw to clench and their eyes to lower and meet the Caretaker’s. The whole city somehow quiets in that moment as the two held themselves a nose-length apart. The Whumpee’s hand trembles in their lap as they fight every instinct they have to push their friend away from them and run as far away as they can. Their mind races but they hold still. The Caretaker eventually leans back and clicks off the light, and the Whumpee is surprised that the distance now somehow, against all odds, makes them feel worse. “It’s bad, right?” the Whumpee asks quietly. The Caretaker lets out a sigh. “I wouldn’t call it good.”

“Do you know what strikes me?” the Whumper asks as they sit on a table next to where the groggy Whumpee is sprawled on their back. “Other than you, if you could.” The Whumper speaks comfortably, though the circumstances are anything but casual, as the Whumpee struggles to take in breaths that don’t make them cough it right back out. “As I get older, I find I don’t have regrets so much as… constant wondering.” The Whumper looks over at the Whumpee and touches a gloved finger to their victim’s forehead, the edge of their scalp, and then into the inches of hair that are strewn as haplessly as they are. The Whumper starts to take pieces of hair between their fingers then stroke and set them in the opposite direction that they previously lay. “I look back not with longing of something I didn’t do, but in absolute wonder at the paths I could have taken. Roads I could have gone down. I just imagine that I’d chosen differently and what that life would look like,” they say, still stroking the Whumpee’s hair in new directions and either not noticing or not caring how the unwanted intimate gesture makes the Whumpee feel. “Imagine all the parallel lives I could have lived. Imagine I hadn’t met you.” The Whumpee stifles a bitter laugh, trying in vain to summon the strength to evade the Whumper’s touch. “Or that I killed you when I had the chance,” the Whumpee chokes out, trying yet unable to swat the Whumper’s hand away. The Whumper removes their hand mercifully and just nods with both distance and fondness. “Yes. Imagine that.” The two are quiet for a moment before the Whumper slides off the table and brushes themselves off, probably preparing for another round of torturous acts. “Alas. It is what it is.”

Himself

inspired by @whumpshaped’s post here!

CW: pet whump, collars, leashes, whumpee calling whumper Master, abuse (implied), abusive relationship, intimate whumper, possessive whumper, vampire whumpee, disassociation (mostly after the timeskip), whumpee misgendering himself while disassociating (using they/them/their as a gender neutral pronoun), nudity (not sexual and not explicitly described)

“Open your eyes, pet.”

Dirk didn’t want to. He didn’t want to open his eyes out of fear of what he would see in the mirror. Because he knew it would be a part of himself that he hated. 

A part of himself that Jackson claimed was his true nature, and that Teddy agreed with, and that both of them worked to chain and command as their own.

Taming a beast with a human face.

Leashing a wolf wearing someone else’s skin.

The leash hanging from his collar was heavy, a gold chain to match the gold tag that dangled from the leather collar, jingling with even the smallest movements. A temporary mark of ownership in the form of Master’s insignia to match the permanent one branded on his lower back.

The collar squeezed his throat when the leash was tugged.

“I won’t repeat myself, pet.”

Dirk opened his eyes, and his fears came true.

There he was, kneeling on the bedroom floor in front of the body mirror, shamefully exposed. Clothing is a privilege, not a right. And he lost that privilege when he misbehaved. He didn’t even remember what he did.

But that didn’t matter. 

What mattered was Master sitting behind him on the bed, holding the handle of the leash in one hand, the other close to some object on the bed. When he looked closer, he realized that it was a muzzle - a broken muzzle, because the gag that was supposed to keep his mouth open and his fangs exposed was bitten clean through. 

He didn’t even remember biting it.

But that didn’t matter.

“What do you see in the mirror?” 

There were many answers. Myself was not one of them.

Dirk saw individual parts that somehow still failed to make up a whole person. He saw shame in the flush of their cheeks and the way they hung their head, like a scolded dog. Guilt in their eyes, heavy enough to outweigh any anger. Fear in their tense body, unable to relax while their Master was unhappy. 

And devotion in the bruises that kissed their skin.

No.

Hisskin.

That’s what set him apart from the person in the mirror. Reminders of Master’s love, pressed into him with loving fingers, beaten into him with loving hands. That’s what he saw.

Proof of his loyalty to Master, and Master’s love given in return. 

He swallowed down whatever doubts remained.

“Your pet, Master.”       

The look of approval on Master’s face made him happy. And that was love, wasn’t it? Making each other happy? 

He chose not to dwell on it as Master gestured for him to come closer. And so, he crawled, turning his back to the mirror and all of his attention to Master. He kneeled between Master’s legs expectantly, waiting to be told what to do, to be given a chance at making up for his disobedience. 

Master pat his thigh. “Turn around and sit on my lap.” 

His pet obeyed. He faced the mirror again as he sat down, suppressing a flinch when Master’s arms came to wrap around his waist. A single knuckle was used to gently tilt the vampire’s face up, making eye contact with Master’s reflection before quickly averting his eyes. 

“Despite all of the trouble you give me,” Master said, moving his hand up to pet the vampire’s hair, “you are the best pet that I’ve ever had.“

His fingers skimmed across the back of his pet’s neck, eliciting a shiver. “And you are the onlypet that I will ever have. Do you know why that is?” 

He does. His pet knows because Master has told him again and again, with both punishments and rewards.

“Because I was made for you, Master.” 

A hum of approval. His pet almost smiled, and was proud of himself for not flinching this time when Master kissed his temple, still petting his hair.

“Good boy,” he murmured, and the vampire swelled with pride. 

—

Dirk stared at his reflection in the mirror. But the longer he looked, the more he started to feel like he wasn’t looking at himself. That the reflection staring back at him didn’t match the image of himself in his mind. 

The bruises from earlier had already healed over, like an author deleting words off the page. He wanted to see them. He neededto see them. Because they were marks of Teddy’s love, and he wanted to be marked, he neededto be marked to know that he was wanted, and loved, and himself. 

His neck was uncomfortably bare. No collar, no leash, nothing that made it clear who he belonged to, and that was a scary thought, not belonging to anyone.

Not belonging to Teddy.

Not belonging to Master.

He would always belong to Master, right? Master said that himself. Said that he was the best pet, his only pet, a pet made just for him. 

His pet touched the barren skin of his neck, trying to picture the collar there. He pressed down with his fingers and squeezed, hard enough to cut off his air, hard enough to force out a choked breath. But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t his collar. It wasn’t Master.

It wasn’t him. 

The vampire stared at the person in the mirror. Who was it? He moved his hand down, over his collarbone, feeling water droplets stuck to his skin. The hand in the mirror moved down too, but it wasn’t his hand, and it wasn’t his skin, and he was starting to think that these weren’t histhoughts. 

Whose were they? 

It scared him not to know, but the fear just swelled inside of him and stayed there, trapped under the stranger’s skin. He didn’t move. They didn’t move. Neither of them moved, but one of them thought, and they wanted to stopthinking. 

They wanted to know who they were.

But only Master could tell them that.

Eventually, they saw him. They saw Master enter the room, and a part of their mind familiar with Master’s schedule knew that he had just gotten back from a business dinner, and that’s why he was wearing a fancy suit and tie. They heard him say something.

Did you shower thislate?

But they couldn’t process the words, just the sound of his voice, and the sight of him approaching in the mirror. There were more words. 

The floor around you is all wet, Dirk.

Dirk. 

That was their - that was his name. Dirk. Not the stranger’s name. He didn’t know who they were, or what their name was, but they must have left because Teddy was there, Master was there, and he was starting to remember who he was. 

This time, he understood Master’s words. 

“Is something wrong, pet?” 

Pet. 

Master’s pet. That’s who he was. Made for Master, made to serve him, and obey him, and love him. Dirk blinked, and he realized that his skin was pruning, that the floor was all wet, because he had been standing there for hours after showering. 

“I’m sorry, Master,” he blurted, referring to the state of the floor. 

Master looked surprised. Confused. It wasn’t an expression Dirk was used to seeing on him, and somehow he caused it, so he rushed to explain. “I took a shower earlier, way earlier, but then I was drying my hair in the mirror, and I - I somehow lost track of time, s-so I accidentally got water on the floor and I’m r-really sorry.” 

Master frowned. “You don’t know how long you’ve been here?”

Dirk shook his head. “I…I thought I was someone else,” he admits.

Something seemed to click for Master. And his confusion warped into satisfaction, which was confusing to Dirk, because he thought Master was upset about the floor. “Dirk,” he said, and it was more fond than scolding. “Say my name.” 

“…Master?” 

“That’s my title,” Master corrected. “Try again.”  

Dirk thought for a moment. And eventually, a name rose from his memories, breaking through the mindless haze of obedience.

“…Teddy.”

“Correct.”

Teddy smiled and cupped his face. Dirk instinctively leaned into it, allowing himself to close his eyes for a moment with a relieved sigh. He suddenly felt exhausted, like he had been running away from something chasing him, and now his heart was still pounding, his legs threatening to give out. 

“You will always be my pet, Dirk,” Teddy reassured him, easing him over to the bed. Dirk sat down with trembling legs. “But you’re also my underboss. My second in command,” the mob boss said, with a hint of pride that made Dirk smile. “You won’t be able to work if you keep getting lost in your thoughts.” 

“I’m sorry,” Dirk said, another instinctive apology. But he knew apologies meant nothing without a promise to do better. “I…I won’t use that mirror again. Or any mirror.”

Teddy seemed to accept that. “Unless I tell you to,” he said, because that was always the exception to Dirk’s boundaries. “And that way, I’ll be there to keep you from losing track of time again.”

Or losing himself.