#whumpee
The New Legends of Monkey S02E10 part 2 of 2
When Gaxin (Jayden Daniels) is attacked by enchanted tree roots, it’s Pigsy (Josh Thomson) to the rescue.
Final pic is a tad whumpy, is it not?
Post link
“You can’t be here,” the whumpee protests, squirming in their bonds as the caretaker starts to cut them loose. “You have to leave before, before—”
“Hey, quit moving!” the caretaker admonishes, frowning when they accidentally nick the writhing whumpee with their blade. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”
Accustomed to orders and threats, the whumpee immediately stills. I don’t want to hurt you usually means the exact opposite, in their experience, but they need to protect the caretaker, even if doing so means punishment.
The caretaker offers them a reassuring smile as they saw through the ropes. The whumpee pouts, their bottom lip trembling as tears pool in their eyes. The last thing they want is to put the caretaker in danger, and if the whumper realizes they’re here, they’ll be killed.
The whumpee’s voice quivers as they frantically try to convince them. “Please, please, listen to me. You gotta get out of here before he finds you. Please, go, p-please. I can’t see you get h-hurt.”
Tied to a chair, the whumpee refuses to answer the whumper’s question. He endures the alternating punches and demands with only the occasional grunt of pain, even as blood streams down his face. Finally, the frustrated whumper yanks his captive’s head back by the hair and holds a blade to his throat, nearly screaming his question…and the whumpee caves. With eyes squeezed shut and hands white-knuckled on the arms of the chair, he gasps the name of the location he’d kept secret until now. Triumphant, the whumper strides away, and the whumpee slumps forward…to conceal the slow smile that spreads over his cracked and bleeding lips.
when the antag is about to stab a character and the sharp object is super close to the characters face/chest but theyre grabbing the antags hand and forcing it back with all their strenght
bonus points if the character is on the floor and the antag is straddling them, holding the sharp object with both hands
“I’ll kill you,” X screamed as they were dragged away, “if you touch them, I’ll kill you.”
Y smiled and crouched in front of Z, who curled into themself. “Now, what are we going to do with you?” They asked softly. Z couldn’t help the small whimper which escaped them.
The magical whumpee is thrown onstage in front of a crowd of hundreds, forced to use their powers to “perform” for the audience’s amusement. But after weeks of beatings, starvation, and humiliation, the whumpee is so weak they can barely stand. They try to perform anyway, although they’re unsteady on their feet, because they know they’ll be punished if they don’t. They barely manage to move a finger before they collapse on the stage out of sheer pain and exhaustion. The last thing they hear before they pass out is the audience’s laughter.
Yes please???
“Oh, darling,” the whumper cooed. They looked down at the whumpee, snivelling and crying on the floor. The whumpee shook, heaving with sobs and exhaustion, tear tracks cutting lines through the dirt on their face. The whumper leaned down a stroked
hand down their cheek, ignoring the soft flinch from the whumpee.The whumper smiled, tucking a lock of hair behind the whumpee’s ear.
“ You look so fucking pathetic.”
When the whumpee is allowed to escape, and they’re literally crawling towards safety while the whumper calmly walks behind them. Just before they get to safety, just before someone can see them, the -er drags the sobbing -ee back to where they came from
Caretaker gets protective when people start asking to see whumpee in recovery. They don’t know how they’ll react, seeing it took them days to learn how to enter their hospital room without frightening them.
So, caretaker writes out a list of rules. Just a few things, like no raised voices, no touching, no sudden movements, no loud noises, no questions, no reaching for them, keep a soft tone-
The list goes on, and on, and on.
Snacks are acceptable.
(So evil of me for my mind to go in this direction but…)
Whumpee finds the list. Finds it and thinks it’s for them. They’re not allowed to be noisy, probably not even if they’re in pain. They must go back to walking with feather-light steps and slow careful movements, never reaching for things that don’t belong to them.
Don’t touch Caretaker’s things, don’t make a mess, sound sweet and happy at all times.
Snacks, they find once they reach the end, are allowed. It’s a small gift, one they’ll be grateful for, but it’s so little compared to what they’ve had these past weeks. Caretaker must have grown so tired of them so suddenly to go to the effort of writing it down and leaving it pointedly for Whumpee to find. They hold back the tears and swallow it all down.
Caretaker didn’t even want to talk about it–probably expecting Whumpee would make a scene if they did– they just left a note for Whumpee to read, alone, and obey.
They’ll be better. They’ll be different. Caretaker will see… they’re worth keeping around. They promise to themself, they’ll make this all right, they’ll show they can learn.
When the whumpee gets the chills when sick, and the caretaker bundles them up with all the blankets
Btw Whumpee isn’t a minor, Caretaker calls em kid just cuz. I don’t condone the whumping of actual children, just a disclaimer.
Whumpee felt their back hit the wall, felt their knees giving out, heard the tell-tale ringing in their ears. The ringing of a gunshot. They realized numbly. Their hands were still secured tightly behind their back, the zip ties so tight they were beginning to lose feeling in their finger tips.
“Shit!”
“How did you miss? They’re ten feet in front of you!”
Whumpee heard the two arguing, but it was far away, underwater. All they could focus on was the burning sensation that was bubbling up in their abdomen and the feeling that they were losing too much blood.
“They ducked! Caught me off guard.”
Whumpee felt eyes on them as the two looked over.
“What’s it matter? Gonna die anyway and it’s not like they can scream.” One knelt down in front of Whumpee, frowning. They were right. Even if they hadn’t gagged Whumpee, their throat felt closed completely. Like their vocal chords were already sealed shut in preparation for ‘dead men tell no tales.’
As if to prove their point, the first one dug the barrel of their gun into Whumpee’s stomach, into the bullet hole. Whumpee curled into themselves, mind screaming as they felt their skin splitting. But all that came out was a muffled whimper, eyes squeezed shut.
“Whatever. Just put ‘em out of their misery already. We gotta clean up all this blood, ain’t got time to just sit here and watch them die.”
“Okay.” They both rose as the first one pressed the gun against Whumpee’s forehead. “Whatever you say.”
Three shots rang out. Whumpee flinched, expecting the bite of a bullet. It never came. Instead, they felt gentle hands pulling the gag from their mouth and cutting through the plastic around their wrists.
They opened their eyes slowly, blinking. Caretaker was kneeling in front of them, eyebrows furrowed as they assessed the damage.
“Thanks.” Whumpee rasped.
“Ambulance is on the way. You’re gonna need to stay awake, okay kid?” Caretaker raised their brows and looked them in the eyes. “Can you do that for me?”
Whumpee smiled weakly and licked their lips to say, ‘‘sure think, boss’ or something but the words died in their throat. Their eyes were getting heavy, and they felt tired. It would be okay. They brought their hands up, reaching for Caretaker feebly before they slumped forward and their eyes rolled shut.
It would be okay.
An already weakened whumpee thrown into an even whumpier situation
-Whumpee’s had more than a few too many drinks. The lights in the club feel so bright they’re giving whumpee a migraine and the music is distorting and thumping at the base of their skull. Whumpee is barely able to walk straight as it is. What happens when whumper slips something into their drink?
-Whumpee is exhausted, it’s been a long day at work and they haven’t been sleeping well. They drop their keys twice trying to unlock their door before they finally get in and see Whumper in the living room quietly. They figure they must be seeing things and head on to bed.
-Whumpee is sick with a cold/fever. They feel weak, can’t stop shivering and they feel like passing out every time they sit down. They’re driving home from the grocery store when a car t-bones them. The crash didn’t knock them out, but they don’t have the strength to even try to run away when they see Whumper get out of the truck and walk towards them.
-Whumpee was stabbed/shot and is now on the mend. They aren’t in any immediate danger and they’re an adult so they sign themselves out of the hospital and start to walk the few blocks back across the city to their apartment. It would sure be inconvenient for them to get jumped and mugged, wouldn’t it? Might even tear a few stitches.
-A bounty has been placed over Whumpee’s head. They’ve just narrowly escaped death for the first time that day and are limping back through the countryside, trying to find where they are. They’re walking across a bridge over a fast, deep river when they see a group of unfriendly looking people. They try to run the other way, but to no avail. They throw Whumpee in a burlap sack and tie it shut before they push Whumpee off the bridge.
The Whumpee stands next to a guard assigned for their protection. They keep letting out one shaky sigh after another, battling a feeling of uneasiness that they haven’t been able to shake since meeting the guard earlier that day. The guard looks over their shoulder at the Whumpee standing in the elevator behind them. “That’s very annoying,” the guard says flatly. The Whumpee says “sorry” for sighing, but the guard still stares them down. They follow the guard’s eyeline down to their right hand which is nervously flicking their thumbnail with their index finger. “Fuck. Sorry.” The two stand in silence as the ride ends and the doors in front of them open. The guard steps out first and holds an arm in front of the threshold’s motion sensors to hold the doors. The Whumpee doesn’t move, suddenly paralyzed by fear. The sight of the guard’s outstretched arm panics them; the guard’s sleeve has rolled up ever so slightly to reveal a forearm tattoo just like that of the Whumper. The Whumpee, cornered, can’t think of what to do. “I also find this annoying,” the guard says as they wait. The Whumpee doesn’t move, unable to see any way out. Without speaking, the guard steps back into the elevator and allows the doors to shut. They fold their hands in front of them and look at the Whumpee, but makes no move against them. “It means allegiance,” the guard says in reference to the tattoo. “Undying allegiance. That means he’s beholden to someone else. And so am I.” They look over at the Whumpee pointedly. “And like him, it’s not something I take lightly.” The Whumpee looks up at the guard, who again remains harmlessly and reassuringly still. Long moments pass as the Whumpee finally starts to calm down. Maybe they are safe after all. “But if you don’t push a button I swear to God,” the guard starts, prompting the Whumpee to hurriedly press the button for their destination floor. “Sorry.”
A henchman pulls the Whumpee up from the floor with a yank under one of their bound arms. The Whumpee wobbles but doesn’t lose their balance as they find their footing, but they’re quickly pulled forward towards a door where the Whumper stands. The Whumper’s hands are held behind their own back, though unlike the Whumpee they do so of their own free will. The Whumpee manages to stop and hiss at the Whumper, who doesn’t return their gaze but merely turns their head to look at the floor near the Whumpee. “Did I pass your little test?” the battered Whumpee says before they are shoved out of the room. The Whumper stays very still as the door to the room shuts slowly, pushed closed by the bloodied hand of the Whumper’s second in command. “Test,” the Whumper repeats aloud, their head slowly raising and meeting the eyes of their partner. “You’re telling me,” number two says. “Here I thought it was the real deal.” The Whumper’s face shifts as they rub a hand across the back of their neck and pace slowly. “The only test here was yours. And you failed. Miserably.” The number two lifts their shoulders in a small shrug before opening their mouth to speak, but the insolence of their gesture causes the Whumper to suddenly close the distance between them and push them back against the wall. The Whumper’s forearm pins them in place as they grab a fistful of their shirt, while the other grabs the second in command’s face roughly. “There will be no more talk of tests, or practice rounds, or dry runs,” the Whumper growls. “He will be broken, and he will be broken in half, and those halves will be broken again. Do you understand me?” The second in command manages to push the Whumper off of themselves, then adjusts their shirt back to where it was as they catch their breath. “Not a test, but somehow there’s fractions. Got it.” The Whumper smooths their own clothes and goes to leave, but pauses with a hand on their door before opening it. “Turn this into a test of my patience, and we’ll do the math on what happens then.” They open the door and slam it behind them, leaving their number two to think through their next steps to try and break the Whumpee’s will.
A beam of light shines directly into the Whumpee’s closed eyes. They turn their head to avoid it, burying their face deeper into what they quickly realize is the Caretaker’s chest that they were laying against. They pull back and open their eyes, feeling startled at being so close to someone they barely know after having so recently escaped the Whumper’s grasp. Everything in their body still hurts, including a throbbing wound still plaguing their side. The person that had saved them sits on the ground with their back against a wall and looks at the source of the light. Slowly the Caretaker raises their hands and nods, then says something back to whoever is holding the flashlight in a language the Whumpee doesn’t understand. The Whumpee scrambles backwards as the light lowers and someone approaches the Caretaker - before they reach their target, the Caretaker speaks again but this time gestures at the Whumpee. The other person agrees, and at this the Caretaker looks at the Whumpee sadly. “You’re giving me to them, aren’t you?” the Whumpee accuses them frantically. The Caretaker pulls themselves to their knees and approaches the Whumpee, but the Whumpee just scrambles further back on the pavement, clutching their side and keeping their distance at all costs. The Caretaker hangs their head and seems to give up, then looks at the person holding the light again and nods. They say something resolutely, again in another language, that leads the person to come over and yank the Caretaker’s hands behind them and zip tie them together. The person looks up at the Whumpee as they do so, and the Whumpee recognizes the person as the Whumper’s right hand. “It’s your lucky day,” the right hand says in broken English as they roughly grab the Caretaker by their collar and yank them up to stand. Before the Whumpee or the Caretaker can react, the right hand wields a knife and thrusts it into the Caretaker’s side, effectively disabling them and putting the same injurious time clock on their captivity as the Whumpee received. “Today he gets to eat a new meal instead of having your leftovers.” From there the light abruptly turns off as the right hand pulls the Caretaker away, leaving the Whumpee alone with a worse fate than having been reclaimed by the Whumper: loneliness, lingering pain, no way out, and a rising, crushing sense of guilt.
The sound of piano chords playing draws the Caretaker nearer and nearer to the banquet hall on the main floor of an emptied hotel. The song is familiar, even though the piano is so out of tune that the notes are warbled and almost underwater in their lack of clarity. They arrive at the doorway and look in to see the Whumper with their back to them, sitting at the old piano and hitting at the keys. Their movements are fluid as they float above the keys but precise when they hit them. The Caretaker’s eyes meet the sight of the unconscious Whumpee on the floor near the piano, their head close to where the Whumper’s feet are gently tapping the piano’s pedals. The sudden lifting of both the Whumper’s foot and their hands from the piano silence the music and stop the resonating keys with a thud. The Whumper looks at the Caretaker over their shoulder with a sideways glance. “Pull up a chair, they won’t be back for a while.” The Caretaker feels a sinking feeling as they walk into the hall, closing the distance between themselves and their friend. “Who won’t?” the Caretaker asks, passing right by the table and chair that the Whumper mentioned. The Whumper laughs at the question, saying, “Who do you think?” before knocking the heavy cover to the keys down with their hand. It slams hard and bangs a deafening sound throughout the entire room. When the echo of it dies down their voice turns deadly serious. “I said sit the fuck down.” The Caretaker stops, then moves back a few steps and sits at the table and chair they were instructed to. Their eyes keep darting to the Whumpee on the ground, and the appearance of blood in and around their head now transferred to the floor. The Whumper hates that the Caretaker’s attention is divided. “Ignore that,” the Whumper says dismissively of the Whumpee, pointing at them like they’re litter on the floor. “It won’t be back for a while. So you and I have time to talk.” The Caretaker can’t hide their distress. “What won’t be back?” The Whumper clenches a fist and presses it to their mouth, trying but failing to suppress their rage. “Do not pay it any mind, or so help me god,” the Whumper says, one of their feet now on the verge of kicking the prone Whumpee’s head back into the piano’s leg. “It will be me, not your friend’s problems, that will become impossible to ignore,” the Whumper says.
The Whumpee sits across from the bound Whumper. They lean forward with their elbows on their knees while they fiddle with a piece of used duct tape between their hands, as their eyes dart to and from the Whumper. The Whumper stares back blankly, their wrists and ankles taped many times over holding them to a plastic patio chair, their mouth newly uncovered by the tape now in the Whumpee’s hands. “You first,” the Whumpee says quietly. The Whumper just glares. “Me first what.” The Whumpee runs a hand through their hair as they try to compose themselves, but can’t help but return to fiddling with the tape still stuck to their other fingers. “You gonna make me say it?” the Whumpee asks. The Whumper shifts their weight in the chair as best as they can while still being pinned in place. A smirk starts to form on their face despite their predicament. “I don’t know what it is you think I’ve got to say first, but I will say you don’t look so good, old friend,” the Whumper says about the battered and exhausted-looking Whumpee. They tilt their head to the side as they talk. “Surely I’m not the only doctor you’re seeing about that fact,” they say. The Whumpee stares at their hands and keeps fiddling with the tape. They truly are a mess. Physically they bear lingering marks of the torture inflicted by the Whumper, and mentally they seem like they’re on the brink of collapse. “I think I need a doctor,” they say mostly to themselves, but it prompts a nod from the Whumper. “But nobody can help me. Nobody knows just what exactly you did. I don’t even know.” The Whumpee now looks at the Whumper squarely. “All I know is ever since you took me, you took something from me. Everything started to heal but something left that never came back, like you took some kind of a piece out from a clock that means the whole thing doesn’t tick. I can’t believe I’m stopping to your level in bringing you here, but I need to know.” The Whumpee’s eyes water as they plead with the unmoved Whumper. “What the hell did you do to me?” The Whumper again just nods clinically. “Do you really need a doctor?” they ask. “Or am I here because the piece you need back can only be taken from someone like it was taken from you?” They lean against their binds in the chair as they close as much space between themselves and the Whumpee as they can. “Because if so: come take it.”
“What did you just say?” the Caretaker asks incredulously. They stand ten feet from where the Whumper stands, and where the Whumpee kneels with their collar grasped tightly in the Whumper’s clenched fist. The Whumpee pulls at their tightened shirt collar in vain but can’t escape the grasp that’s holding them. The Whumper stares at the Caretaker, poised at the edge of a building rooftop mere seconds away from dropping the Whumpee off its edge. The Caretaker seems fixated on the wrong problem at hand. “Say that again,” the Caretaker says, sounding as if it’s out of academic curiosity than an urgency to save their friend. “Say what you just said again.” The Whumper pulls the Whumpee towards them, the yank illiciting a strangled groan. “You’re one of those annoying people who listens to the same song over and over again, aren’t you?” the Whumper says, for the first time feeling unnerved and in less than total control. The Caretaker advances towards the two of them with their hands exposed in surrender, but their excitement over their realization is overtaking their sense of caution. “Your accent. It slipped out. You’re from here, right?” The prospect of someone knowing more about them gives the Whumper a surge of anger that they channel into a hard kick to the captive Whumpee’s knee. The Caretaker continues advancing. “I knew you looked familiar. You’re one of his, aren’t you?” The Whumper is now next to the building’s edge, and pulls the hobbled and struggling Whumpee over to it. The Caretaker finally stops, but presses on in their words. “You’re the one he doesn’t talk about, am I right?” The Whumper steels their face at the mention of both their father and their station in life as his unrecognized offspring. They muster only a shrug in response as they say, “My father isn’t known for making mistakes. But I guess accidents happen.” They look down at the Whumpee bitterly and prepare to take them both over the edge. “Don’t they, brother?” they say at the Whumpee through gritted teeth.
The Whumpee looks at the surface of a pond and its upside-down reflection of an ominous sky overhead. A deep rumble of thunder rolls through the ground and seems to linger in their feet and shoes as if it were some kind of signal. It’s then that the Whumpee looks around and notices the Whumper standing at the top of a hill immediately behind them leading down to the water. They are a dark figure in front of a dark skyline, barely distinguishable from it if not for the glow of their cigarette and the occasional flash of sheet lightning in the sky. “Maybe a coffee shop next time, huh?” the Whumpee says nervously. The Whumper stands there for a moment, looking down at the Whumpee who had obediently agreed to their meeting on short notice. “You ever seen that photo?” the Whumper asks as they walk down the dirt trail towards the water’s edge. “Always in photo compilations of people before something tragic befell them. And there are two young men standing in the frame with their hair stood almost straight up on end,” they say, miming the hair of the boys with their cigarette-wielding hand, the trail of its smoke creating a ghostly view of the hair. The Whumper nears the Whumpee as they speak. “Do you know what happened to them next?” The Whumpee subconsciously backs more towards the lake as the Whumper’s presence begins to close in on them, and their shoe is now partly submerged. “It’s what happens right before you get hit by lightning.” The Whumper nods and drops the cigarette to the ground, then crushes the butt with their toe. “What else happens before you get hit by lightning?” the Whumper asks calmly. Before the Whumpee can deign to shrug, the Whumper swiftly takes a knife from out of their own sleeve, and holds it with its tip pointed at the Whumpee. “If you keep breaking promises to me, you will get hit. And you will know when it’s coming. You may not be able to see it, but I promise you will feel the electric charge.” The Whumpee steps back again as the Whumper advances on them, this time falling backwards into the water and slipping under the surface onto their back. The Whumper walks forward and seizes the Whumpee’s jacket and before lifting them up, they pointedly submerge the Whumpee’s head below the water. They pull them back up and wait as the Whumpee sputters and gasps for air before saying: “Your life is now the moment before the strike, and it will not end until you do this. Don’t waste time taking pictures like you have been.”
It’s impossible for the Whumper to resist lifting their hand and touching a finger on the photograph pinned to the wall in front of them. Like a magnet pulling them in, their fingertip graces across the printed piece of paper, down the forehead and over the eyes of the image in the picture: it’s a picture of themselves. “Not my good side,” they say aloud. They turn to face the battered-looking Whumpee whose hands are handcuffed behind them as they sit in their office chair. The room is filled with paperwork, and a series of maps, photos, and string connecting networks touching on both dimensions are pinned as paths between them all. “I didn’t think you had one,” the Whumpee quips. The Whumper turns back to the photo to continue admiring it, equally as magnetized to the sight of their own image as their touch was to the ink. “No, my best side doesn’t come out on demand. It takes finesse, maybe even a little teasing to come out,” they explain. They turn back to the Whumpee, casually running a finger along their own jawline and chin. The Whumpee shrugs at the Whumper’s apparent vanity. “If you’ve got a glossy 8x10 to replace it with, by all means,” the Whumpee says. The Whumper stares them down. “You’ve got it all wrong, you know. All these little routes between me and my colleagues, these little externalizations and dependencies, and this one in particular-” the Whumper says, pointing at the photo of the Whumper’s superior stationed above them on the wall chart. “I knew you’d hate that one,” the Whumpee says, their sentence stopped with a hard slap across their face and eyes - one so strong it robs them of their vision entirely as their head hangs to the side as they recover. The Whumper grabs the armrests of the chair the Whumpee is sitting in and leans in close. “When it comes to your little story, you might as well have closed your eyes and pinned the tail on a donkey. All the pieces and yet so far off, a two sided puzzle with half the pieces flipped to either the good or the bad side.” They lean in closer and all but hiss this into the Whumpee’s bloodied ear: “And in case it’s not clear - my piece is on the bad one.”
