I am a writer and artist, working in both fanfics and original works. I primarily do whump and hurt/comfort. (Without the whump, you can't get the good comfort, amiright?) I will always give my characters a happy ending; it just might take quite a while to get there.
I am a big fan of hero/villain whump, emotional whump, pet whump/BBU (mostly because of the focus on healing, but I have a soft spot for the "caretaker is the new master" misunderstanding trope), and supernatural whumpees. I don't like unhappy endings, gore, bug/parasite horror, or major character death.
I don't have side blogs, and will inevitably go on fandom rampages every so often. These may include but are not limited to: Danny Phantom (and many crossovers with it), Supernatural, and Avatar: The Last Airbender. You may be sucked into new fandoms via my reblogs. I probably should apologize, but... eh. Join me on the dark side.
I finally made a sideblog for my fandom content! This will likely not be a perfect separation, as I consider my fandom writing to still be whump (see Hunters and Halfas, my SuperPhantom writing, for example), but should cut down significantly on the amount of random stuff showing up on this blog! If you wanna see what my current fandom obsession is, head over to @lunar-fandom-eclipse!
I explicitly DENY CONSENT for my works to be used in AI generation.
Art commissions are open closed!
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My BTHB card
Please feel free to ask me about my current or former projects, or just say hi! I love hearing from you all.
And, if you feel like it, I have a Ko-fi where you can buy me a hot chocolate. (I don't actually drink coffee...)
I got married last month! My dog is laying on me snoring. I’ve learned to have healthy friendships and relationships. I’ve learned that I’m not alone and that even when things are hard, I’m going to be okay.
This showed up in my notes again. And here we are. 2026.
I’ve been married a little over two years. I just got home from friendships that feel like home and family. My husband and I have our own place. I have a full ass book ready to be published.
I don’t know. I’m still in a good place and I can’t believe how far I’ve come from my original post.
thinking about hierarchical whump in a superhero setting. like, all superheroes are government property, they all go through the same grueling training, and they can expect to have very little autonomy for their entire lives. and obviously beating down on a civilian would get them arrested (or worse), and fighting villains just gets so monotonous sometimes...
so much abuse that could happen behind closed doors. the world is your oyster.
The irony of this new breed of self-righteous AI hunters on AO3 is that they're all just copy and pasting peoples fics into AI detectors, which are all operated by AI and therefore THEY are feeding people's work into the algorithm without their consent and in some cases no doubt circumventing the locks people put on to avoid getting scraped...
Don't copy and paste anyone's AO3 work into third party websites, you're not the good guys in this situation?
What helped me write trauma better is remembering that the nervous system learns predictions. If danger used to come after quiet, calm can feel threatening. If kindness used to come with a price, kindness can feel suspicious. So healing is not just “they know they’re safe now.” Healing is the slow, annoying, deeply unfair process of teaching the body that the old prediction is not always the present truth.
As predicted it took a lot longer to get back as they need ed d to travel further on foot before they could find a taxi going the right direction.
Before they even opened the door they could hear their mom snapping curses one after the other
Masterlist | Previous
Corva shouldered her way past Aloka and shoved the door open with magic ready at her fingertips. Whatever new disaster was happening at the Leer family home, she would be ready for it.
Andre and Atlas seemed okay, other than Andre holding an ice pack against his chest. The wall not so much being heavily cracked and damaged from a magic strike.
"We were gone for two days what happened?!" Aloka asked pinching the bridge of her nose.
"Andre sleep spelled and I went to contain like I used to and uh didn't habe enough magic with only one horn to do so and um," Atlas stumbled.
"Made it worse." Andre coughed out, "The wall got the brunt of it at least..."
Corva examined the scene with all her magical and mundane senses. She had to be sure the Leers were telling her the whole story.
And as far as she could tell, they were. She slowly relaxed from her battle-ready stance, lessening the strain on her still-healing wounds, but she kept hold of her magic.
"Are either of you injured?"
She didn't believe so, not from what she could sense, but it was better to be certain.
"I can pay for the materials for dad to fix it..." Atlas interupted
"I got some minor magic burns on my chest, but they're nothing serious. Aloka's giving me worse from playing too rough as kids." He laughed immediately regretting it.
"I would prefer to see that for myself," Corva said with a tight smile.
Amaya could easily be right... or she and her sons could be missing something drastic. The latter might have a low probability, but it had a high severity. It still had to be investigated.
Corva drank several quick swallows of the smoothie before setting it aside in favor of the first aid kit. She pulled the chair close to Andre's own seat and perched on the edge.
If this got more involved, she would need to scrub and glove up, but she had at least the tiniest sliver of hope that it wouldn't require that.
First, triage. She needed to assess whose injuries were worse and what needed tending immediately.
Andre's chest had burns, as he had said, though he had downplayed the severity. Several were edging towards second degree, and all would do best with at least some level of treatment. The ice pack had helped, but cool water would have been better.
Nothing was severe enough to require immediate intervention, though she made a note to ask for Andre's consent to siphon off the remaining magic. It wasn't much, but every little bit would help with her upcoming reconstruction project.
Thinking of which...
She turned her attention to Atlas and scooted the chair closer.
Atlas was in fact fine, the magic had mostly backfired at Andre and the wall. Some minor burns on his finger tips no worse than touching a too hot plate, nothing compared to Andre.....or the wall.
Aloka watched her trying to figure out how to get her to calm down for more than 3 seconds.
Corva looked over Atlas quickly and nodded. "I don't know enough about your magic to know if your attempts made your horn injury any worse. Other than that, you do seem in good condition."
She pushed the chair back and grabbed the smoothie again. She forced herself to drink slowly rather than guzzle it down. After a moment, she asked, "Andre. May I have the remaining magic from your injury?"
And then she should excuse herself to the bathroom with the first aid kit. Now that she had done her triage assessment on the brothers, it turned out that the person highest on the priority list was herself.
"My horns are fine, promise," Atlas assured but did feel at the undamaged one just be safe.
Andre wanted to adk how she planned on doing that, but had learned to just stop questioning anything Corva did by now, "Yeah go ahead, what do you need md to do."
"Finish taking care of your own needs first," Aloka insisted.
Corva ignored Aloka's words. She would take care of her own needs, but that could wait another moment. The magic remaining on Andre's burns was already faint, and would be nearly nonexistent by the time she finished her own treatment.
She reached out with one hand and made a beckoning motion. Small wisps of shadow separated from the magical injury and flew to her. When they touched her skin, they sank in like water absorbed into soil.
With that accomplished, she picked up the smoothie and drained it in one long swallow. She set down the glass and took a slow, deep breath.
"If you'll excuse me, I'll continue my treatment in the bathroom," she said as she reached for the first aid kit. "Although I may require your assistance for the more... inconveniently located injuries, Aloka."
Corva started stripping off her shirt as soon as Aloka closed the door behind them. She did it carefully, minimizing the stress to her injuries.
The bandages were past due to be changed. The amount of healing she'd put into her wounds wasn't enough for a two-day excursion without more treatment. Too late to do anything about that now, though.
"I can tend the wounds to my arms, and the exit wound of the impalement," she said as she began to peel off a bandage. "The entrance wound is trickier as it's on my back. If you would aid me with that, I would be grateful."
She could reach it if she had to, but it would cause undue stress to her other wounds.
She ran a cloth under water, "I'm juet gonna clean it up and then wrap the bandages around a few times. Er- sorry, you know how this stuff works." She gently washed away any excess blood from the wound, "I usually explain things to paients at the hospital as I'm doing them, helps them keep calm with more serious stuff."
"And around a couple times...and there all tight and secure. Oh one more thing," she reached up grabbing a bottle from the shelf above the mirror, "Pain killers."
"The explanations are appreciated," Corva said. Was such a thing the standard here, or merely something Aloka did? It certainly hadn't been the standard where Corva spent her formative years.
She eyed the pill bottle warily as she began to clean and dress the remaining wounds. "What type of pain reliever is that? I cannot have anything that will cloud my senses."
(And if she was wary of just taking whatever pills were handed to her without any further questions? Well, she'd earned that wariness.)
The label on the bottle of pink tablets was fully intact showing no signs of information being scratched off or covered.
"It's just extra strength ibuprofen, nothing strong enough to full take the pain away but enough to make it at least somewhat manageable. And I've never heard of it giving an sensory impairment."
She paused a moment, "I think I have a numbing gel in my room if it's that bad, but we should have put it on before the bandages."
She had been about to hand her the smoothie when she swallowed them dry, "Um, you're welcome. You should still make sure to wash 'em down."
No it wasn't the first time she'd someone dry swallow, she'd seen people at work do it all the time and hell her Dad did it sometimes. But it was just one of those things that bothered her no matter how many times she's seen it happen.
She passed her the bottle as she fallowed her out of the bathroom.
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.
Nearly every time Mouse had seen her, she'd seemed… generally happy-go-lucky. Not a pushover, by any means, but certainly at ease, with herself, with the crew. Confident. She didn't move like someone who was getting beaten nightly— perhaps she wasn't.
Mouse… wasn't quite as terrified of her as she expected to be.
"Aye, little Mouse!" She slunk over to her, certainly not keeping her waiting.
"Dom said you're on light duty, so I've a project for ya. I think you'll like it."
"Sir?"
"You know anything about birds?"
"Uh, they fly, sir?"
"Aye!" Chase laughed and clapped her on the shoulder. Which… hurt, but clearly wasn't meant to.
"I don't think chickens do, so much, though."
"Chickens, sir?"
"Aye, with me." Chase started walking, and Mouse followed along obediently. She had to take nearly two steps for each of Chase's, but she seemed to notice and slowed a bit.
Cass had flipped a crate over on top of the birds to keep them contained.
"This is Cass, and Jonah. They're building a containment situation for the birds, and you'll be in charge of caring for them."
"I still don't see why we're keeping live chickens," Jonah muttered, and Cass punched him lightly in the shoulder.
"Shut up, dumbass, Captain's orders. Now hold that board."
He ducked his head and did as he was told. Chase looked pleased.
"Sir, I don't mean to disappoint, but I don't really know anything about chickens."
She shrugged. "Someone must. Go ask around, give you a chance to aquaint yourself with the crew. If anyone gives ya a hard time tell 'em I sent you."
So that was how Mouse found herself wandering the ship, asking everyone about chickens.
Most people just told her how they liked their chicken cooked. They were clueless when it came to keeping live birds, other than grabbing eggs as kids or "chuckin scraps in the yard".
Eventually, she managed to cobble together that they ate scraps and grain and maybe dirt, plus any bugs around, and too much fish made the eggs taste bad.
By the time she made it back, Cass and Jonah were nearly done.
Jonah was on top of the pen they'd built, nailing an old piece of sail to the top.
"Shade was Jonah's idea," Cass told Chase, who raised an eyebrow.
"You didn't cut it off the sail, didya?"
He shook his head. "No sir. It was a torn scrap from mending, and we've plenty more canvas in storage."
Chase looked somewhat pleased. Her gaze landed on Mouse and she smiled. "Whatcha got, little Mouse?"
"According to the crew, they eat kitchen scraps, grain, grass, bugs, and possibly dirt?"
"Dirt?"
Mouse shrugged. "Maybe looking for seeds?" She took a deep breath before continuing. "Phoenix said she'll save the scraps for them each day as she cooks, and check grain stores to see what can be spared."
"Aye, well done, lass. I'll bring it up tonight when I meet with Phoenix and Petrel."
Chase was pleased with her efforts!
"You'll be responsible for ensuring they're fed, watered, and clean. You can ask for help, but it's on you to be sure they're cared for, every day. They don't take a break from eatin', you don't take a break from feedin'. Savvy?"
"Uh, aye, sir."
Chase smiled.
——
Perhaps Chase had overestimated how much space the chickens needed. The birds seemed happy, though, which was good. Clucking about, pecking at whatever their little bird eyes saw. Certainly better than in a barrel in the ocean.
The crew was all-too eager to toss the birds their scraps and watch them get devoured. By the end of the night, they had names, and the crew had decided they needed a below-deck home as well in case of a battle.
Petrel seemed amused by the whole ordeal at the evening meeting.
"Mouse'll track how much they eat so we know how much grain to store for 'em," Chase announced, and Phoenix nodded.
"For the chickens. That we could just eat." That was Petrel's skeptical-but-amused voice.
Phoenix looked mildly offended. "I'm not cooking Mouse's chickens unless we've nothing else to eat. The girl lights up."
Chase was always pleased when Phoenix got brave enough to speak up like that. They'd known her so long now.
Petrel raised an eyebrow. "These are Mouse's chickens now?"
"Aye, they are," Chase agreed with a sigh. "And half the crew's attached now too."
"Buncha pirates getting all doe-eyed over a few chickens," Striker muttered.
"More like gettin' doe-eyed over the new girl, I think," Phoenix corrected, and Striker shrugged and waved her off, but smiled despite himself.
Eventually, the other three left Chase and Petrel alone, and they snuggled into bed together as usual.
"Mouse spent hours talking to the crew today," Chase murmured.
"About what? The chickens?"
"Aye. Told her to ask folks what they eat. She seemed to like having a job."
Petrel kissed the top of her head. "That was a good idea."
"Mm. Figured somebody had to know something. Oh, and Jonah was actually useful today."
"Jonah?"
"Mm, that boy I was tellin' you about? Helped Cass build the coop for 'em."
"Cass built the coop?"
"Aye, did a good job, too."
"Mm, maybe these birds won't be so bad after all."
Chase woke the next morning to find that the crew had worked the chickens into their songs.
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.
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.
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.
#reth sweetheart you can probably shower with warm water 🥹
Unfortunately he can't, the power is off in the dorms because they're closed for spring break. The water is still running, but the water heater is not.
He does have an actual reason beyond just a lack of 'I can has?' mentality!
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.
