When Whumper starts to assault Whumpee, Whumpee goes limp. They don’t seem afraid, they seem resigned
Whumper frowns, disappointed. “I’m not your first, am I?”
whumper is right and that’s somehow the worst part of it. whumpee has been raped before. they’ve never had sex, not consensually, but they’ve been raped, and they know how it goes. they know how to lay back and take it. they know how to minimize the pain, to send the part of them that’s a person away somewhere else.
and whumper really does seem so disappointed. they’re still on top of whumpee, their naked body still pressed so close, connecting them together, but they’re not moving. they seem deep in thought.
then they lean forward, seize a fist full of whumpee’s hair, and murmur to them: “tell me about it.”
it’s too different. this is too strange, too unpredictable. whumpee is too present. they can’t ignore it, can’t pretend they didn’t hear.
“what?”
“tell me who it was. tell me how it happened. how it felt. tell me everything.”
whumpee would sooner fucking die. “no. do what you’re- just do it. but i’m not- no.”
“you don’t want to tell me no,” whumper says, even closer to their cheek. their breath is warm and damp and horrible. “because if you don’t tell me, i’ll have to find another way to make this interesting. which means i don’t want a whore who already knows how to take being used. your friend, they live just down the street, right?” they must be able to feel it - the way whumpee flinches under them and goes stiff. “there it is. so i’ll ask again. tell me about it. about your rape. i want to hear everything.”
“okay.” whumpee can’t breathe. they can barely hear their own voice past the rushing in their ears. “okay. i’ll- okay. it was- it was six years ago. the first time, anyway…”
