— How To Shower the Big Rotting Rabbit ! Ი︵𐑼 ♡
When he first wakes up after decades sealed in the suit, the smell hits you like a wall. Rust, rot, mold, smoke, and something indescribably wrong. You can barely breathe near him without gagging, but he’s so smug about being alive again that he doesn’t even notice.
The idea of a shower? He hates it. Water is what killed him the first time — those springlocks snapping shut against wet fabric.
You suggest it and his ears snap back like a cat hearing the bathtub run.
“Absolutely not. I am NOT walking willingly into another death trap, thank you.”
Step Three: The Cat Routine
The second you actually start pulling him toward the bathroom, it’s absolutely chaos. He digs in his heels, ears flicking wildly, hissing like a feral thing:
“Don’t you dare—! Bloody hell, it’s COLD—!”
He swats at the shower spray if you turn it on, stiff and jerky like an animatronic malfunction. You’ve never seen a six-foot rabbit man recoil so undignified.
Once you manage to coax him under the stream, he freezes. For a moment it looks like he’s going to bolt—then the water hits, trickling down rusted plating, soaking through old cloth and greasy clumps of hair. The smell doubles, as if all thirty years of rot are releasing at once.
You swear you’ll need holy water for the drain.
Step Five: Grooming the Beast
He tolerates it only because you’re the one doing it. You scrub soap into the matted fabric and exposed flesh, wiping rust away with sponges, working through hair that’s so tangled it might as well be moss. He growls low, ears twitching, but secretly leans into your touch when he thinks you aren’t looking.
“You’re like a bloody zoo keeper...” he mutters, unimpressed, even as you rinse his bangs back from his face through the mask jaws open.
When he finally steps out, dripping, steam curling around his ruined body, the difference is actually shocking. The smell is less corpse-pit, more wet dog and metal shop. Still bad shit, but survivable at least.
He immediately shakes himself like an oversized rabbit, splattering the bathroom walls, and gives you the most innocent look:
“What? You wanted me clean.”
Step Seven: His New Excuse...
From then on, whenever you mention showers, he grumbles but goes, only because you are there. Otherwise he insists he’s above such mortal grooming rituals”. Secretly, though, he enjoys the ritual of you scrubbing and fussing over him like he’s some oversized housecat who refuses to admit he loves baths.
(bonus: his ears twitch violently every time water drips down them, and if you tease him with the showerhead like a spray bottle? He glares, hisses, and sulks in the corner of the tub.)
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