hold me tight or don't

// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //

It is impressive — but only because it results in the volcanic beast to be as flat and small as possible beneath the bed. His back presses up against the metal springs under the bed, each tremble that racks through him shaking the bed in the process.

It’s a long few moments before orange eyes spot the pale hand reach for the canteen of water. He doesn’t make any move, though, the butcher barely breathes. He warily watches the movements of water covering the wound, of blood melting with the liquid into essentially nothing.

He still doesn't move when Danta’s apologies fill the air, simply responding with a quieter whine. He stays exactly where he is when the Maverick moves to slip away into the shower, and he waits long enough to ensure the blonde is gone before he slinks out the other side, toward the balcony. He shifts back into himself, snagging a fur blanket from the bed. He wraps himself in it, opening the door to the balcony to slip into a chair, to curl up and soothe his racing heartbeat, hand in his hair to prop up his head in the picture perfect image of stress.

And he waits.

Astaroth

// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //