// standing, stomping in the damage and the ruins of a slip of tongue //
Asta certainly isn’t feeling guilty at agreeing to it too, that Jack could take all the pain and suffering if it meant that Flora and himself were fine in the aftermath – even if fine was a relatively loose sense of the phrase. He’s physically fine, at the very least. No crazy mindless bloodbane usage to deter the feeling of failure. He hadn’t failed this time, not when it counted. And it’s largely thanks to Flora’s quick thinking and help that he’d even managed to get that far.
Either way, he sinks into Danta the second he gets over the momentary fear of burning, realizing just how cold he feels despite never once having been hit by the ice magic that Jack and Boggart!Jack had wielded. Perhaps it was simply just the panic and the way it had gripped his heart that kept it from keeping his extremities warm enough.
He doesn’t know what to say to Danta’s apology – because he’s not okay, nor is he capable of calming down entirely to pretend to be aloof and confident like his usual choice of personality was. Instead, he feels like a shutter frame, trapped between Ferox and the Butcher, unsure which to step toward to keep him from feeling like this. But he’s practically limp as Danta moves him, settling in against his shoulder and draped in the heavy blanket, he twists his head to bury his face in against the Maverick’s shoulder and oversized, soft sweater. “I should-- need to wear the muzzle, tonight.” He decides quietly, twisting his head to let drained, lifeless eyes focus up at the Maverick, even if he feels like sleep is three million years away.
Either way, he sinks into Danta the second he gets over the momentary fear of burning, realizing just how cold he feels despite never once having been hit by the ice magic that Jack and Boggart!Jack had wielded. Perhaps it was simply just the panic and the way it had gripped his heart that kept it from keeping his extremities warm enough.
He doesn’t know what to say to Danta’s apology – because he’s not okay, nor is he capable of calming down entirely to pretend to be aloof and confident like his usual choice of personality was. Instead, he feels like a shutter frame, trapped between Ferox and the Butcher, unsure which to step toward to keep him from feeling like this. But he’s practically limp as Danta moves him, settling in against his shoulder and draped in the heavy blanket, he twists his head to bury his face in against the Maverick’s shoulder and oversized, soft sweater. “I should-- need to wear the muzzle, tonight.” He decides quietly, twisting his head to let drained, lifeless eyes focus up at the Maverick, even if he feels like sleep is three million years away.
Astaroth
// with tragic consequences, i think that we've all made our gravest mistakes //
