Whumpee hitting a punching bag at the gym as a way of releasing the anger they wanna take out on Whumper. At a certain point they start getting lost in that anger, imagining the bag as Whumper's hanging body as they scream and tell Whumper to go fuck themselves, at one point even referring to the bag by Whumper's name. When they snap out of it they realize that everyone else is staring at them so they quickly leave out of embarrassment. It was cathartic to let it out, but now they feel like they've advertised just how broken and traumatized they are to everyone there.
"give 'em here."
whumpee has been sitting on a bench at the side of the gym for several minutes, breathing hard and staring at the ground, only lifting their head to glare at anyone who approached. that made them think twice, and after the first couple, nobody tried. whumpee was left alone to the pain radiating up their forearms from their brutalized hands, the exhaustion and trembling ricocheting through their whole body, and the shame that hangs over them in a thick, dense cloud.
they hadn't even heard caretaker walk over.
"what?" whumpee snaps. they wish it sounded different - it came out more tired and wounded than anything, defensive like a cornered animal as opposed to actually intimidating.
"your hands," caretaker says, calm and steady. "you really fucked 'em up, so give 'em here, let me see."
"i can take care of myself. i don't know how much of that you saw, but i'm not some kind of broken doll. whumper didn't ruin me." it doesn't feel true. it all feels like an enormous, embarrassing lie as a matter of fact. but whumpee has to say it, because they need caretaker to believe it. even if - and maybe especially because - whumpee knows that it isn't true.
"i know," caretaker says, almost with a scoff, like that's obvious. it's the last response that whumpee would've expected. "whumper fucked you up, kind of like you did your hands just now, but they didn't ruin you. that's ridiculous."
whumpee doesn't know what to say. they sit there, studying caretaker, trying to find the catch. the joke. the trick. a minute passes. two. they still can't find it.
eventually, caretaker speaks again. "can you give me your hands? i just want to clean them up, make sure you didn't do too much damage. would that be okay?"
slowly, silently, whumpee turns. they pause for another moment, one last chance for this to all fall apart. it doesn't. they hold out their hands.
Content warnings: Carewhumper, less-than-gentle handling of injury, mentioned eye and hand trauma, burns, Sev apologising for hurting himself, mentioned/planned amputation.
There are footsteps, in the corridor. Tap-tap, muted and even. Purposeful. It knows the rhythm of those steps better than its own, and if its tear ducts were still working it could have cried from sheer relief.
Eshha came in earlier, cursed and left again immediately, and it assumed he was fetching someone to patch it up but it expected some unfamiliar healer, didn’t expect a reunion quite so soon.
The door is pushed open, a few more steps, and then Canna is there. Canna is there and it has just enough presence of mind to listen carefully and confirm no one else is in the room before it seeks her embrace, shaking all over again but so, so glad.
A calloused, steady hand tilts its face up, careful fingers pulling a ruined eyelid- at least, it thinks so, it’s hard to tell, everything in the area muted and hurting -aside to inspect the damage.
“Hmm. There will be deep scarring here, asymmetrical. Careless. You could not wait until I got here?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know when you’d come back.”
She does… something, causing pressure near the back of its still mostly occupied eye socket. The sensation is very strange- and hurts, but that is to be expected. “I will need to sever this, and remove what remains of this eye. Likely the other, as well. And, of course-” she taps the back of a hand, swollen and blistered and still in better condition than its palm or fingers, and the stab of pain it feels is so sudden it almost flinches “-the hands. As to my presence, I am only here because Norin came to me in quite some distress, claiming your innocent sister was in danger. And then, on arrival, I heard you were injured.”
“Where is my sister now?” Please say she was sent home.
“In a cell on level two,” Canna says, and her tone is matter-of-fact, unapologetic, but she does put an arm around it. “I will ensure she is alright, once I have tended to you.”
It shakes its head.
“Her first.”
“She is not the one at risk of infection. You need cleaning up and treating first- I cannot help her, nor indeed anyone, if we die from this.”
“…Alright.”
It is still worried, but there is nothing to be done but have patience. Canna is here now, and will be thinking of a plan already, will know what to do.
Things will be alright. It will be (it has recovered from worse, after all). And perhaps… perhaps, soon, Leonia can be alright, too.
It doesn’t normally care much for hope, but in this case… in this case, it dares to hope so.
"guilty" whumper who is not remorseful enough to ease up on the assault for a second but compulsively apologizes as they do it vs self-loathing, already tramautized whumpee who reflexively says it's okay (it is most certainly not)
whumper who is guilty (whether truthfully or as a manipulation tactic) about what they're doing and take it out on their victim(s) is so compelling to me, for real.
--
"i'm awful," whumper says, their voice thick with emotion. they lay on top of whumpee, drying fluids and bare skin creating an uncomfortable, nauseating chill. "you hate me, i know you hate me. i'm a monster." their chest shudders against whumpee's and their face tucks harder into the side of whumpee's neck. "i'm sorry. i'm so sorry, i just-" one of their hands roams down the side of whumpee's body, continuing to grope them despite the way that whumpee squirms and flinches the same way they have the whole time. "i'm sorry."
"it's okay," whumpee murmurs. they stare straight up at the ceiling and try not to cry or thrash or fight or throw up. whumper is so clearly guilty. they so clearly feel awful about it. this was going to be a one-time thing. it would never happen again. whumpee has been hurt before and they never apologized, never even seemed to recognize that they'd done something wrong. this was different. it was awful, and whumpee hated it, they hadn't wanted it, but whumper knows that. "it's alright, i- it's okay."
it doesn't feel okay. if whumpee were honest, it's not okay. they aren't okay. they don't quite feel totally present in their body, at the same time that some parts of their body are all too acutely aware of what's happening. but whumper's guilt and pain was so intense, and whumpee felt like they would choke on the outpouring of emotion if it continued. they needed it to stop.
they just need to get through this. they need to get through this however they can, and it will never happen again. whumper is just so sorry. it won't possibly ever happen again.
Content warnings: implied/referenced past noncon and forced to hurt, emotional whump, self harm, self mutilation, burning, hand whump, blinding / eye whump.
(Yes this is the “Sev spirals and decides to burn his own eyes out” bit. First draft I wrote down earlier today when I was sad, but I'm happy with it, think I'll leave it be.)
-
It's shaking- it can't stop shaking, and it's been... it doesn't know how long it's been. Not long enough. It's still shaking, and its eyes are squeezed shut but that doesn't help, doesn't erase what happened, can't make it forget, and it doesn't deserve to forget and it is alone and Leonia is alone and how is she supposed to manage when even it is struggling so?
It is alone, and shaking, cold and clammy all over, and it prays that they've let Leonia go home because it cannot stand the thought of her being alone and shaking too, she was never part of this, was never meant to be part of this, and neither it nor Canna could have guessed that this would be the result of their attempt to change things, and it's not fair, nothing ever is but this is worse than anything before- it knows, it knows that suffering is never deserved and that has always been a comfort but now it stings because why, why her? It wishes it had the power to go back, give the time to the serpent to eat and start over, but only Canna can do that and Canna is not here, it is alone, alone, alone and it doesn't know what to do.
Canna would know what to do.
And it- it knows Canna, doesn't it? Think. Think. What would Canna do, other than give the time away?
It is shaking, so Canna would hold it. Is cold, so she would warm it. It wraps its arms around itself, and that helps, a little. It cannot remember the last time it did so, the gesture unfamiliar and clumsy after so long without the ability to.
How to fix things?
It cannot reach Leonia right now. Cannot help her. So- focus on the self, first. What does it need?
It needs to not be guilty. Or to not feel guilty, because it cannot undo what was done but it knows that that wasn't really its fault, even if the guilt says otherwise. It had to obey, or Eshha would have done worse- he said so, and it could not risk the possibility of that being true.
It did what it had to but it still feels horrible for it, still cannot stop the tears it held back earlier, held back for her sake, but she is not here, it is alone, is crying, is shaking still.
Think.
Shaking isn't helping. Squeezing its eyes shut isn't helping. Being cold and alone isn't helping.
It forces its eyes open. Too bright. The world is always too bright because it has adjusted to years of darkness, but normally the cell is dark too-
They left the brazier lit.
It's right there, in the middle of the room, blazing bright and warm while it huddles cold in its corner when it could- it could.
It crawls closer. Could get up and walk, but no one is watching. It is alone, but for the brazier. The fire.
What would Canna do?
It reaches out and the fire doesn't respond, of course not, but it can feel the warmth and reaches further and-
It hurts. Ithurtsithurtsithurts and instinct screams for it to snatch its hand back, but Canna would say be still, and so it is still, patient, yes, good, until it remembers how to breathe without screaming.
It curls its numb-aching-burning fingers around something glowing, soft, beautiful, so beautiful and the idea comes to it then, because it likes beautiful things, is one itself, and like attracts like even though it can barely think through the pain, can barely see, but it doesn't want to see anyway, it wants to go back, back to when things were dark and warm and painful in a way that was easy. It wants to burn the irrational guilt away, it wants agony to confirm what it already knows- that it is the victim here, not the perpetrator, never the perpetrator.
It has never wanted to hurt anyone.
...Anyone else.
And it knows what it has to do. What it wants to do.
Its fingers don't move right anymore- it brings the numb hand to its face clumsily. There is no one here to move this doll's limbs for it, to pull its strings, so it has to do that itself, even though it's hard, even though it hurts.
It is shaking so badly it risks losing the glow if it waits any longer, so it doesn't, and the handful of shimmering heat makes contact with an eye.
It forgets, then, to hold its breath- it screams, flinches and falls back, face burning, sizzling as the eye is cooked- not burnt out, no, but it's enough, for the time being, it's enough. It doesn't think it can do anymore. It wants the pain to stop.
It curls up and shakes and sobs, tears flowing from one eye only, the other burning, burning, but isn't that what it wanted? There is no room for irrational emotions when pain is all-consuming. It can hardly think, and only the sheer amount of experience it has keeps it from falling apart completely, gives it a sliver of calm, of focus.
Good. Good so far. One more.
It doesn't want to anymore.
Irrelevant. This is for the best.
If Canna were here, she wouldn't hesitate. It wishes she were, but it knows it has to do this alone. It knows it can.
Its hand won't, though. Won't move, fingers stuck curled and burnt and useless. No matter- it has another.
Its breathing comes too fast and too shallow, leaves it dizzy as it reaches for the flames again, up because it is still half-curled on the floor, and plucks a burning ember from the base of them. Its nerves scream as its heart skips a beat, and it doesn't want to anymore, but it can and it will. An involuntarily jerk has it losing balance, sprawled on the floor, on its back, but it manages to hold on, sheer desperation holding the overwhelming urge to let go back for just a moment. It holds up its prize, a golden-red glow that blurs in its remaining eye.
Now.
It holds its breath, and brings the burning piece down. Its aim is- good enough. The cry it lets out echoes back to it in the cell, too loud, but it couldn't- can't -help it, this is worse than the last, worse than anything- that can't be true- is it?- it doesn't matter.
“I'm so sorry, we thought you were dead- but I should have known better, I shouldn't have-”
“Don't,” recently escaped whumpee says, interrupting their former partner/friend. “I'm glad you were able to move on without me. I wish I could have been there, but I wasn't.”
Whumpee and Caretaker who have ShitTM to work through when Whumpee is finally safe at home again.
Maybe they already had issues. Maybe things were revealed during the time Whumpee was gone.
Obviously Caretaker wants to help. But they're still Caretaker and Whumpee is still Whumpee. Despite the injuries and the trauma, they still clash like they used to.
The night after they had a fight, Whumpee has a nightmare. A bad one. And Caretaker is there to help them through the panic.
As they sit in the kitchen after, in the middle of the night, it's quiet.
Caretaker has a lot to think about. They're still mad at Whumpee. But...
Fuck. They've been through so much. Caretaker finally realizes how not okay Whumpee is. At the same time, that doesn't magically resolve their issues.
Caretaker and Whumper were friends until Whumper told Caretaker about how they "hooked up" with one of their mutual friends, Whumpee. Whumper described Whumpee as playing "hard to get" at first before finally letting Whumper fuck them and even complained about Whumpee "dead fishing" them, just laying there as they got fucked and not doing anything at all. As Caretaker listened, they realized in horror that what Whumper described sounded less like a hook up and more like someone being pressured into sex and dissociating through it.
they don’t know what to do at first. in the moment they don’t know how to react. they want to- well, honestly, they want to sock whumper straight in the jaw. hearing what whumper has done, the way whumper doesn’t seem to either know or care what it is they’re describing, and who they’ve done it to is each as horrifying as the previous piece of the puzzle. caretaker is sickened, horrified, betrayed that their friend would do such a thing and even moreso that they would tell caretaker about it so casually. the one thing that’s top of their mind, though, is whumpee.
whumpee has to be their top priority. they don’t want to upend anything before they have the chance to find out if whumpee is okay (stupid thought, fucking of course they aren’t) and if there’s anything else going on that could put them in danger from whumper. so caretaker quickly ends the conversation, stiff and strained and unable to act like everything is fine, and goes to find whumpee. their head feels heavy and fogged, nausea cramping in their stomach.
when they find whumpee and finally get eyes on them, it’s both reassuring and heartbreaking. seeing them moving around and relatively uninjured, awake and whole, settles something scared and frail in caretaker. still, everything else is obvious. they look tired. it’s in their face, in their body. they’re moving strangely, too, which could be pain and could be things just feeling wrong, uncomfortable. a noise comes from down the hall, loud and sudden but nothing more than a chair being knocked into another or a bowl set on the counter, and whumpee flinches hard.
do they even understand what happened to them? do they think it was okay? do they know they could have told caretaker anything and caretaker would’ve helped, would have been on their side immediately? do they feel like this could come from anyone now, that it could be any of their friends who would suddenly decide they were entitled to their body and not take no for an answer?
“hey,” caretaker calls, finally. whumpee flinches again and the nausea in caretaker’s gut spikes. “hey, i think we need to talk.”
living weapon whumpee, dehumanized and raised to see themselves as a tool to be used (for violence)- cold, stoic and stonefaced tanks any and all violent atrocities done to/by them, its their purpose after all. they've been at it for years now, maybe even longer than most in their profession even lasts. trained to not crack under torture or the likes- but no one trained them to endure sexual violence/torture. why would they? no one would *want* a a weapon, a *tool* like that- and in all these years, no one ever did. this is not what they were made for.
in short. whumpee being used to dehumanization and being objectified in one way is forced to face the same but in a completely different context for the first time and it fucks their whole shit up
(my mind went a PLACE with this so just. go with me on this journey.)
“you should have fucking trained me.”
whumpee’s voice is loud and angry as they bang in through the door, so angry in fact that at first caretaker doesn’t recognize it’s their voice at all. anger is so rare to hear from them since caretaker and their team rescued them. most of the time they sound flat, or sometimes scared. (sometimes, rarely, though more often as time goes on, they sound happy.) honestly, anger would be a good thing to hear from them. it might mean they were starting to see themself as someone worthy of being angry.
except for the way that whumpee looks right now, which means nothing about this is good at all. there’s a bruise swelling fresh at the corner of their mouth and their eyes are red like they’ve been crying, the way they look after particularly bad night terrors. worst of all is their clothes.
whumpee is still such a neat freak. and their clothes are a rumpled mess.
apprehension rises thick and high in caretaker’s throat. “what happened? why are you- what are you talking about?”
“you didn’t train me, and you said i was done being used, you all said. but teammate whumper just used me, and i wasn’t ready. i wasn’t- if you had told me and you had trained me then i would have- i could have been better. i could have taken it better.”
that apprehension quickly turns to fear and horror. “used you? that’s not- no. you’re not here to be used. i promise.”
“not like old whumper wanted to use me, no, you wanted me for something else. teammate whumper was just the first to actually do it. the first to- to fuck me like that.” betrayal flashes in whumpee’s wide eyes, eyes that are too bright. glassy with unshed tears. they’re shaking a little, breathing hard and fast. “and you didn’t even train me first.”
