Prompt: Monster/ Nonhuman Whumpee/ “That’s not a child”
Caretaker: She/her
Sibling: he/him
Whumpee: they/them
Contents: nonhuman whumpee, winged whumpee, child whumpee (about 12-ish, and they’ll make it out okay), injuries, broken bones, temporary unconsciousness, hypothermia (implied), minor arguments
Word Count: 803
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Caretaker gasped. “What is that?”
There was something just off the edge of the path: a dark splotch standing stark against the blinding glare of the snow. It was hard to make out, but it looked like it could have been fur. There was definitely something ruffling in the wind. Caretaker’s first thought was that it was someone’s cloak.
No local would have been foolish enough to stray from the path in the middle of a blizzard. But a stranger, a traveler...
Caretaker’s heart lurched. Someone was in trouble.
But, of course, Sibling only scoffed. He bundled his cloak closer to himself. “It’s probably just a rock.”
“Right, a rock that just so happens to be moving,” Caretaker said sarcastically.
The dark shape was shifting, lifting itself up ever so slightly. Small trails of snow slid off of it.
“Okay, fine, it’s some unfortunate animal, then,” Sibling grumbled. “Now come on. We have to get home before the snow gets-- hey!”
Caretaker was already running over to the shivering form. She moved as quickly as possible, ignoring the snow seeping into her boots. That discomfort was nothing compared to whatever this poor soul must have been going through.
Caretaker had heard too many stories. Seen too many families torn apart. Animal or not, no one deserved a fate like that.
The form shuddered again as Caretaker got closer. Caretaker crouched carefully, making sure she wasn’t just dropping into the snow and putting herself in greater danger. At least she was close enough to reach out to the figure. Her hand brushed against what she had assumed was a fur cloak... only to find feathers.
Strange. She’d never heard of anyone wearing a feather cloak before.
A soft, shuddering groan, almost too soft to be heard under all the wind, snapped Caretaker’s attention back to the matter at hand.
“It’s alright,” Caretaker said softly. “I’m here to help. Can you hear me?”
The figure hardly seemed in any state to answer. With another pained whisper, they pushed themself up. And what Caretaker had thought was a feathered cloak unfurled into an enormous, crumpled pair of wings.
They were clearly damaged. One wing twisted in an awful way, all feathers utterly unkept, stained crimson in more places than Caretaker liked to think about. The other was folded carefully, feathers utterly ruffled. Caretaker’s breath caught at the state of them.
Sibling swore behind her. “Caretaker, get back!”
But Caretaker only reached out again, trying to help the creature into something closer to a seated position. The figure flinched back with a gasp. And their head lifted, turning to her, eyes wide in panic.
It was a human... except for the wings, and the odd shape of their eyes, and the feathers in their hair. And when they swiped out at Caretaker in fear, their hands weren’t hands at all, but a bird’s talons.
Caretaker didn’t care about any of that. They were in trouble. They were hurt.
And they couldn’t have been more than twelve years old.
“Gods-- Caretaker, get away from that thing!” Brother shouted.
Caretaker glared at him over her shoulder. “They’re not a thing. They’re just a kid!”
“A kid?” Sibling spluttered. “That is not a child, that’s a-- that’s a monster!”
The bird-child flinched. Caretaker glared at Sibling again.
“I should call you a monster, after what a jerk you’ve been all day,” she snapped. “They’re hurt. It doesn’t matter if they have wings or not, they’re going to freeze out here if we don’t help!”
The bird-child’s head lifted up just a bit. Caretaker turned back to them and tried to give them a reassuring smile. It seemed like they could understand her, which was a good start.
Sibling scoffed. “You can’t expect to just take them home, can you? What will everyone say? What will they do when you waltz right back into town with a--”
“They’ll deal with it,” Caretaker said firmly. She offered her hand to the child again. “Here. Let us help you. Do you think you can walk? I’m sure flying is a terrible idea right now...”
The child’s wings ruffled, and they immediately winced. They curled further in on themself. Just for a moment. Then they put their trust in Caretaker. They took her hand.
Caretaker’s smile widened. “That’s it. Up we go.”
She did her best to get the child balanced on his feet, which were as bird-like as his hands. Sibling watched the pair struggle for a moment. Finally, he rolled his eyes and actually went over to help. He complained the entire way back home, but he still helped.
No one knew what they would face when they returned, but it would be better than whatever the bird-child had gone through.
Looks like my bois have found themselves in a bit of trouble again 😈
Content: fantasy whump, kidnapping/capture, mind control, magic whumper, female whumper, magic whumpee, royal whumpee, return of a past whumper, small mentions of blood, caretaker x whumpee (my lovey prince and knight duo), oc whump, ambiguous ending (part 2 incoming!)
Word count: 600
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“What the hell did you do to him?”
Darius lurched against his chains, lunging towards Elore. He couldn’t get far. His wrists chafed against the manacles, probably already red and raw. It didn’t matter. Not when Mianu was right there, mere feet away from him, and still in terrible danger.
Elore, the False Queen, the sorceress that had haunted both Mianu’s nightmares and his own, had made her next move. And Mianu was the one who paid the price.
Elore let out a cold, cruel laugh. “I? I have done nothing. Your darling little prince has simply become what he was always meant to be. He has reached his full potential. At long last.”
“What are you talking about?” Darius snapped.
Elore met his deadly glare with a twisted smile.
“Oh? You don’t know?” she jeered. Her hand curled around his shoulder, a predator’s claws digging into its helpless prey. “And I thought you were all too aware of who he really is. He is my soldier. My perfect pawn.”
Darius fought against his chains again. His wrists were bleeding. He didn’t let that stop him. He refused to stop fighting, refused to let Elore see the dread that coursed through his veins.
He would not back down in front of her. Never again.
“Mianu, don’t listen to her!” he shouted. “You know it’s not true. You know you’re more than that. You don’t need to do anything that she says!”
His voice was ragged in sheer desperation, cracking with emotion despite all his efforts to remain stern before Elore. But Mianu didn’t say a word. He didn’t react at all. His gaze was harsh and cold, eyes nearly blank as he glared down at his knight. His magic curled around his arm. Wisps of shadow writhed like snakes. Ready to strike.
Ready to obey.
The golden collar around his throat, melted down from his own crown, must have been more than just a show of power. The manipulation and mind games that Elore had used in the past weren’t enough anymore. Mianu had been freed from her influence... so now Elore had resorted to something new. Something far, far worse.
Elore smirked. “He cannot hear you, little knight. He belongs to me now. Someone so strong, so powerful, was never meant to waste his days away with someone like you.”
The words were a sharper blow than any dagger. Darius forced himself to ignore the sting.
“She’s lying,” he cried. “You don’t belong to her. You don’t belong to anyone. You can break through this, Mianu! Whatever she’s done to you, you’re better than that! You’re better than her! Your magic is--”
“Strong?” Elore laughed. “Stronger than any you have ever known? How quaint.”
As Darius writhed fruitlessly against his chains again, Elore took a single step away from Mianu’s too-still form. She tilted her head ever so slightly, regarding Darius with a mild, dismissive curiosity.
“Why not show off that strength of yours, little prince?” she sneered. Then she snapped her fingers. “Destroy him.”
Mianu had no choice.
He finally moved.
The prince raised a single hand. His magic leapt to his command. Shadows rushed straight for Darius.
Darius closed his eyes, bracing himself for the impact. There was nothing else he could do. He just had to believe that Mianu would snap out of it in time.
If Mianu ever found out that he’d hurt the one person he cared about more than anyone else in the world, he would be devastated. And Darius would never be able to live with himself for failing so horribly.
special thanks to @honeycollectswhump for her research on how much silver is worth
content: fantasy whump, magical whump, human (elf) trafficking whump, nonhuman whumpee, elf whumpee, lady whumpee, lady whumper, conditioned whumpee, implied minor whump, emotional whump, manipulation
Duchess followed Mistress across the winding corridors, her soft, barefoot taps on the pristine flooring barely audible when compared to Mistress' high-heels. She was dressed in a gown, not a super expensive one, but one that would accentuate her features to potential buyers. She was nothing but meat here. Nothing but decoration. Nothing but household help. Whatever the buyer wanted, Duchess would be.
When Mistress gave her that name, she didn't yet know she would turn out to be a subpar companion. Mistress had high hopes for her, and Duchess beat herself up every day for disappointing her. Her starting bid would be 300 pieces of silver. A substantial amount perhaps, if you considered living expenses, food, etc. But a meagre amount when purchasing a slave.
They soon arrived backstage, and Mistress unclipped Duchess' leash from her collar. It was a simple leather collar, signalling to everyone and everything that Duchess was not a very… royal companion after all.
"Go on," Mistress said, and as usual, Duchess couldn't really read her emotions. She wasn't very good with those things — another thing to lower her worth. A good slave should be able to read her master or mistress' emotions well, to adjust their behaviour accordingly. Duchess couldn't do that.
Still, she expected… something. Some sort of sadness that they were parting ways? Mistress had been her trainer all throughout her time in the mother house, and Duchess had developed affection for her. Maybe more than was healthy. Was it that outrageous to hope that Mistress would've developed some affection for her in return?
Even anger she could've dealt with. Duchess had made Mistress mad many more times than she could've counted. But she wasn't mad now. She wasn't hissing her words like a venomous serpent, she certainly wasn't yelling. She was simply… practical. One last order from Mistress before someone would buy her and be her new owner.
So Duchess did what she was trained to do: she obeyed.
She stepped out onto the stage, immediately blinded by the harsh lights. She stepped on the hem of her floor-length dress, and managed to trip over herself, landing on all fours on the stage's wooden floor with a thump. She felt her face heat up with shame. She wasn't only bringing shame to herself, but to Mistress as well.
She didn't expect it from an audience of high-standing members of society, most of whom she imagined as stuck-up, but there were some giggles. Maybe this was good? Maybe she was endearing herself to them? Maybe they'd pay more for a clumsy, ditzy companion?
Duchess swallowed and quickly got back onto her feet, facing the crowd. She dusted off her dress and straightened her back, giving the audience her best smile despite the humiliation. Her pointy ears were constantly moving, picking up every little sound, and she heard some murmurs in the crowd.
"…cute…"
"…useless…"
"…pretty…"
She was all of those things, for sure. Mistress made sure she was all done-up and pretty for the auction. Duchess felt a little more at ease, knowing that at least some people in the audience were bound to bid.
"Our next slave to be sold is Duchess," the auctioneer said, his voice magically amplified. "The starting price is 3000 pieces of silver!"
Duchess turned to him, whispering sharply, lest she be blamed for the misunderstanding. "300," she said. "It's 300."
The auctioneer looked at her, then looked back at the paper in front of him. "Oh," he said. It was clear he judged Duchess very differently now. "My apologies. The starting price is 300 pieces of silver!"
More murmurs in the crowd. People wondering if she was defective.
"A pure-blooded female elf, only 42 years of age, with delicious blood and a basic understanding of magic as well!" the auctioneer went on, trying to make her sound better than she really was. Duchess wanted to believe it. That she was better. But the leather collar around her neck was a testament to her low value.
"300," someone shouted, and Duchess relaxed a little. It may not be a lot of money, but any money going to Mistress was better than nothing.
"320!"
"330!"
The price kept going up. Duchess was beginning to feel hopeful. Maybe she wouldn't be useless, maybe she would make Mistress proud, maybe, maybe—
"400!"
The room fell silent.
Duchess' smile fell a little.
Was that… it? Was that the end of the bidding? Was 400 pieces of silver for her really that outrageous that nobody even uttered a word in response? Even the auctioneer seemed a little shocked before he went on.
"400 once!"
Please.
"Twice!"
Just a little more.
"Sold! Please come backstage to collect your new slave, ma'am."
Duchess couldn't help it. She hung her head in defeat and embarrassment, knowing Mistress would at most get 200 pieces of silver from this bid. She had tried so, so hard to be good, to live up to her name, to be a good companion, a good slave, a good servant. And she had failed. She walked off the stage and found Mistress standing near the stairs.
"400 is not bad," Mistress said, and yet again, Duchess didn't know whether she was trying to console her, herself, or both. She clipped the leash back to her collar and led her to a small room, where her new owner was waiting.
"Good evening," Duchess said with a little curtsy. "My name— You already know my name."
"Duchess, was it?" The woman stood up. She looked strict. She walked over and hooked a finger under Duchess' chin, tilting her head up, then to the side, and the other side. "400… It's a steal. Just what makes you so undesirable?"
"I am not very good at most things," Duchess admitted. "I'm sorry."
There was no point in pretending anymore, or trying to play up her talents. She had already been bought.
"You two will have a lot of time to get acquainted," Mistress cut in, indirectly urging the woman to pay the price and get Duchess out of the room.
"Of course," she said easily. "Hollow, give her the money."
Hollow — a spirit, no doubt from the way they suddenly just materialised out of thin air behind the woman — grabbed a heavy looking bag and dragged it over to Mistress. Mistress counted the money, weighed each piece on her scale, and when she was satisfied, grabbed the bag like it weighed nothing and left the room without saying goodbye. Duchess really, really wanted to say goodbye.
"My name is Amelia," the woman introduced herself. She gently unclipped the leash from Duchess' collar and gave it to Hollow, who grabbed it and slunk back into the shadows, invisible. "Tell me, Duchess… What earned you the name?"
"I was taken in very early in life, miss. And as an elf, Mistress thought I would grow up to be a very good companion slave. Mistress isn't wrong about many things. I was unfortunately one of them."
Miss Amelia smiled. "You talk very poorly of yourself. Hollow was like that when I first took them in. But you'll learn soon enough that the auction house's definition of 'good' isn't always the standard at other places."
"I would love for you to be satisfied with your purchase, miss," Duchess said sincerely. "I'm just…"
Suddenly, the emotions of the auction caught up with her. The embarrassment of having tripped on stage, the shame of having to correct the auctioneer, the grief of having to part with Mistress… She just teared up. She tried to quickly wipe them away before Miss Amelia noticed, but of course, standing so close as they were, there was no way to hide it.
"There, there," Miss Amelia said. "Hollow, give me a handkerchief."
Hollow materialised again to hand it to her, and Duchess wondered just how many things Hollow had on hand. Miss Amelia gently dabbed her tears away, smiling warmly.
"How about we go home, and I'll see just how bad of a companion slave you are?"
"Miss doesn't believe me," Duchess concluded. Miss Amelia's smile didn't falter. She didn't even scold her for speaking her mind like that, or accusing her of things like this.
"I don't. Come, let's get you situated."
—
Duchess was walking through the enormous kitchen, snagging a muffin here, a cupcake there. Miss Amelia's good servants certainly understood their work, and they performed appropriately. Miss Amelia was expecting company today, and Duchess was already in her dress, feeling like a princess. Or, well, a duchess.
When she tried to take another cupcake, one of the servants smacked her hand away.
"Those are for Sir Dorian," she chided.
"I know, I just… Isn't it okay to taste-test?"
Duchess got along well with the servants, and this one eventually relented as well.
"Fine. Just don't get frosting all over your lips."
Duchess giddily took another cupcake and hurried out of the kitchen, into the parlour. Miss Amelia was sitting in her armchair, idly conversing with one of her friends on the phone. Duchess, not wanting to disturb her, approached Hollow instead. She had gotten really good at spotting them, even when they were hiding.
"Hollow, do you think Miss Amelia will allow me to speak with the guests?"
Hollow materialised, their cover having been blown anyway. They shrugged.
"I really want to. I've heard there are going to be elves coming! Well, maybe they won't appreciate me giving their entire species a bad name by being such a lousy companion… Maybe they wouldn't want to talk to me at all."
Hollow didn't reply. They never did. Sometimes, Duchess wondered whether they were even capable of speech. But they didn't really need words — their expression said it all.
"You're right. Miss Amelia never demeaned me, and she even gave me this beautiful collar. If they think I'm bad representation, they're simply wrong. Just because some elves are slaves, that doesn't mean the stuck-up royals get to be all…" She trailed off. Miss Amelia had put the phone down. "Miss Amelia!" she beamed, leaving Hollow and going to be with her mistress. "I taste-tested the cupcakes. I'm sure your guests will love them."
"Thank you, Duchess," she said with a smile. "I can always count on you."
Duchess giggled a little. Miss Amelia always knew what to say to lift her spirits. Just like Hollow. Just like the other servants. Life at Miss Amelia's house almost made her forget about Mistress.
"Is everything alright?" she asked, and Duchess realised she must've let her emotions show. She didn't like to feel nostalgic. It felt like a guilty pleasure. When life was so good here, why did her mind still wonder back to the mother house?
"Yes, miss. I'm sorry, miss."
"Nobody did anything to hurt you, did they?"
"Oh, no! Not at all! Everyone has been very kind, as always."
"Then is there a problem with your attire? You don't feel confident in it?"
"No, it's beautiful. I'm sure miss' friends will marvel at it."
"Then what is it, Duchess?"
There was no way she could lie to Miss Amelia. Not only because she could always tell, but because she couldn't handle it emotionally. Miss Amelia had been so good to her, it would've been severely unfair.
"I… I still… miss Mistress sometimes," she admitted quietly.
"Oh," Miss Amelia said softly. "I see."
"But not because miss hasn't been kind to me! I've gotten everything I could've ever dreamed of here! I would never dare be ungrateful, I don't know why my stupid, no-good mind wanders—"
"It's okay, Duchess," she said placatingly. "Duchess, do you mind stepping out for a brief moment? I have to make a call."
"Oh. No, of course, I'll be going, then."
Miss Amelia had never just sent her away after admitting to her feelings like that. It was a little strange, but she didn't have the right to question her owner. She went back to the kitchen, chatting with the staff a little until the guests arrived. Then, she walked back into the parlour.
She heard impressed murmurs from everywhere around her. Some were complimenting her complexion, some her hair, some her dress, and some the collar adorned with gems that Miss Amelia had given her right upon arriving home, in place of the leather one. Duchess felt like she was shining.
And although she could count the guests and make the conclusion that everyone had already arrived, there was a ring from the direction of the door.
"Duchess, could you get that for me?" Miss Amelia called. Duchess pointed a finger at her own chest in question. Miss Amelia nodded with a smile.
Duchess walked over to the front door and opened. And on the other side, there stood…
"Mistress!" Duchess squealed.
Mistress even gave her one of her rare smiles. "Hello, Duchess."
Duchess looked around, like she expected this to be a prank, an illusion, someone playing a cruel trick on her. "Mistress, it's really you?"
"Amelia called and asked if I wanted to drop by," she explained. "And I would never say no to such an invitation."
"Did you… Did you come for Miss Amelia, or because…" She didn't dare finish the sentence. She didn't dare be so presumptuous.
Mistress reached out, and Duchess flinched a little — but all she did was place a hand on the top of her head. Not ruffling her carefully arranged hair, but just petting a little. "Of course I came to see you."
Duchess lit up. "Have you ever been to Miss Amelia's house before?" she asked excitedly. "I could show you around! And Hollow could come as well! Mistress, I have so much to tell you!"
That was the beginning of a very fun afternoon, where Mistress was kind, all other guests might as well have disappeared to Duchess, and she just talked and talked and talked and Mistress listened.
And at the end of the afternoon, when it was time to say goodbye, Duchess didn't dare go in for a hug. In all her years spent at the mother house, she had never hugged Mistress. But to her surprise, Mistress embraced her by the door.
"You are doing very well, Duchess," she whispered. "I'm proud of you."
Tears immediately sprung to Duchess' eyes. "You… You are? Even though I was… so… cheap?"
"It is clear that we have all undervalued you." She pulled away and smiled at her. "Good girl, Duchess."
Duchess gave her a teary smile. "Thank you, Mistress. Thank you so much."
Duchess felt a hand on her shoulder, and when she looked, it was Miss Amelia. "Duchess, would you mind fetching me a glass of water? I'm parched. I'll see her out."
"Of course!" Duchess said, almost tripping over her pretty dress as she ran to complete the order.
And when she came back, clearly quicker than expected, she caught sight of Miss Amelia handing a bag of… money to Mistress. She froze. Had this all been… a play? Had this really all been a trick?
The glass almost slipped from her hand. Miss Amelia turned and realised she was there, and her face fell. "Oh," she breathed. "You were… very quick."
Tears slipped down Duchess' cheeks. She forced a smile anyway. "Your water, miss."
Mistress put the bag away, not really knowing what to say or how to react. That was rare. "Well, I don't suppose I have to keep up the act, then," she said awkwardly.
"No," Duchess said before Miss Amelia could've said a word. Bad servant, cutting off her mistress. "Thank you for coming, Mistress. I hope it was worth it."
With that, she shoved the glass of water into Miss Amelia's hand, and ran off.
magic healer but whenever they use their power it takes from their own body
#395
content: fantasy whump, magical whump, magic user whumpee, lady whump, lady whumpee, needles, animal whump (whumpee attacked by a wild animal)
"Quick, bring them in!" Healer ordered, her commanding voice drowning out Whumpee's pained groans. "Put them on the table!"
Caretaker did so. They had been the one to carry Whumpee all the way back to the village after what they'd described as a wild beast attacking the two of them. Caretaker chased it off, but not before it got Whumpee, and got them good. The bite ran across their entire torso, and they were losing blood quickly. Not to mention the chance of infection.
"Now leave," Healer said.
"But I—" Caretaker tried, but Healer shut them down fast.
"Do you want your friend to live? Then leave."
No one was allowed to watch Healer work. Caretaker knew that. So begrudgingly, they left the tent.
Healer placed her hands on Whumpee's torso. She breathed in, then out. Her palms were glowing blue as she focused all of her magic into them, and soon, the teeth marks on Whumpee's torso started to close up without as much as leaving a scar.
In return, the same teeth marks were appearing on Healer's torso. She winced from the pain but kept going, determined to save Whumpee. Healer knew them well — she'd watched Whumpee grow up in the village.
She had to save them.
By the time she was done, Whumpee wasn't even grimacing — but her own shirt was soaked through with blood. Whumpee sat up, feeling around their torso. "The bite... It's healed?"
It was Whumpee's first time in the healer's tent. Healer didn't fault them for not understanding. "Go outside," she said, trying not to sound like she was in as much pain as she was. Whumpee finally looked at her, and their eyes widened.
"Healer, your shirt—"
"Go outside," she repeated, more firm. "Caretaker is waiting for you."
"No, I'll help—"
"Do you think I can't help myself?" she asked, her booming voice making Whumpee shrink back.
"I'll go," they said meekly. They hopped off the table and quickly made their way to the entrance, slipping out. Healer could hear them reuniting with Caretaker. Caretaker sounded happy.
Good.
Healer dragged herself over to where she kept her private medical supplies — disinfectant, thread and needle, cotton balls. These were reserved for her, and her alone. Since she used magic to heal the others and take on their injuries, they never needed to be used on them.
She slowly pulled her shirt up, making a face at the sight. She poured some disinfectant over a cloth and dabbed it into the wounds. She hissed. "Stupid animal," she grumbled.
Then, she got to stitching herself up. One by one, she stitched all the teeth marks closed. There, good as new.
She placed her supplies back in their respective places, and changed out of the bloody shirt into another one. These wounds would need a while to heal. She just hoped no one was going to bring another torso injury into the tent until then.
Whumper POV character who finds a fallen angel confused and injured in their backyard and brings it home. Slowly, nursing it back to health becomes controlling and owning it all while whumper thinks they're being completely reasonable.
Contents: allusions to past trauma, whumpee/caretaker power imbalance
Masterlist
---
Reth closed the bathroom door behind him with shaking hands.
Why was he reacting like this? Nothing had even happened! Very specifically, nothing had happened! Tara hadn't done anything.
The two of them shared a pact, and he had given her his name. She had done nothing, when she easily could do almost anything.
She could easily make him do almost anything.
He shook his head, trying to chase away that thought. True as it was, it wouldn't help him. Tara didn't like when he acted scared of her.
That was the wrong thing to focus on. He needed to focus on the positives, like how she had given him this opportunity to get cleaned up by himself. He found the towel and washcloth on the floor just as she'd described.
Reth stared at the tiny shower as they tried to decide their next move. They didn't truly need a shower. Not really. His captors cleaned him up after each one of their "meetings". They liked to make a mess of him all over again the next time, not deal with the sloppy leftovers of their previous round.
(Some of them volunteered for the job, reveling in the opportunity to run their hands over every inch of him with the pretext of cleaning. Those ones disgusted him almost more than the others. If you're going to be a monster, be a monster. Don't hide behind flimsy justifications for your deeds.)
He shuddered at the memory.
That settled it. He turned the shower on and stripped out of his borrowed clothing. He would have to put it back on, after, but that would be alright. It would be worth it to wash off the worst of the memories.
The lantern Tara had left to illuminate the bathroom cast erratic shadows as he stepped into the shower. It was easier, somehow, when he didn't have to see all the marks left on him. The frigid spray of the shower meant he was more preoccupied with getting done quickly, anyway.
He gave himself a quick and perfunctory cleaning, scrubbing with Tara's pomegranate scented body wash. The chill of the water had sunk into his bones by the time he had scrubbed off the worst of the lingering feeling of unwanted hands on his skin. He shivered as he stepped out and toweled off.
Then, the part that he was most looking forward to: washing his hair. He wrapped himself in the towel as he examined the supplies Tara had left on the counter: not only shampoo, but also conditioner, as well as her hairbrush.
Washing his hair in the sink was not the most pleasant experience. The water was cold, and the awkward pose required for the task pulled at the injuries on his back. Even so, he could have cried from relief.
He was finally able to do this himself. It was his own fingers combing through his hair, his own claws scraping gently against his scalp. Every touch was expected.
Once his hair was clean, he worked the conditioner into it. The smooth texture would be for no one's benefit but his own.
He wrung all the extra moisture out of his hair with the towel and carefully dried around the base of his horns. They were still tender, especially at the base.
His hands shook as he picked up the hairbrush. It was just a tool. He was using it for one purpose, and one purpose only.
(It would be up to Tara if she wanted to use it for his discipline. He somehow doubted she had any of the more typical tools for such purposes, and he knew from experience that a hairbrush left a satisfying mark.)
He brushed his hair until it hung in a smooth, damp curtain. Eventually he couldn't justify stalling any longer. His hands were as steady as they would get, and Tara's emotions had smoothed into something like quiet concentration.
He got dressed, took a deep breath, and left the bathroom.
Love a fairy with antennae. There’s so much you can do with that. Do they help them detect magic, danger, other fairies? Do they glow, do they move independently, do they droop when the fairy is sad?
But also the whump potential is undeniable. What happens when someone yanks at the antennae? When they get crushed? When they’re sliced, torn, or ripped off their head? Do they become disoriented and a confused like a cat without whiskers? Do they stumble around, looking in every direction trying to keep their bearings? Does it affect how they fly? Does it damage their magic? How bad does it hurt?
