( No Title )
Sabretooth had been mute, and slow, and easily frightened when Tabby first met him. He wore the trauma of what had befallen in every expression, and every movement, more abused animal than a man.
Tabby had taken him in like a wounded animal. Had fed him. Washed him. Brushed his hair. Told him her troubles without ever worrying he would judge her.
But he was healing. Every day, she could tell. He was getting stronger. Smarter. Less afraid. But Tabby’s fear was growing..
She brushed her fingers through his shaggy blond hair.
“You’re going to leave, aren’t you? …Please don’t.”
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Written for @febuwhump day 19 prompt: “please don’t.”
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