Work Text:
The rope burn is especially bad this time.
You can’t even remember the reason that Lucifer had been so angry, and honestly— you don’t really care. You never have because you hate this punishment more than any of the others.
It’s cruel, and humiliating, and— and—
It’s barbaric.
You’ve seen it too many times to think anything else, and this is even worse than usual.
Mammon’s ankles are inflamed around the indent, a red spreading from the soles of his feet up to near his knee, his toes white, (even after you untie the rope in gentle slow moments, listening to his shuttering breath and the hisses he lets out between his teeth, the tiny gasps he tries to hold in as the air rushes back through his limbs) The imprint is so shoved into his skin, you can still practically see where the rope was laying— even a couple of the loose threads are still stuck on and in his skin, which you have to carefully pick out, one by one, wincing every time he does— and his wrists are no better. Though not as inflamed, his red hand spread to his elbows and when you press around the bruises he flinches so hard you know something is at least strained or ripped or sprained, and you hate him.
You hate Lucifer more than anyone else you’ve ever met.
But you don’t say that, because you know what Mammon will say, and you don’t want to talk about that right now, not again. You don’t want to hear excuses about why This is fine and He could have done worse to me and… he’s my brother.
So you unite the rope, and pull down the first aid. You ice his hurt (throbbing, sprained) wrist, and watch the jerk of his shoulders, and the trembling of his shiny eyelashes as he watches you work.
He won’t cry, but you wish he would.