warnings: non/con references, vague victim-blaming, bitter whumpees, bad whumpees (not permanently), torture, general whump elements
Whumpee 2 grimaces, shaking, curling up slightly. They try not to think about how quickly they were reduced to a shaking ball on the ground. "You still haven't told me what's got you so pissed of-f." They manage feebly, earning them a kick to the shin.
Whumper stares down at them. "I'm tired of you acting so fucking cocky, you know, you should be kissin' my boots." He grinds his heel into Whumpee 2's side to emphasize his point. "Instead you're still playing the part of a hero. Or-- not even. You're playing the part of a fool." He squats down, yanking Whumpee 2's head up by fisting his hand in their hair. "A pitiful, beaten fool who doesn't know when to stop."
Whumpee 2 exhales through their mouth, their eyes half-lidded. They squirm, struggling to hold themself up, but their arms fail underneath them. Their scalp sears in pain as Whumper tightens his grip.
"Look at you. You're hardly awake." Whumper scowls, slapping Whumpee 2's cheek. "You pass out and no one'd be able to tell if you were dead or alive. I'd have half a mind to dump you out on the side of the road. See what kills you first."
"What, afraid - fucking hell - afraid you wouldn't be able to do it y-yourself?" Whumpee 2 musters a weak smile, even as Whumper's boot comes down on their ribs. They knew it was coming.
Whumper seethes, staring down at the twitching figure below him. Blood pools around their side, and he steps out of the way. "No. Killing you now would be mercy beyond your wildest dreams." Whumpee 2 hears him walk away, their cell door creaking shut. "Whumpee 1 will be in to clean you up. You say a word to them and I'll have you begging for death."
And with that, Whumpee 2 is left to wait. Every movement sends horrible pain up and down their body, mostly in their ribs. They tilt their head ever so slightly, as much as their body allows it, staring at their mangled fingers. That was a punishment for wrapping their hands around the bars of their cell.
Hurried footsteps find their way into Whumpee 2's ears, and they want to kick themselves from the relief that floods their body. Stupid.
"-hrist, Jesus Christ, you really set him off." Whumpee 1 exhales through their teeth, unlocking and slipping through the cell door. Their collar swings around their neck haphazardly, and they huff, pushing it out of the way. They usually take it off when they come to visit Whumpee 2, but they hadn't had time today.
"I did not, I don' even know what I did," Whumpee 2 protests, holding back a yelp as Whumpee 1 peels their bloodied shirt back. "Never did te.. tell me." They rest their head on the ground, groaning. "You brought the- you brought the rag, didn't you?"
Whumpee 1's hands pause, and they nod. "Here," they say, and the familiar fabric drops into Whumpee 2's good hand. "Don't tear your vocal chords." They warn, half-jokingly. They're so monotone, though, that Whumpee 2 can never tell if they're serious. They'll have to make fun of them for that later.
Whumpee 2 shoves the rag between their teeth, and just in time, as Whumpee 1 starts to clean their cuts and re-set their dislocated bones. Horrible, tortured screams fill the dirty cell, coming straight from Whumpee 2's lungs and scratching their throat raw. The worst part is always getting cleaned up. How slow and gentle Whumpee 1 has to be, how Whumpee 2 can feel Whumpee 1's shaking hand as they stitch their wounds. How they're sure Whumper is standing just outside, a satisfied smile on his face when he hears the screaming.
Whumpee 2 still uses the rag, though. To protect their dignity if nothing else. They'll never scream for Whumper.
When Whumpee 1 is done, busying themself with cleaning up blood and whatever else they find in Whumpee 2's cell - leave it to Whumpee 1 to clean a glorified cage - Whumpee 2 will sit up, groaning. It's how it always goes.
Today, Whumpee 2 looks over to Whumpee 1 with a wry smile. "Nice collar." They comment, and Whumpee 1's cheeks burn.
"Shut it. I didn't have time to take it off, on account of you being busy dying."
Whumpee 2 laughs. A raspy, painful laugh that shakes their chest. "You know, I'm not even supposed to talk with you. Or look at you. Or touch you." They tilt their head. "And you're certainly not supposed to bring me food. Or take your collar off. Or make conversation. I wonder what he'd do to you if I let that slip one day?"
Whumpee 1 freezes, their hand hovering over a spot they'd been rubbing a rag at. "That's not funny."
"Really? I think it is. You just screw up a little too much, and he beats you, and there's no one there to clean me up when he beats me next. I wonder which one of us would keel over first." They pick at their teeth. "Probably you. He's never layed a finger on you."
"That's not true." Whumpee 1 snaps. "You don't know that."
Whumpee 2 laughs again, the kind that makes Whumpee 1 grind their teeth in annoyance. "Uh-huh. You and your fluffy, clean hair, your three-meals-a-day, your clean clothes, your soft skin. Oh, it must be terrible."
Whumpee 1's ears redden, a telltale sign they're upset. "You don't know anything he does to me."
"Oh, poor you!" Whumpee 2's voice is gradually raising. "You get to stay in that warm house, with his nice little words, while he pets your little head and you suck him off or let him use you just right. That's what it is, isn't it? How horrible!"
"You don't know anything!" Whumpee 1 hisses, matching Whumpee 2's voice. "All you know how to do is beg to beat and then whine and complain and cry when you get it. I'm glad you're down here, I wouldn't want you up with me." They huff, throwing the rag down and storming off angrily, slamming and locking Whumpee 2's cell on the way.
Whumpee 2 stares at the empty space, eventually closing their eyes and resting their head against the cool wall.
