Work Text:
He woke freezing.
Each laceration bit his arms with frost. Sleeves, skin– all, torn from claws. Metal burned icily, the collar’s chain trailing his chest.
A widening crack split light.
Sanctam approached, holding ointment. Pistachio whimpered - rewarded sharply by a chained yank.
"I-I'm sorry. I'm–”
"Next time, be good and this won't happen."
Harshness melted to warmth, kissing his cheek.
"Oh, Pistachio…”
Routinely, xe began. Light kiss across scar, preambling soothing salve. Bitter, but helping.
Sanctam's hands felt warm, reassuringly gentle – he almost forgot the past 6 hours.
Maybe if he were better this time, he could always deserve niceness.