Come and get your whump

"You're right. I did. But isn't that what you always wanted? To finally be useful to someone?"

"I-no! No, you're twisting my words. I didn't mean-I didn't want this."

"Oh? My mistake, then. But don't worry. I'll get it right next time."

"There won't be a next time. I don't want anything to do with you!"

“Didn’t you always want to be useful?”

And the words make whumpee pause, because there’s truth to those words. It’s true, they want to be useful. They want to matter.

But not like this

Right?

“Tch.” The antagonist tutted, crouching down in front of the spy. “I told them not to touch your pretty face. They’ll suffer for that.” 

The antagonist traced the spy’s split lip with their thumb, and the spy was tempted to bite, just for the audacity. But they didn’t get this far without learning when to pick their battles. Any reprieve to catch their breath, to steel themselves, to not be in pain would only make them stronger.

“I can handle the face,” the spy said. “I’d have preferred they kept away from my internal organs.”

The antagonist hummed, gaze dropping down. They hooked their hand around the hem of the spy’s shirt, lifting it to assess the damage. “You’ll live. No internal damage, just a few broken ribs.”

“You a doctor?” 

“As if you don’t know.” The antagonist gave them a half amused, half chiding look. “You know all my secrets, don’t you, gorgeous? Your employers wouldn’t have ordered you kill me if they didn’t think you’d got everything of value from me alive.”

The protagonist did know. The antagonist had indeed been a doctor for many years, before they vanished into the ether and became the creature in front of them now.

“So, don’t worry.” The antagonist dropped their shirt. “I’ve never killed anyone by accident.”

The protagonist knew that too. Maybe, if they didn’t know that, didn’t know as much as they did, the job would have been successful. But, instead, they hesitated. They were a spy, their job was focused on gathering intelligence, making sure the right people on their side had the right information at the right time. It was rare to get a kill order. There were assassins better suited to that line of work. 

But the antagonist was a rare creature, difficult to get close to, and there had been a shot. A shot that the spy had blown. Because they were dumb enough to think...

“Tell me.” The antagonist stayed crouched in front of them, voice low, as if this was an intimate conversation just between the two of them and there weren’t a dozen armed guards outside the door. “Why did you hesitate?”

The spy said nothing. They kept their expression blank on instinct. 

The guards who had interrogated them had plenty of questions - who are you working for, how did you get in, what have you told your people, who are you - but the question of why they had hesitated hadn’t come up. It had been the smallest of seconds, just long enough for the antagonist’s sharp gaze to cut to them in the rafters and for everything to go to hell. The spy’s own people wouldn’t have guessed at hesitation. 

The antagonist smiled, crooked at one corner, at the response. “Oh, come on. You could have killed me. I’ve looked up your files - you’re very good. More than capable of making the shot. Excellent scores on all your tests. No need to be stoic, I’m very impressed. Any schmuck can cause pain, but you...” 

“Maybe I’m just good at tests.”

“They wouldn’t have sent you after me if that were true.” 

The spy said nothing, because there was nothing they could say. The antagonist was absolutely correct.

The antagonist sighed, getting up and going to the metal table in the corner. 

The spy tensed, expecting them to return with a knife or something else equally unpleasant. The antagonist returned with a damp warm cloth that they used to start dabbing the spy’s face clean of blood. 

It was probably a trick. A different ploy to pain, one that the spy would really have to be an amateur to fall for. Still. 

“You’re right,” the spy said, softly. “I know all your secrets. Of course I couldn’t kill you.”

The antagonist paused, their stare piercing deep into the spy’s soul. The spy held the attention calmly despite their pounding heart. The antagonist’s hand started moving after barely a falter, meticulous and gentle in its care. The warm cloth, combined with the cool fingers, felt delightful against the spy’s aching skull. 

The spy pushed the feeling away. 

“Let me go,” the spy pressed, leaning in, the words barely above a breath. “You don’t want me dead, but you know what they’ll do to me. My face will be the least of our worries.”

What the spy had learned was that the antagonist had been a doctor, a brilliant surgeon, and then one day they vanished. Taken by their new employers. Trained up, polished into something wicked vicious. The pieces had been there before, no doubt, the unflinching ability to look at suffering and cut through bone and muscle if needed. But the antagonist wasn’t a bad person. Possibly lacking any capacity for remorse or guilt, but not bad. They didn’t enjoy causing hurt. They weren’t especially out to screw anyone over. 

The antagonist was a figurehead. A shiny symbol of what their employer’s wanted. It could be easier or harder to be a symbol, but regardless one didn’t get much choice in the matter. 

"You know I can’t do that. My boss isn’t done with you yet. They want all those not-about-me secrets you have floating about in that clever little brain of yours. Besides.” The antagonist shrugged. “Even if I untied you, you wouldn’t get very far. They’d just drag you back and there’s a line after which ‘roughed up’ will no longer be a good look on you, gorgeous. You’re fine.” The antagonist had such a terrible knowing in their voice, at odds with that shrug as if none of it mattered. “You won’t be fine if you try to run.”

“I might not get caught. I’m very good. Your words.” They wet their lips, feeling the sting. “You could come with me. Then they really wouldn’t be able to stop us, would they? I bet we’d make a great team.”

The antagonist laughed, but it wasn’t quite so amused anymore. More sad. “You have all the information but I can see why you’re not in the division for applying the pieces of that.” They dropped the cloth, carelessly, now that all of the obvious signs of breakage were gone from the spy’s face. “You know all my secrets, lovely.” The antagonist raised a brow, back to flirty, voice a purr as if secrets were not a deadly thing. “Why would I ever let you go?” 

They rose to their feet, entire posture changing into something sleek and dangerous, the reputation to bring down nations, as they buzzed the intercom - promptly rattling off a diagnosis of exactly what their guards could and should do to make the spy break, every weak point they had identified in the ‘examination’, and exactly what not to do unless they wanted to lose limbs. And, when all was done...

The antagonist glanced over them, one hand still holding down the com.  “Once you’ve got what’s needed, sedate our gorgeous new guest and bring them to my quarters. I’ll take care of them from there, if you know what I mean.”

There was laughter from outside the room. Ugly, jeering. 

There was none of it in the antagonist’s eyes, even as they tossed the spy a wink and marched out. 

“Easy there, gorgeous.” The antagonist’s voice drifted from across the suite, followed by the sound of...a record player. Was that a record player? 

The protagonist squinted against the bright light, struggling to adjust, before the rest of the room came into focus. It was better described as a suite, dominated by the large bed that the protagonist was laying on. Nope. Restrained to. They were restrained to the bed, how joyous!

“Relax,” the antagonist said. “I’m not going to do anything to you. You’re on the bed because you need to rest and recover from your wounds, and beds are typically more conducive to rest than a chair.”

“And I’m tied to your bed because?”

“Because you’re an international highly trained spy and I don’t trust you?” The antagonist appeared by the bed’s left side, eyebrow raised. 

That may have been a fair point. Still. 

“That doesn’t answer the question of why I’m tied to your bed in particular,” the protagonist said. “I could have rested somewhere other than your quarters. There must be more suitable places for prisoners you do not trust.”

The guards had continued to interrogate the spy with all of the antagonist’s advice, and when staying conscious enough to answer questions was no longer so viable an option, they’d dumped the protagonist in the antagonist’s quarters as requested. No doubt thinking that the antagonist had some cruel amusement planned. Fast forward, click play, and there they were.

“No,” the antagonist mused. “I suppose it doesn’t.” They skated their fingertips idly up along the protagonist’s abs. “How are you feeling?”

“You know how I’m feeling. You told them what to do.”

The protagonist was hurt in just enough ways for the pain to be maximised, and the lasting damaged minimised. Much easier to keep someone alive that way. Much easier to keep asking them questions. Part of the protagonist was still stupidly grateful that all of their current injuries would heal with time - they’d heard of other operatives who were not so lucky. 

“I can make guesses,” the doctor said, “based on my understanding of the human body. But we are all individuals. You seem to be coherent enough to carry on a conversation, I suppose, but then we’re back to the fact that you’re a trained spy. Your pain tolerance is likely higher than most people’s. All this to say, really, do you require any medication to manage your pain?”

“Would you give it to me if I did?”

“Depends how much pain you’re in.”

“You have an unusual bedside manner. Don’t tell me you had me bought here to give me pain medication.” 

The antagonist considered them for a moment longer, a thoughtful expression on their face, before they sat down on the edge on the bed. “You are here,” the antagonist said, “because this is one of the few places on the base without security cameras or bugs to record our conversation. One of the privileges of being me.”

“And your employers are cool with this?”

“They appreciate that our working relationship goes better when they do not give me sufficient reason to fight them. Besides, I have manufactured a reputation over the last years should I need it for cases such as these.”

“A reputation?” The protagonist’s mind jolted back to the guards’ ugly, jeering laughter. Their eyes met the antagonist’s.

The antagonist shrugged, speaking lightly. “I find when I am sufficiently cruel to those I care nothing for, I have far more lenience to offer some semblance of mercy to those I can be bothered to invest in.”

It made a twisted, ruthlessly pragmatic sort of sense. The antagonist played the role of monster exceptionally well - indeed, they undoubtedly were one in some capacity. But not exactly the kind that the people around them looked for. Get enough people to believe you are capable of the worst torments, and they’ll start expecting it so much that they no longer feel the need to observe the actual evidence so closely. Once you know something is a monster, who needs to keep trying to prove it?

“And you want to offer me mercy.”

“You offered me my life, is that so surprising?”

The protagonist’s mouth dried to hear it so simply put. They weren’t sure if ‘hesitation’ counted as sparing someone, but maybe in their game sometimes it did. Either way, they weren’t going to spit in the face of the closest, if most warped, thing they had to an ally.

“Don’t suppose your mercy extends to helping me escape?”

“My mercy,” the antagonist said. “Extends to ensuring that you don’t. I did tell you that you wouldn’t get very far, didn’t I?”

“Why?” the spy asked. “What kind of security do they have?”

The antagonist laughed softly.  “Nice try.”

A weak, tired smile curved the protagonist’s lip. “Nice catch.” 

The silence stretched between them for a moment.

“You don’t want to be free?” the protagonist asked, and maybe it was the pain to make them question so bluntly. “Your employers make you do terrible things.”

“I’m very good at them.”

“You’re not a terrible person.”

The antagonist smiled, but it didn’t reach their eyes. “How far can you truly hope to separate terrible people from the terrible things they do?”

“Far enough for my job to exist. Far enough that you are offering me mercy.” 

The antagonist laughed again. Their hand shifted up, carding soothingly through the protagonist’s hair. “This isn’t altruism,” they said. “This is making the most of someone who understands before my bosses decide you’re better off dead.” 

“You’ll let them kill me?”

“Perhaps you want me to ask them if they’ll let me keep you as a pet? You are pretty.”

“No - I mean - that’s -” Would that be worse than death? It would give them an opportunity to escape, perhaps, give them time.

The antagonist’s grip tightened in their hair hard enough to hurt, yanking the spy’s head back into an awkward angle.

The spy’s gaze snapped them to them once more.

“You’re not dragging me into your schemes, so don’t even think about it.” The antagonist said, calm and deadly. “You’re pretty, but not pretty enough to die for. Got it?”

“...got it.”

“As I said, terrible person. Terrible things.” The antagonist loosened their grip again. They patted the protagonist’s cheek gently and rose to their feet once more.  “I’ll get you some water. You should drink something, make sure you have enough fluids. Food if you can stomach it. Then, get some rest. I’m sure they’ll have lots more questions for you in the morning.”

“Don’t think I missed you avoiding the question and distracting me with intimidation tactics,” the spy called, after their back. “That means yes. You want to be free.”

The antagonist turned the music up higher, pointedly, and started to hum. 

“Whumpee,” Whumper said, slowly pacing around them. “Care to remind me which way knees bend?”

Whumpee glared up at them, from where they’d been forced on their knees, Whumper’s henchmen roughly pressing down on their shoulders to keep them there. “Go to hell,” they spit.

Whumper only smiled. “What a shame. I think you need a reminder as well.” They gestured to their men, who yanked Whumpee up, pinning them between them. Whumpee struggled slightly, before realizing that they were trapped.

Whumper walked behind them for a moment, before returning with a large metal bat. Turning it over in their hands, they smiled. “Now, typically I’m a bit more refined than this, but-” they sighed dramatically- “you were the one who insisted on trying to run away.”

They lined the bat up with one of Whumpee’s knees, swinging and pulling back at the last second, laughing at the way Whumpee flinched. “So,” they continued. “Now I have to punish you. Let’s make sure you don’t try to run again any time soon.”

They swung again, but this time they let it hit. There was a wet crack and Whumpee slumped down, screaming. They were still screaming when Whumper hit their other knee, shattering it too.

“Get him up. We might need him.”

“We don’t have any extra blankets. If one of you wants to share with the turncoat, be my guest.”

“Enough. If he screams himself any hoarser he won’t be able to tell us a damn thing.”

“I know you didn’t just feed my prisoner.”

“Water or sleep? I’ll let you have one.”

“If he runs again, break his feet.”

“I gave him a couple Aspirin. Not that he deserves it.”

“Anyone so much as touches him, they answer to me.”

Hopefully that makes sense and isn't too specific lol.

Also, I absolutely love your works!

“You look awfully familiar...” The antagonist’s head tilted as if they were trying to place the resemblance. 

The protagonist’s heart slammed in their chest. Their parents had, as they were growing up, done their best to shield and protect them from the enemies they made. Still. As the protagonist had grown older, they’d heard some stories about some of them, and of the antagonist in particular. Their parents had taken down many bad people over the years, but it always came back to the antagonist. 

They had, long since, been the proverbial monster under the protagonist’s bed.

The protagonist’s hand shook but they held their ground, shoulders squared. 

“I’m here for my parents. You’re going to let them go.” 

The antagonist blinked and realisation crossed their face. They snapped their fingers together. “Ooh, that’s it! You’ve got her jaw line. His eyes. Mm.” The antagonist continued to study the protagonist, seemingly delighted. “You’re just precious, aren’t you? How old are you? Thirteen?”

“I’m seventeen!” For a second, the protagonist was simply, instinctively, offended. Why did people always think they were like twelve? It happened when they went to the cinema and got ID’d for a 15 on their birthday. No. Not the point.

“Seventeen,” the antagonist murmured, looking like they were doing some maths. Their eyes widened.

“Let my parents go.” The protagonist tried the words again, and this time they hefted their weapon a little higher, keeping it pointed directly at the antagonist. “Or I will kill you.” 

“How will you find them and get them out if you kill me?” 

The protagonist faltered, for a beat.  “I’d find a way!”

“Or watch them slowly die from the opposite side of a prison door.” The antagonist shrugged lightly. There was something sly to their eyes, sly and watchful like coming face to face with a crocodile waiting to spring.

Maybe the protagonist could keep them talking? Get them to reveal more information? A lot of older people talked to teenagers like they were too dumb to understand anything, so maybe they could use it to their advantage. 

The antagonist had already continued, without prompting.

“But, you know what,” the antagonist said. “This is perfect. Your parents are stubborn creatures, truly. I thought threatening to torture one or the other would work but it didn’t...and now I see why. They were both more concerned with protecting you.”

Unease, disgust, prickled down the protagonist’s spine. 

“They were willing to die to keep you a secret.” Now, the antagonist sounded gleeful. “And here you are! This is going to be an excellent family reunion. Far be it from me to keep the lot of you apart.” 

The protagonist forced themselves not to stumble a step back. They kept their attention locked on the antagonist, muscles tensed, barely able to believe that they were actually there and real and talking to them. Not just a bad dream. 

“Come.” The antagonist held out a hand, waggling their fingers. “I’ll take you to them. Maybe you can try to trick me on the way, hm?” 

The antagonist really thought they were that dumb, huh? 

Still, the protagonist hesitated, because getting close enough to get their parents out was what they wanted. Because what if the antagonist wasn’t bluffing? What if they really did need the antagonist to save their parents? Their had to be a reason that the antagonist was still alive. 

They hesitated and then...

Then they shot. 

The antagonist actually looked surprised, before they hit the ground hard, twitching as electricity coursed through their veins. The protagonist levelled the weapon a third time, jaw clenched with determination. 

“I’m not my parents.” They flicked a switch on the settings. “And this is the bit where you start fucking talking. Alright?”

Worse than anything, the antagonist smiled. 

@whumpforall

hol up imma write a drabble to one of your prompts if it’s okay with you?

Okay backstory: the characters to be written are Reegan Walker and Everett Harrington. They are the best of bros and nothing more nothing less. Would really suck if something happened to them.

Everett looked down at Reegan’s body. She was bleeding out profusely and she was obviously in pain. He dropped to his knees and gathered her in his arms, moving her short dark brown hair from her face. “Reegan-” He started.

“You said you would be there for me. When I needed you, you would be there,” Reegan said, through wracking coughs. “Where were you?”

“I was-”

“I needed you,” Reegan croaked out. “and you weren’t there!” She began to sob, her body shaking even more. The coughs mixed in with the cries and Everett felt tears welling up in his own eyes.

“Reegan…” He was lost for words. “Reegan please…”

“Rett… Do me one favor… do not rest until you’ve found who’s responsible for this. Understand me?”

Everett inhaled and didn’t realized tears had been falling down his face. He gave her a nod and tried to contain himself from crying out.

❤🗡❤🗡❤🗡❤

“Hand him over.”

“If you think my friends are just going to let you take me, you’re in for a rude awakening.” Whumpee confidently looked around at his friends, expecting their nods of confirmation, hands outstretched to defend him.

But none of them would meet his gaze.

“Guys?” The henchmen were drawing closer, and Whumpee was starting to get nervous. “You’re not just going to let them take me, right?” His teammates merely stepped aside as one of the henchmen grabbed his arm. “No, please.” Whumpee grabbed onto Caretaker’s arm as the men started to pull him away. “Caretaker, please, don’t let them do this.” Caretaker grabs Whumpee’s hand, and for a moment he thinks he’s saved, someone does care about him. But they simply rip his hand off of them and shove him right into the henchmen’s grasp. 

Whumpee is paralyzed in disbelief for a moment, but the feeling of restraints locking his wrists behind his back sends him into a full-blown panic. “Guys, please! Please, you can’t let them do this!” He struggles desperately as the men drag him to their car, the trunk already popped open. “You can’t let them take me! Please,” he sobs, uselessly resisting as the men shoved him into the trunk.

The last thing he sees before he’s shut into blackness is one of the men handing his teammates, his friends, a large stack of cash.