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!
Find me on Ao3
Whump writing masterlist
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...)
Accidentally Hurt by Friend for @badthingshappenbingo
Requested by anon
Red is for posted, white is for requested/planned/written, feel free to send requests!
Marcus and Jake are finally safe from AMTEC - although their escape nearly cost them both their lives. Now they are free to heal and discover what they might be to each other - and they learn that AMTEC’s influence leaves not a single person in their lives untouched.
AO3
Masterlist
This is a sequel series to Beneath Gunmetal Skies. Start here, continued from here.
Contents: chronic pain, prosthetic, Marcus's powers of organization, past torture, insensitive comment about fascists killing themselves, triggered whumpee, PTSD, implied control of news media, perpetrator guilt, dissociation, whumpee thinks caretaker will hurt them, manhandling, living weapon, begging
~
Everyone at the clinic liked Marcus’s piercings. There was a nurse who worked there – Raye, the one who had put on the gas mask the first day Marcus showed up – who gave Marcus a smile and a thumbs up when he saw them. The patients in the waiting room seemed to like them, too; Marcus recognized them all, and he supposed they were starting to recognize him, too. Even Celeste cracked a smile as she flipped her hair over her shoulder.
“Nice,” she said. “You don’t look nearly so much like—”
“Celeste,” Lars sighed as they rolled their eyes.
She rolled hers right back. “Well. You don’t. It’s a good look.”
Jake just grinned.
Marcus followed Lars and Jake into the back of the clinic, rolling his shoulders and ignoring the phantom ache in his right arm. At this point he had tackled the storage room and the three patient rooms, as well as a different storage closet that he figured was probably left over from when this building had just been an office space. It held reams of copy paper, office supplies, holiday decorations, expired snacks, and piles of other junk that Marcus had combed through and organized until it looked as good as the rest of the clinic. The only room left to get through was Lars’s office. He figured it might take some convincing to let him organize that space. He wondered if he could simply lock them out until he was finished. They probably had other shit to do, anyway.
He glanced and Jake, wondering whose side he would take. He had to catch his breath. Jake was staring at him, looking better than he had since…
Since. He still had the slightest limp if someone was paying attention – and Marcus was always paying attention – but the bruises had faded. The brace was still on his forearm, but there was no other sign of the torture he’d survived for so long.
Except for when he smiled. His front tooth was still chipped, and probably would be forever. Marcus almost didn’t want to know what the men had done to him that had caused that. Maybe he would ask, one day. Or maybe Jake would tell him, when he was ready.
Jake took his metal hand. It ended the buzzing pain he hadn’t even realized had been gathering at the corners of his awareness. Jake squeezed; Marcus would have felt that, even before Todd adjusted the settings. But then Jake stroked his thumb back and forth against the back of Marcus’s hand, settling a brief wave of tingles. That, Marcus wouldn’t have felt until now. He – gently, carefully – squeezed back.
Marcus kissed his temple, and Jake melted against his side.
Lars dropped their keys on their desk with a sigh. Marcus eyed the piles of paper littering their desk, the floor, the shelves around them. He swallowed hard and shifted his weight from side to side.
“If you both are up to it,” Lars mumbled, “I didn’t have time to restock rooms when I left last night. Would you be willing to do that?”
Marcus glanced up. “Stock… rooms?” The piles of papers and boxes of syringes were so tantalizing. He already knew where he would start: there was a big pile of paper near the door with a sheet on top with giant letters scrawled across that said TO SHRED. It would be so easy. He would take those to the shredder, feed the papers through, then take the bags of paper bits out to the trash to make room in here for—
“Yeah, do you mind?” Lars said. “We’re out of almost everything. I think we’re entirely out of 21 gauges in the room closest to the waiting r—”
“Room one, yeah,” Marcus said. “Yeah, I can…” He glanced around at the papers again. “If that’s… what you need…”
“What I need is about ten million credits a year, a full-time staff, and for every person who works at AMTEC to suck-start a shotgun, preferably on national fucking news,” Lars snapped. Marcus’s eyes flicked to theirs as he froze.
Jake drew in a deep breath. “Lars,” he said gently. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” they griped. “Just… I’m fine. Sorry. It’s just been a shitty week. Will you please just—”
“On it, yeah,” Marcus said, turning to go. A flush prickled across his cheeks and neck. He felt it again, that horrible urge: shoulders back. Hands behind his back. Head tucked. And another urge: to flinch away from a raised hand, a baton, a whip.
Yes, sir.
Even though he knew Lars would never do that, never want that from him. Lars was the farthest person from an AMTEC officer Marcus had ever met.
Lars was exactly the type of person Marcus would have been sent to kill a few months ago. Quickly, quietly, so there would be no news footage. The news would spin a story from the aftermath anyway, like they were paid to. He’d seen it so many times.
Terrorists… Drug smuggling… Heroic AMTEC raid… No civilian casualties… Increasing AMTEC budget once again…
He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat at the thought.
How many of the people I’ve killed were like Lars? Like Celeste and Todd?
Like Jake?
Jake squeezed his hand once more, startling him out of his reverie. “They’re just having a bad day,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”
Marcus pressed an absent-minded kiss to Jake’s cheek. “I know,” he said. “I know that.” He headed into a room. “I’ll start on this one, you start on the next?”
Jake held onto his hand and pulled him up short. “Sure,” he said, giving Marcus one last kiss. “Love you.”
“Love you.”
Marcus blew out a slow breath as he trudged to the first cabinet and opened it. Things inside weren’t as bad as Lars made them out to be; they still had enough linens to get through four patients, and enough syringes to probably get through the entire evening. But Lars liked things a certain way. Marcus supposed he could understand that. He opened the next cabinet. There was no extra butcher paper for the exam table. That, he conceded, was a more immediate problem.
The hair on the back of his neck stood up. His head turned toward the paper-over window before he even realized what he was listening for.
Then the noise happened again: footsteps. Outside. Near the back of the building, where no patients had any reason to be.
He stepped out of the clinic room, flexing his metal hand. “Jake,” he said flatly from the hallway. “Get everyone into the back. Now.”
He didn’t turn to see if he would be obeyed. He knew he would be. He’d trained Jake too well for any other outcome.
He stalked down the hallway and through the lobby. Celeste glanced up at him and fell silent at the look on his face.
“Get everyone in the back now,” he said.
She wordlessly rose. The two patients in the waiting room didn’t move. Marcus ignored them. Everyone had their orders. Now he had his role. He pushed the doors open and snuck soundlessly out into the evening.
He’d heard the footsteps on the north side of the building, so that’s where he headed. If they were circling the building, or if there was more than one, well—
He told Jake to keep the others safe in the back. Marcus just had to make sure no one got that far. Not when Jake was still hurt. Not when he was still—
I never wanted him to have to fight again.
He crushed that thought. At the moment, it was irrelevant.
Overgrown bushes lined the northeast corner of the building, and so he immediately ducked into them. He shuddered as the branches trailed along his metal arm, sparking bizarre sensations.
He felt naked without his gun, or at least his knife. But he’d killed with his bare hands before.
A few yards away, gravel crunched under someone’s shoe – and it was definitely a shoe. Not a tac boot.
That was something, at least.
A metallic rattling sound.
A curse.
Marcus registered all these sounds, doing his best to pinpoint the assailant in space before he struck. He hoped there was only one.
If there wasn’t, at least he had warned the others.
He launched himself out of the bushes and closed the distance to the assailant in two quick strides. The man – maybe about Lars’s age – cried out as Marcus tackled him to the ground. The spray paint can flew from his hands as Marcus twisted both arms behind him.
“Agh! Fuck, fuck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I, I didn’t know anyone was—” He cut himself off with a gasp as Marcus’s metal hand compressed his wrist.
A storm raged in Marcus’s head. Habit – more than habit, it was training, repetition, instinct – battered at him, bent his body toward a specific shape. Gun, if no gun then knife, if no knife then strike the face and neck. Execute and move. Execute and move. He couldn’t remember if he was supposed to kill this man. He couldn’t remember who sent him outside. Had he done that on his own? He wasn’t allowed to self-deploy, not unless that was specifically stated in the mission objectives. Had someone ordered this man’s death? Had someone ordered him to kill any hostiles he came across?
He didn’t know. He wasn’t sure.
He needed clarification. Unauthorized executions by Levs were punishable by consignment. He had to seek further orders.
Back inside it was, then.
Marcus wordlessly wrestled the man to his feet. The man was pleading, sobbing, but Marcus didn’t hear it. He had learned not to hear it, when people begged for mercy – not that people often lived long enough to beg, with him. He was so, so good at this. He grabbed the man’s wrists in metal hand and seized the collar of his shirt in his other, shoving him toward the clinic entrance. He figured it didn’t much matter if the man saw the inside of the clinic. Once Marcus got clearance to dispatch him, he’d do it, quickly. Maybe he would be given his gun back. He wasn’t sure where it was. He’d be whipped for that. He might get worse than a whipping.
He released the man’s collar only for long enough to yank open the door and shove him ahead of him. He could feel the man’s wrists bruising under his grip. Cuffs would have been easier, but he didn’t seem to have those, either. He had fucked up with his equipment, and badly. Why the fuck didn’t I pack for this mission properly? His mind flitted to Jake. But no, he would have checked everything to make sure his trainee didn’t fuck them over this badly. This was his fault, whatever had happened.
Whatever had happened, he was going to be punished for it. He was going to be beaten. Depending on who the XO for this mission was, he might just find himself bent over a table for it. But if he hid – if he avoided the consequences – it would be so much worse. And if he just killed this man and hid the evidence of his failure… He shuddered to even imagine. The sooner he handled this absolutely massive fuckup and dealt with the consequences, the sooner he could—
He wasn’t sure what he expected to happen after that. Something was tickling at the back of his mind. He shoved the man forward anyway, approached the door leading into the back of the clinic the base, and knocked. The door was locked. He knew he should wait.
“M-Marcus?” came the shaking voice from behind the door.
He… knew he shouldn’t answer to that name, that he should answer to Levy Unit C9I4M3, but that was the name that had been used. “Yes,” he croaked. “I have the assailant. Permission to execute.”
The door swung open, and Marcus stared into Jake’s eyes. He blinked.
Lars stood right behind Jake. Marcus shook himself. That’s who he reported to. He’d forgotten for a moment. He lifted his head and cleared his throat.
“Sir,” he said. “I need clarification on my orders.”
“Stop,” Lars breathed. “Marcus… Who the fuck is this?”
The man started blubbering. “M-my name is Tobias, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please don’t kill me, I didn’t know what this place was, I was just… I didn’t realize it was… oh, fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t know this was AMTEC, I didn’t know, I swear to g—”
“We’re not AMTEC,” Lars said, pushing past Jake. “Marcus, let him go—”
The man squirmed in Marcus’s grasp. Marcus’s brows pulled together. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. He’d never – ever – been told to release a captive before. AMTEC’s prisoners got put down, or put in a hole. That’s how it worked.
Perhaps he’d misheard.
He shoved the man to his knees. His arms were pulled back in Marcus’s grip, and he cried out, rocking forward to relieve the pressure.
“Sir,” Marcus said. “I… I apologize for my sloppiness, in letting him get so close. But I… n-need clarification.” They were going to think he was stupid. And stupid Levs got consigned. But if he didn’t ask, they weren’t going to tell him, and releasing a prisoner into the base seemed like a profoundly stupid idea, even if it had been ordered by a superior officer. “Do I… have permission to execute—”
“Marcus,” Jake whispered. “Marcus, you need to look around, okay? We’re not in AMTEC anymore. You don’t have to—”
Rage surged through Marcus. Jake was going to get them both killed. He twisted the man’s wrists up, forcing him to bend further forward. He sobbed into the floor.
Lars lunged forward, hand raised toward the man. “Marcus!” they snapped, sounding to all the world like someone correcting a disobedient dog. “Marcus, enough.”
Marcus let the man go. Shoulders back. Hands behind his back. Head tucked. Lars yanked their hand back like they’d been scalded. Jake just looked at Marcus with an unreadable expression.
No. Not unreadable. It was pity, written across his features clear as day.
“Fuck,” Marcus breathed. He took a halting step back. There was no one else in the hallway; the clinic doors were all closed, and he suspected all the patients and nurses had barricaded themselves inside. That’s where he was: the HRT clinic. He was at the clinic. Not the base.
The man sobbing at his feet wasn’t AMTEC. He didn’t look like a patient, either; his clothes looked dirty, but they were well-fitting and expensive looking. Marcus watched as Lars knelt down and grasped his shoulders, helping him sit up. There were dark bruises on his wrists where Marcus had held him.
The horror didn’t quite land, though. Not until his eyes returned to Jake’s, and he saw tears there.
Heat flooded his throat.
“Marcus,” Jake said softly.
Marcus didn’t wait for whatever Jake had been about to say. He turned and ran.
If you want to be on the taglist (including for the spicy chapters,) let me know! I only tag people in 18+ chapters if I know they are adults through conversations or if their age/age range is in their bio.
Ohhhhhhhh Marcus's dissociation was so good! The whole sequence of him going "get everyone to safety and I'll deal with the threat" to "I am on a mission and I need clarification on my orders" felt so natural every step of the way, and was so heartbreaking! The way he immediately fell back into old patterns, repetition and brutal training taking hold? Yesssss gimme that angst!
And the way he was just thinking about how these people in the clinic are the types of people he would have been sent after, before!!! It makes this so much worse!!! Perpetrator guilt here we GO!
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.
