Fight in the Frost

Shit. Someone had heard him and was approaching. In this state he'd be dead for sure. There was an attempt to scramble away in haste, only to collapse and heave his chest in defeat. Growling in frustration his tail lashed against the cool ground of the cave, and his eyes were aflame with passion as he managed to turn his head and stare the intruder down. She was the opposite color of him it seemed; pale in color with golden hues dappling her bodice. Though she didn't seem soft and dainty, she was a prettier sight to see than he was in his current state. Groaning he let his head fall to the ground dramatically, a loud and theatrical sigh leaving his lips. She hadn't done anything yet, so she probably wasn't going to harm him. It doesn't really matter anyway, he was likely going to die because he couldn't take care of wounds for shit. "Fuck no," was his immediate response to her question, staring at the cave wall like a child who had its toy taken away,"Nobody's touching me right now. I'll bleed out eventually, leave me to suffer." Ricochet never denied he was dramatic, it ran through his veins and there would be no attempts of changing it. So there he lay, loudly proclaiming his suffering yet refusing to let anyone do anything about it. Maturity was something that didn't stick well to his psyche. DON'T LET THE BASTARDS GRIND YOU DOWN

@Aurelia