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Whumper and Whumpee who are on the same team. Whumper will provoke whumpee until they snap and then go cry to the rest of the team so that Whumpee develops a reputation for having a temper and being emotionally volatile. Now everytime they express something they’re dismissed.
So when Whumper starts causing real damage; starts crossing lines and escalating past verbal altercations, starts showing up at Whumpees house after fights so they can ‘finish things properly’. Until they start threatening Whumpees position on the team, saying that if they tell anyone about the little predicament Whumpee is in, they’ll tell everyone that Whumpee is the one threatening Whumper.
What’s worse? They recorded a video of Whumpee snapping after a particularly bad fight, snowing Whumpee cursing, threatening, and snapping at Whumper. Of course, the earlier footage, of Whumper beating the daylights out of Whumpee is all conveniently edited out.
The cold weather I’m having right now is making me think of a whumpee with an old injury. Maybe they’ve gotten out of their situation with whumper and are getting ready for work but the second they get out of bed their knee hurts and it’s just an oh. It’s a reminder of what happened to them.
People notice they’re walking different and ask what happened. They shrug it off as a childhood injury that never fully healed but the memory of Whumpers hands, face, words, is still fresh in their mind.
They’ve told themself they’re over what happened, they don’t want Whumper to take up any of their mind but it’s hard to be over when there’s this constant, painful, reminder.
One of my favourite things is when Villain has been caught, hands restrained abover their head or behind their back. There’s no way out, they’ve been made. And yet, they still have this stupid grin like they know something the hero doesn’t. They seem completely unbothered to be tied up, in fact, they seem almost happy about it.
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When the Caretaker is big and scary looking, and Whumpee assumes he’s their new owner and just, quails because oh my god he wouldn’t even need to try…
Hands that could crush them gently helping bandage their wounds, a voice that could shake brick walls offering comfort and kind words, arms that could rip limbs from trees gently carrying them to bed.
It takes a long time to get over the knee jerk reaction of fear and dread at just, everything about him, but eventually, Whumpee sees them as they are, kind and gentle and strong in more ways than physical.
Whumpee almost forgets how intimidating Caretaker is until Whumper finds them again. And while watching Whumper experience the full force of Caretakers strength, they’re reminded that yes, Caretaker was gentle, but it was a choice he made.
“Can I tell you a secret? I’ve started joking about what happened so it seems like I’m over it. But it really hurts to see people laughing about it. It’s irrational, I know. But… It’s the truth.”
“I dreamt about it again tonight.”
“Can’t even remember the last time I wasn’t scared.”
“Why can’t I just be normal again?”
“In my dreams he found me again… When I woke up, I wasn’t sure if it was real or not.”
“Most days, I’m fine.” “And at night?” “That… That’s a different story.”
“That night? A part of me was killed, and it’s a murder that’ll never be avenged.”
“Sometimes I go weeks without thinking about it, but then it hits me out of nowhere and I have to start over.”
“I should be over it by now.”
“You know what pisses me off? He gets to move on and live his life, as if nothing happened. And every night I return to that room.”
“I’m so tired of not getting over it.”
“Everyone tells me it’s not my fault, and maybe it’s not. But I could have avoided it, had I been a bit smarter.”
“I don’t even remember any of it. Why am I still struggling?”
“Sometimes I can’t tell if you want me to be okay or if you want me to struggle.”
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I don’t know if I have the energy to write anything new yet but I am thinking about a typical “whumper kidnaps whumpee”. But wherever whumper wants to take whumpee isn’t a mere few hours or even day or so away, I want those two fuckers on a cross country trip, maybe whumper doesn’t even have a destination in mind and is just dragging whumpee from place to place for the hell of it, maybe whumper is on the run and whumpee is forced to come along for the ride. I’m thinking painfully uncomfortable 9 hour car rides. Whumpee being bound and gagged in a motel room. Whumpee being forced to act like they’re friends or dating the whumper in public spaces. All that shit. For funsies.
I love the trope where one character gets stabbed/shot and for whatever reason can’t go to a hospital so they get in the back of their friend (or enemies) car and lay there bleeding into the seats, waiting for someone to find them and (hopefully) take care of them.
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Tw: aftermath of non consensual drugged sex, nothing explicit mentioned
My eyes throbbed against the inside of my skull. I rubbed the sleep crust away from my eyes before opening them. Sunlight cut through the darkness and I watched little bits of dust float around the room. The ceiling was smooth, missing the popcorn and lacking stains from water damage. Not my ceiling.
I pushed myself up on my elbows and looked around. I was lacking a shirt and I could see my jeans hanging over a chair near the wall. That would explain why I can’t remember how I got here, or where here even is. I vaguely remember being relieved of my shift sometime after midnight, I was already downtown and somewhat angry so I went to a bar. No, a bar, then the club. Then a convenience store for some booze then back to the club. That explains the pounding headache. The after taste lingering in the back of my throat. That.. I haven't felt that in a while. I remember bumping into people at the club, leaning in to ask if they had any coke. I remember the voice of the guy who’d said yes. We’d done it in the alley beside the club. He’d stood a little close, touched my shoulder, rested his hand on my lower back, but he had coke so I let him.
The click of the bedroom doorknob brings me back. I’m still propped up on my elbows, with the blankets sitting over my hips. He’s tall, muscular, grey mixed in with the black of his closely shaved beard. The room feels a lot smaller.
“There you are.” He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “Was worried I’d have to take you out back in a tarp.” My chest squeezed over my heart.
“Easy.” He puts his hands up. “I’m only joking.” I can feel sweat forming at the backs of my knees.
“Funny. Where’d you put my shit?”
“I got breakfast ready if you’re hungry.”
“Yeah, not really my thing. I’ll just grab my stuff and go.” I throw the blankets off and see… a few concerning things.
I’m in my boxers, for one, and my right ankle is wrapped in a bandage. There's also a bite mark poking out of the waistband of my boxers and one on my thigh.
“Did..” My throat feels dry.
“You were pretty hyper after the coke.” He rubs the back of his neck.
“Right.” I clear my throat. “Well, I’m gonna go.” I swing my legs over the side of the bed.
“You might want to be careful with that ankle.” He takes a step forward and I hold up my hand.
“I got it.” I put my weight on my left foot and take a step towards my pants.
“Fuck!” It gives out under my weight and I land on my elbows. The pain shoots up my leg and pulses around my ankle.
“Wanna let me in on why my ankle is royally fucked?”
“Its quite the sprain. Must’ve done it at some point last night, can’t say I noticed until after you passed out. Should get some ice on it, help the swelling go down.”
“Oh and I guess you didn’t notice me limping?”
“Well I certainly didn’t complain when you slung an arm around my shoulder and asked me to take you back to my place. Figured you were stumbling because of how drunk you were.” He hooks me under the arm and pulls me to my feet. I can feel the heat rising in my face.
“Hey I got it.” I try to push him away but he sets me down on the bed again before stepping back. I lean forward, my elbows resting on my bare thighs.
“You look a little flushed. What, still in the closet or something?”
“I’m not gay.”
“Oh sure man, neither am I.” He leans his back against the chair with my pants on them. Arms crossed again.
“I need to get home.”
“Why, your girlfriend waiting for you?”
“Can you hand me my phone? I’ll call a ride and get out of your hair.”
“Its no problem, really,” He doesn't move. “You didn’t seem to mind being all over my hair last night.”
“Alright. “ I hiss through my teeth. “I get it. We fucked.” I push myself off the bed, keeping my weight off my angle, and put my hand against the wall for support. He’s got a good couple inches on me, and I don’t usually threaten people in my boxers, but he’s pushing it.
“You seem to have some kinda problem with me leaving. I get that you had fun and all, but if you couldn’t tell from the way I woke up in some stranger’s place, with a busted ankle, and no fucking pants on, this isn’t exactly my idea of a first date. Now give me my phone and my pants before I lose my shit.” He still doesn’t move. And the amused smile on his face doesn’t falter.
“Easy, tough guy.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Your phones in the kitchen.” He turns to a dresser and pulls out a pair of grey sweatpants. “You’re welcome to try and get that swollen ankle through those ratty jeans you had on, but I’d recommend you save the masochism next time time.” I huff but take the pants, sitting back down against the bed to put them on. He’s right, they’re a lot easier to slip over my ankle than my jeans would be. Not that I’ll tell him that. “Now, are you gonna let me help you to the kitchen or would you rather crawl?”
“What, you don't got any shirts?
“You didn’t ask for one.” He smiles like he’s laughing at me, ducking under my right arm and wrapping an arm around my waist. His sweatpants are loose on me and slip down a bit as we walk, but they work.
His kitchen is open concept with the living room, big windows on the right overlooking the city, the kitchen island on the left is where he sets me down. My phone is on the island counter plugged into a laptop. That doesn’t make me feel much better. I lean across to reach it but he puts his hand over my phone.
“The fuck man? What is this?”
“I’ll be honest with you, Ike. You seem like the kind of guy who appreciates a direct approach.” I didn’t realize he knew my name. I don’t remember his. “So I’m gonna be straight with you, well… honest with you. I know who you are. I knew who you were last night when I saw you in the club. And I knew you were coming home with me. You made it real easy for me when you asked me for coke. Didn’t even have to slip you anything.”
“The fuck are you talking about?” There's two doors behind him. One has to be a way out.
“All in good time.” He holds his hands up like he’s trying to shush a horse. “I know you’re Ike O’Conner, I know you work for Brian Skinner, and-”
“What are you writing a fuckin’ book about me?”
“And, I know this phone is very important to you.”
“Yeah I’m real hung up on all the pictures I have of the fucking sunset saved to my camera roll.”
“You got a text last night with a set of coordinates..”
“Oh yeah that was just my mother telling me to go to the shops and pick her up some fucking milk.”
“I’m assuming the coordinates were some kind of drop off spot for drugs. That’s what you do isn’t it, you help with Skinner’s drug running and occasionally steal cars for them to use and sell. You have quite the criminal record for grand theft auto.”
“What are you making a goddamn diorama about me?”
“No, Ike. I’m trying to make a deal with you.”
“Get to your damn point then.” He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a little stack of printed photos, placing them on the counter in front of me.
“What the hell is that?”
“The point, which you asked me to get to.” I pick up the top one. My stomach lurches.
“Fuck you.” It’s me, and him. It’s us. They’re all like that. The whole stack. With my face clearly visible. Undeniable. “So that’s your plan then? Send these to Skinner, wait and see what he does to me? The hell do you even get out of this other than a half decent fuck and my body in a river.”
“So modest, you were more than half decent. Here look at this one-” I smack the picture out of his hand and grab his wrist. His other hand snaps to the back of his belt. Should’ve figured he was carrying.
“Easy.” He brings his hand back out in front of him. “Nobody’s gotta get hurt, you have complete control of what happens to these pictures. All I’m asking for is a little loyalty. When I call, you come.” I let go of his wrist. “I get what I want and nobody else will see these pictures. But, you miss a call or anything happens to me, and I’ll send them to Skinner and the rest of his crew.”
“Why me? Can’t you just go lure in other coke heads from the clubs and break their ankles to get what you want?”
“Too much work. Plus, Ike, I’ve been watching you for a while. I like your spark, you got a lotta pent up anger, probably from everything you’re repressing.”
“I ain’t repressing anything.”
“See, that, exactly is what I’m talking about.”
“Could get my anger out right now if you want.” I stand, his hand goes back towards the gun.
“How well do you think that’ll go with your busted ankle, tough guy? Not to mention that unless I put in my code into my laptop every twenty-four hours, those pictures go out. You know, I hear rumours that he runs a sex trafficking ring, maybe he’d get a kick out of these photos”
“Tch. Yeah. I heard that.” I grit through my teeth. “You guys must have that in common. Or you both just really hate me.”
“Hey it’s nothing personal. I got my own vendetta against Skinner, nothing you need to worry about, but let's just say that the idea of having one of his guys, most notably the closest thing to family he’s got, in my back pocket, that really does something for me.”
“He finds out about this and I’m dead.”
“Well then I trust you’ll do your best not to let this get out.” He claps me on the shoulder, handing my phone back to me. “I’ve put my number in your phone, I’ll text you. And, in case you need a reminder, I also sent you the pictures.”
there's something about facial wounds and scars that really gets me.
you can't hide them. not really. bandages or other coverings reveal just as much or are even more conspicuous than the injury itself sometimes.
the irrevocable change. you won't look the same. small marks or big, slashes, burns, they warp who the victim sees in the mirror. they can't ever forget what happened.
so. much. blood. face and head wounds bleed so much. having to hold someone's jaw or cheek while you mend them??? having to look each other in the eye, see every flinch and grimace... (or not)???
AND THEN the comfort of being accepted with them?? especially if the other person knew the victim before they were injured. being told they're no different than they were before, that they're still loved??? or that they're better than the marks on their skin???
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