Your Honour, I swear I'm not a serial killer !

mutual noncon/forced to assault is so, so brutal and there’s so much potential there. it’s something i Often have trouble with but when it’s executed well and (as a matter of personal preference) DOESNT just completely torpedo the relationship forever oh man it hits so hard.

the fear afterwards of it destroying whatever dynamic existed, both people sure that the other may never want to see them again (which would be fair, even if it really wasn’t either of their fault and they were both forced).

having to work through the trauma of keeping this person in your life when their body and their care for each other was directly used to violate them.

the question of whether whumpee KNOWS that caretaker was forced. did whumper deliberately hide it? did they threaten caretaker? does whumpee know something is wrong from the horror in their face and the way they can’t stop crying? did they have to have it explained to them after - only for whumpee to break down in relieved and guilty sobbing. because the person they trusted so, so much didn’t do that to them. and they feel terrible for being so relieved because it means they were raped too.

the tentativeness. the fear of touching each other. of being alone together. the offer to leave whumpee alone and never see them again, being brave and stoic about it but inches from falling to pieces. whumpee misunderstanding and thinking it’s caretaker not being able to handle what happened.

whumpee whimpers and screws their eyes shut, "don't make me-"

"open your eyes," whumper demands, tightening their grip on whumpee's hair. "or i'll kill your precious caretaker."

And when they return home to base, they find carnage. Their team is decimated. Those who are still alive are frantically tending to the many wounded.

No one has time for whumpee. Only to hiss at them: "Traitor." "Weakling." "Coward."

He stumbled through the broken doorway, half-blind from blood and exhaustion.

The base was chaos — shouting, smoke, the metallic sting of antiseptic in the air. Bodies everywhere. People running, dragging the wounded, calling for supplies. He wanted to call out, to say I’m here, but his throat was raw, every breath catching on pain.

He swayed where he stood, hands trembling, dried blood streaked down his arms. His nails were torn — jagged crescents of red where they’d been forced away. His bones screamed with every step. But he was home. He’d made it back. He just needed someone to see him.

“Please,” he rasped, barely a whisper. “It’s me.”

A medic passed by — her arms full of bandages — and froze when she saw him. For a heartbeat, he thought she’d help. Then her expression hardened. “You have some nerve coming back here.”

He flinched. “I didn’t—”

She brushed past him, the tray of supplies clattering as she shoved by. “Go wash yourself off before you infect anyone.”

He staggered forward, reaching out, leaving a faint smear of red across the wall as his knees threatened to give. “Please. I tried. I—”

“Traitor.” The word came from behind him this time, hissed like venom.

Someone else turned just to spit near his feet before walking away.

He looked around — at the people he’d bled beside, the ones he’d protected, the ones he’d loved — but no one would meet his eyes. They were all too busy, too angry, too tired. Or maybe they just didn’t want to see.

“I didn’t tell them,” he whispered. “I didn’t—” But even he didn’t sound convinced anymore. The words cracked on his tongue, as brittle as already breaking bone.

He took one last step, and his leg buckled. He hit the ground hard, breath shuddering out of him. He tried to crawl toward the cots, where the medics worked, where the light was warm and human. But they turned their backs. One even moved the tray farther away so he wouldn’t touch it.

So he stayed there, on the cold floor, blood drying thick against his skin, staring at the streaks his hands left on the tiles. His breath hitched, broke, turned into a soft, wet sound that wasn’t quite a sob.

He just wanted someone to look at him.

Just once.

Just long enough to know he wasn’t a monster - that it wasn't his fault - that he tried his best.

What do you think?

I love royal whumpees!!!!!

My favourite way for a royal whumpee to be whumped is by a royal of equal status but from the neighbouring kingdom, especially if the two kingdoms (and, by extension, the two royals) are supposed to be allies living in harmony. Life seems fine for the civilians, but they have no idea that the only thing stopping devastating war wrecking their homes is royal Whumpee submitting to royal Whumper's demands.

Over time, royal Whumpee's kingdom is slowly, subtly, being handed over to royal Whumper. Whumpee is becoming increasingly unpopular with their subjects because they keep sucking up to royal Whumper in public and making decisions detrimental to their kingdom, but nobody knows that Whumper is threatening Whumpee and everything/everyone they hold dear with far worse things if Whumpee doesn't do as they're told.

There's also so much fun to be had with hiding the whump in royal settings. Royalty have such an interesting balance of publicity, privacy and power, so it would be really easy to commit the whump behind closed doors, but so difficult to hide it during public appearances (interviews, events etc).

Does Whumpee's staff know? If they do, does Whumpee have to order them to keep silent about it? What threats do they have to make to stop people showing concern?

All the scrutiny from the media means Whumpee has to be really careful about not putting any injuries or scars on show. Whumpee can't cancel or duck out of events without a national audience trying to figure out why. And the expensive clothes must be uncomfortable. Wearing stiff suits and shirts after being beaten black and blue? Awful. Baggy jumpers and pyjamas would be much more appropriate for the state Whumpee is in, but they can't wear that because they're royalty. It's not 'professional'.

And you're absolutely right, this:

And it's really important that we see Whumpee as an asshole and a dick at first, all arrogant and annoying. Then we learn about their ✨ trauma ✨

Team begin to suspect Whumpee is a traitor, a double agent. They stop listening to Whumpee's advice and suggestions during meetings because they think Whumpee is trying to trick them into one of Whumper's traps.

Now imagine the look on the Team's faces when they're captured because they didn't take the precautions Whumpee told them to.

Imagine the look on their faces when Whumper walks past all of them and goes straight to Whumpee because "It's so good to have you back, darling. I've missed you."

They didn’t trust him anymore.

Whumpee could see it in the way the team wouldn’t meet his eyes during meetings. In how his suggestions were dismissed without discussion. In the silence that followed every strategy he offered—followed by the quiet, careful “We’ll revisit that later.”

They were whispering behind closed doors now. He wasn’t stupid. He knew what they were thinking.

Traitor.

He didn’t blame them. Not really. He’d been too specific. Too… precise. Too many details about Whumper’s security systems, their habits, their psychological patterns—how they always circled before striking, how they didn’t leave evidence unless they wanted to, how they always preferred enclosed spaces because it made prey easier to trap.

Whumpee had known what would happen if he spoke up. But silence meant people got hurt. So he talked.

And now… they didn’t trust him.

He sat alone at the far end of the table. He didn’t argue when they changed the plan. Didn’t protest when they ignored his warning about the northeast corridor, even when he knew it was a trap. He didn’t even flinch when the mission commander shut the folder of his notes with a cold “Thank you. We’ll go with Jackson’s route.”

He just nodded.

Because what else was he supposed to do?

-----

It was a trap.

Of course it was a trap.

The gas hit fast—burned through lungs and clarity both. Somewhere, someone screamed for backup, but it was already too late. The lights cut out. The floor shuddered. Then the doors slammed shut, locking them in with silence.

Whumpee dropped with the rest of the team, coughing hard, arms over his head.

And then—

Footsteps.

Calm. Heavy. Familiar.

He froze.

No. Not now. Not here.

No. No no no no—

That voice. Low. Smooth. Knifelike.

“Well,” Whumper drawled, “didn’t I say you’d come crawling back?”

Whumpee’s breath caught in his throat. His hands trembled. He backed away instinctively until he hit the wall, eyes wide, lungs stuttering like a broken machine.

Not here. Not again. Not in front of them.

The team was already looking at him.

“What’s going on?” someone whispered. “Whumpee—?”

The door opened wider, and Whumper stepped through like a man arriving at a dinner party.

Immaculate. Smirking.

And walking straight past the entire team.

“It's so good to have you back, darling,” Whumper said, every word dripping with cruel affection. “I’ve missed you.”

Whumpee flinched like he’d been struck.

He tried to crawl backward, mouth open in a voiceless plea, but Whumper reached him in two steps. A hand twisted tight in his hair and yanked him forward until he was kneeling at their feet, shaking.

Whumpee’s chest constricted. His breath hitched—and then came faster. Shallower. His vision blurred at the edges as adrenaline hit, hard and sick.

“Whumpee?” the mission commander barked. “What the hell is going on—?”

But Whumpee wasn’t listening. Couldn’t. His ears rang. His fingers curled hard into the floor.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t let them see.

“Still so dramatic,” they sneered, gripping his jaw. “You act like you didn’t miss me.”

Whumper’s hand cracked across Whumpee’s cheek—sharp, echoing

Whumpee yelped, jerking back - tears finally breaking free, but Whumper yanked him forward with ease, once again forcing him onto his hands and knees in front of everyone.

“There you are,” Whumper murmured, low and delighted. “You didn’t even say hello.”

Whumpee shook his head, breath sputtering. “Please don’t—please don’t, please don’t—”

Whumper’s fingers tightened in his hair, twisting until Whumpee let out a strangled cry.

“You think you get to say no?” Whumper bent close to his ear, lips brushing the edge of it. “After running off and pretending to be one of them?”

Whumpee didn’t answer. He was too busy trying to stop crying. Too busy trying to stay small.

Whumper looked up at the others. “Apologies for the scene,” they said smoothly. “He gets moody when he’s off his leash too long.”

The team was frozen. Shocked. Silent.

Whumpee’s head stayed bowed, panting through clenched teeth. His eyes were glassy. He wasn’t struggling anymore. Just shaking.

“You told them things, didn’t you?” Whumper went on, voice syrupy and cruel. “Little secrets you thought would help them win.” They chuckled. “Oh, darling. You always were the self-destructive type.”

One of the team members stepped forward. “Let him go. Now.”

Whumper’s smile never wavered. “Or what?” They yanked Whumpee’s head up by his hair, forcing him to meet his teammates’ horrified stares. “He told you everything about me, didn’t he? All those little details no one else could possibly know. You didn’t think that came from loyalty, did you?”

“I—I didn’t…” Whumpee’s voice cracked. “I wasn’t trying to—please—I thought it would help—”

Whumper shushed him mockingly, running a finger down his cheek. “You’ve made such a mess of things. But don’t worry.”

They leaned down again, almost tender.

“You’re coming home.”

Whumpee’s breathing picked up again, quick, ragged. His fingers clenched into the knees of his uniform, knuckles white. He was panicking. Fast.

“No—please, I can’t—please—don’t take me back, please—”

Whumper dragged him to his feet by the arm and began pulling him toward the exit, ignoring his struggling. “We’ll get that mouth of yours trained again.”

“You’re going to ruin everything.” The words were spat like venom. “If you so much as look up at anyone out there, I swear I’ll—”

Whumpee flinched before the sentence finished. His hands instinctively shot up to cover his ears, shoulders curling in, but the words still burrowed deep. Sharp. Hot. Poisonous.

The room was too small. Or maybe too loud. His thoughts were fracturing—slamming against the inside of his skull like they were trying to get out.

“I-I didn’t mean—” The words came out broken, too thin. He swallowed hard. “I didn’t—I’m sorry—”

“You think that matters now?” Whumper hissed. “Shut up. Shut up and smile.”

There were footsteps outside. Laughter. Doors creaking open. The event was starting.

Whumpee’s chest constricted—tight like it was being cinched with rope. His breath came fast, ragged, each inhale harder than the last. The edges of the room blurred. He couldn’t catch his breath—why couldn’t he breathe?

“I—I c-can’t—please—” His voice shook. His knees gave way and he crumpled where he stood, hands pressed flat against his mouth like he could force himself silent.

Whumper cursed and grabbed his collar, dragging him toward the corner behind the heavy velvet curtain. “You’re going to ruin this,” he spat. “You want to cry? Then cry where no one can see you.”

Whumpee whimpered—a pathetic, too-high sound that slipped out against his will. “Please, I’ll be quiet, I promise, I promise, just—don’t—”

He barely noticed the impact when Whumper shoved him against the wall. But he felt the pressure on his mouth—something cloth and tight being forced in to silence him. Panic exploded in his chest.

No. No, please no—

He thrashed, weakly, twisting his face away, shaking so violently his teeth chattered. “I—I can’t—” he choked out. “Can’t breathe—please—don’t—”

Whumper growled, “You’re overreacting. Get it together.”

But he couldn’t. There was no together left.

Everything spiked—every sound too loud, every shadow too sharp. His lungs clawed for air that wouldn’t come. He couldn’t see. Couldn’t think. He was going to die. He was sure of it.

He bit his own fist to stay quiet, shoving it so far into his mouth his jaw ached, just trying to muffle the gasps. The sobs. The scream that built behind his teeth like fire.

And then—

He gagged.

His stomach lurched.

And before he could even turn his head—he vomited.

All over Whumper.

The silence that followed was sharp. Final.

Whumper stared down at himself, drenched, seething. Whumpee was already sliding down the wall, trembling, face white, trying to fold himself into the smallest shape possible.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—I’m sorry, please don’t hurt me—please—”

The belt hissed as it was drawn from the loop.

Whumpee covered his head. “No, no, no—please—”

Footsteps. Fast. Sharp.

“The King’s asking for you,” Caretaker’s voice called, smooth but deliberate—meant to be overheard.

Whumper turned, furious. “What?!”

“Now,” Caretaker said. “He’s looking for you. I wouldn’t keep him waiting.”

A long, seething pause.

Then Whumper kicked Whumpee once—hard—and stormed out.

As the door slammed, Whumpee curled up tighter, still trembling, still gasping through tears and bile and too many sounds. He couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

And then—

Gentle hands.

Not forceful.

Not cruel.

Just warm.

Caretaker didn’t flinch at the vomit. Didn’t hesitate. He dropped to the floor beside Whumpee, pulled him into his arms, and held him—tight but safe. Safe.

Whumpee tried to squirm away, whispering hoarsely, “No—no, I’ll get you dirty, I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t care,” Caretaker murmured. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

Whumpee collapsed against him, sobbing into his shoulder, fingers curling into Caretaker’s coat like he was afraid he’d be taken again if he let go.

And Caretaker just held him. Rocked him. Whispered steady, quiet things until the worst of the storm passed.

Until Whumpee’s breath started coming just a little slower.

Until the trembling started to ease.

yes yes yes yes yes

i especially love this trope when caretaker didn't mean to be rough in the first place, it's just how they are. maybe caretaker has trauma of their own that turned them cold, or maybe it's just a facade because they're scared of getting attached. either way, caretaker knows how it is to be hurt and never wanted to hurt anyone back, so now they're trying to make up for it in any way that they can.

He hadn’t meant to be cold.

He hadn’t meant to be cruel.

But God, the way Whumpee flinched — that sharp little recoil like a kicked dog — it hit him harder than any blow ever had. And all he'd done was raise his voice. Not even a shout. Just... sharp. Icy. Like the people who used to hold his leash.

Now Whumpee wouldn’t look at him.

Wouldn’t speak.

Wouldn’t even stay in the same room.

Caretaker sat on the edge of his bed that night, hands limp in his lap, eyes burning with unshed tears. He used to think silence was peace. Used to think that walls made him safe. But now — all he could hear was the echo of his own damn voice and the slam of the door closing behind Whumpee.

“I’m not like them,” he whispered into the dark. “I swear I’m not like them…”

But maybe he was. Maybe the damage was done. Maybe silence wasn’t peace to Whumpee. Maybe it sounded like punishment.

The next day, he tried.

A soft knock. A cup of water. The gentlest voice he could manage.

“Hey… can I talk?”

Whumpee stood in the doorway, eyes hard, lips pressed into a flat line.

“I’m not here to yell. Or lecture. I just…”

His throat closed. The words were slippery things, painful to hold. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Whumpee raised an eyebrow. “You just thought I needed toughening up, huh?”

“No,” Caretaker said, too fast, too defensive. Then softer, “No. I just didn’t know how else to be.”

“So you decided cold was safer than kind.”

“I decided nothing. I’ve spent years unlearning how to scream without making a sound. I’ve spent my whole life watching people become monsters. I didn’t want to be one of them.” His voice shook. “But maybe I already am.”

Whumpee crossed his arms. “You think a sad backstory makes it okay?”

“No,” Caretaker said. “Nothing makes it okay.”

Weeks passed.

He noticed it slowly.

At first, it was just a voice — another voice — drifting down the hall to the training yard. Laughter, quiet but real. Not from Whumpee, not yet. But his presence was there, tucked into the edges of conversation with someone else. Someone softer. Kinder.

Caretaker didn’t blame him.

Not really.

He just stood at the edge of the room, arms crossed, watching from the shadows like a ghost of who he'd almost been. He’d spent so long guarding Whumpee’s safety that he forgot what it meant to guard his heart. And someone else had stepped in to fill the space he hadn’t known he’d left empty.

He still remembered how Whumpee flinched — not when he barked an order, but when he softened. Like it was the sudden kindness that scared him more.

It haunted him.

The apology had already happened. He’d already broken — knees on the floor, blanket over his shoulders, voice shaking as he confessed every wrong he'd never meant to cause. And Whumpee had listened. Quiet. Reserved. Gentle in that sharp-edged way he always was.

“I’m still angry,” Whumpee had said. “But I’m not going to throw your weight back at you.”

That should’ve been enough.

But it wasn’t.

Because now Whumpee was pulling away.

He found himself standing outside the infirmary one night. He knew Whumpee would be inside. Knew he’d been helping there lately — not out of duty, but out of need. A need for kindness. For people who didn’t raise their voices without meaning to. Who didn’t think affection had to be earned through silence and scars.

Whumpee was inside, laughing with the medic. Real laughter this time. Bright. Unrestrained.

It made Caretaker want to vomit.

Not out of jealousy — not exactly. But grief. Grief for a version of himself that might’ve held Whumpee like that, might’ve healed instead of hardened, if he hadn’t been shaped by cruelty first.

He turned to leave.

But then he heard the voice — that same voice that had once trembled under his orders — call out:

“You can come in.”

Slow. Hesitant. But... inviting.

Caretaker stepped inside, hands buried deep in his pockets, spine stiff with the weight of memory. Whumpee didn’t look at him right away. Just kept folding bandages. Kept the air neutral.

“I’m not here to make this weird,” Caretaker said. “I just— I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“I’m figuring it out,” Whumpee replied. Voice quieter now. “There’s a lot I didn’t understand. About you. About me.”

Caretaker nodded. “Yeah.”

“I thought you were cruel. That you didn’t care.”

“I was scared.”

Whumpee looked at him then — really looked. And Caretaker hated how red his eyes were, how hollow his face looked. Like he’d been carrying everything alone for a long time.

“I know now,” Whumpee said. “But back then… I needed kindness. And I thought if I couldn’t get it, I’d make you feel how I felt.”

Caretaker swallowed. “You did.”

A beat.

“I didn’t want to.”

Another.

“I know.”

They didn’t touch. Not yet.

But Whumpee slid a folded bandage toward him.

“Help me with this?” he asked, voice soft.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Caretaker didn’t feel like a weapon waiting to be fired.

He felt like a person. One being invited back into something fragile.

Lan Zhan hadn’t meant to be cold.

He hadn’t meant to be cruel.

But the way Wei Ying flinched — just slightly, almost imperceptibly — when Lan Zhan’s voice sharpened that day... it carved something raw into his chest.

And all he’d done was correct him. A quiet “Wei Ying,” when he caught him skipping a morning meditation session. But it came out stiff, controlled, heavy with judgment he hadn’t meant to place. Just like the elders used to do to him.

Now Wei Ying wouldn’t meet his gaze.

Wouldn’t tease him. Wouldn’t even call him “Lan Zhan” anymore — just “Hanguang-jun,” flat and formal, with a strained smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

He obeyed the rules now. Every single one.

And Lan Zhan hated it.

At night, Lan Zhan would sit alone in their shared quarters — not a shared bed, not anymore — and stare into the candlelight, his fingers curled into his robes.

This silence wasn’t peace.

This silence was grief.

He used to think Gusu’s rules protected people — protected him from the chaos that had once nearly destroyed him. But Wei Ying was chaos in its purest, most beautiful form. Lan Zhan had brought him here. Married him with the promise of safety. Of peace. Of love.

But instead he had offered him a cage, gilded and cold.

Wei Ying didn’t look at him anymore. That was the worst part.

Lan Wangji used to brace for it — the push, the spark, the rebellion in Wei Ying’s eyes whenever he messed up. But now… nothing. Wei Ying only bowed his head, murmured a quiet “Mn” to every command, and drifted away like smoke through the corridors of Cloud Recesses.

He just smiled when spoken to. He folded his hands in his lap and drank bitter tea without complaint.

Lan Wangji should have been relieved.

Instead, it felt like standing at his mother’s bedside again. Watching her laugh less. Speak less. Fade.

He found Wei Ying by the lotus pond that night, curled under the moonlight like a forgotten thing. Pale. Still. The white of his robes made him look like a ghost.

Lan Wangji knelt beside him, careful not to touch.

“You haven’t eaten,” he said quietly.

Wei Ying didn’t answer.

“I brought you soup.”

Nothing. Not even a glance.

“I…” Lan Wangji’s voice cracked, barely audible. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Wei Ying turned to him then, slowly. His eyes were empty. “But you did.”

His breath caught.

“You said you’d protect me,” Wei Ying said, voice soft but sharp. “You said the Wen would be safe. You didn’t say I had to disappear to keep them that way.”

“You are not disappearing.”

“Then what am I, Hanguang-jun?” His laugh was bitter. “A name on a family scroll? A husband you nod at in the courtyard? A ghost in Gusu white who keeps his mouth shut and sleeps cold every night?”

Lan Wangji couldn't help but look down, throat tight. “I thought… this was safety.”

Wei Ying stared. “Safety isn't silence.”

Lan Wangji’s fingers dug into the grass.

“My mother…” he said at last, “She was kind. Loud. She loved music. Danced in the gardens. The elders said she was… unruly.”

Wei Ying’s brow furrowed.

“Thee made her obey,” Lan Wangji whispered. “With silence. With stillness. Until one day… she stopped being anything else.”

A long pause.

“You’re starting to look like her.”

Wei Ying blinked. His mouth trembled.

“I can’t—” Lan Zhan looked at him then, eyes wet. “I can’t lose you like that. Not again.”

Silence stretched. The moon glinted off the pond’s still surface.

Then Wei Ying whispered, “Why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

Lan Wangji bowed his head. “I was afraid.”

“Of what?”

“That loving you would make me cruel.”

yes yes yes yes yes

i especially love this trope when caretaker didn't mean to be rough in the first place, it's just how they are. maybe caretaker has trauma of their own that turned them cold, or maybe it's just a facade because they're scared of getting attached. either way, caretaker knows how it is to be hurt and never wanted to hurt anyone back, so now they're trying to make up for it in any way that they can.

He hadn’t meant to be cold.

He hadn’t meant to be cruel.

But God, the way Whumpee flinched — that sharp little recoil like a kicked dog — it hit him harder than any blow ever had. And all he'd done was raise his voice. Not even a shout. Just... sharp. Icy. Like the people who used to hold his leash.

Now Whumpee wouldn’t look at him.

Wouldn’t speak.

Wouldn’t even stay in the same room.

Caretaker sat on the edge of his bed that night, hands limp in his lap, eyes burning with unshed tears. He used to think silence was peace. Used to think that walls made him safe. But now — all he could hear was the echo of his own damn voice and the slam of the door closing behind Whumpee.

“I’m not like them,” he whispered into the dark. “I swear I’m not like them…”

But maybe he was. Maybe the damage was done. Maybe silence wasn’t peace to Whumpee. Maybe it sounded like punishment.

The next day, he tried.

A soft knock. A cup of water. The gentlest voice he could manage.

“Hey… can I talk?”

Whumpee stood in the doorway, eyes hard, lips pressed into a flat line.

“I’m not here to yell. Or lecture. I just…”

His throat closed. The words were slippery things, painful to hold. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Whumpee raised an eyebrow. “You just thought I needed toughening up, huh?”

“No,” Caretaker said, too fast, too defensive. Then softer, “No. I just didn’t know how else to be.”

“So you decided cold was safer than kind.”

“I decided nothing. I’ve spent years unlearning how to scream without making a sound. I’ve spent my whole life watching people become monsters. I didn’t want to be one of them.” His voice shook. “But maybe I already am.”

Whumpee crossed his arms. “You think a sad backstory makes it okay?”

“No,” Caretaker said. “Nothing makes it okay.”

Weeks passed.

He noticed it slowly.

At first, it was just a voice — another voice — drifting down the hall to the training yard. Laughter, quiet but real. Not from Whumpee, not yet. But his presence was there, tucked into the edges of conversation with someone else. Someone softer. Kinder.

Caretaker didn’t blame him.

Not really.

He just stood at the edge of the room, arms crossed, watching from the shadows like a ghost of who he'd almost been. He’d spent so long guarding Whumpee’s safety that he forgot what it meant to guard his heart. And someone else had stepped in to fill the space he hadn’t known he’d left empty.

He still remembered how Whumpee flinched — not when he barked an order, but when he softened. Like it was the sudden kindness that scared him more.

It haunted him.

The apology had already happened. He’d already broken — knees on the floor, blanket over his shoulders, voice shaking as he confessed every wrong he'd never meant to cause. And Whumpee had listened. Quiet. Reserved. Gentle in that sharp-edged way he always was.

“I’m still angry,” Whumpee had said. “But I’m not going to throw your weight back at you.”

That should’ve been enough.

But it wasn’t.

Because now Whumpee was pulling away.

He found himself standing outside the infirmary one night. He knew Whumpee would be inside. Knew he’d been helping there lately — not out of duty, but out of need. A need for kindness. For people who didn’t raise their voices without meaning to. Who didn’t think affection had to be earned through silence and scars.

Whumpee was inside, laughing with the medic. Real laughter this time. Bright. Unrestrained.

It made Caretaker want to vomit.

Not out of jealousy — not exactly. But grief. Grief for a version of himself that might’ve held Whumpee like that, might’ve healed instead of hardened, if he hadn’t been shaped by cruelty first.

He turned to leave.

But then he heard the voice — that same voice that had once trembled under his orders — call out:

“You can come in.”

Slow. Hesitant. But... inviting.

Caretaker stepped inside, hands buried deep in his pockets, spine stiff with the weight of memory. Whumpee didn’t look at him right away. Just kept folding bandages. Kept the air neutral.

“I’m not here to make this weird,” Caretaker said. “I just— I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“I’m figuring it out,” Whumpee replied. Voice quieter now. “There’s a lot I didn’t understand. About you. About me.”

Caretaker nodded. “Yeah.”

“I thought you were cruel. That you didn’t care.”

“I was scared.”

Whumpee looked at him then — really looked. And Caretaker hated how red his eyes were, how hollow his face looked. Like he’d been carrying everything alone for a long time.

“I know now,” Whumpee said. “But back then… I needed kindness. And I thought if I couldn’t get it, I’d make you feel how I felt.”

Caretaker swallowed. “You did.”

A beat.

“I didn’t want to.”

Another.

“I know.”

They didn’t touch. Not yet.

But Whumpee slid a folded bandage toward him.

“Help me with this?” he asked, voice soft.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Caretaker didn’t feel like a weapon waiting to be fired.

He felt like a person. One being invited back into something fragile.

20% of the time: “Hold on. I wrote this? This is fire. This is emotionally devastating in the best way. This scene is dripping with tension. I’m a literary perfectionist. Someone give me a book deal.”