The breathless, wordless siege of fists on his confinement flies back when something hauls him bodily away by the back of his shirt and he strains reflexively, writhes against his captor, but the tension of their grip brings the collar of his own fucking shirt up until it's almost cutting into his neck, they're going to fucking strangle him, and the thought that immediately pursues this revelation is that this is the most superfluous fucking manner to go about executing him as there was already a significant likelihood that he was about to die by asphyxiation fucking regardless.
They heave him backwards and he stumbles after in a jumble of pain and panicked instinct, there's the distant crackling, hissing fold of reality rebelling against its unanticipated warping, and then he strikes ground and rolls without warning. The unbearable pressure of his shirt squeezing itself around his neck loosens in a palliating blaze of force and area and weight and volume and the liberation of kinetic energy and he can fucking respire again. Rush breathes in a sequence of unstable shuddering wheezes, gasping, choking, gripping fistfuls of crumpled paper as some form of fucking stabilizing force. Fuck, fuck, they're on the ground. Fuck. And Asadi -
Asadi, he constructs hazily, is the one who propelled them out of their imprisonment. And she is - currently hunched on the ground, obviously in some extreme amount of pain.
Four successive attempts allow Rush to make himself relatively upright and kneeling with one hand to the side of his head and the other ground against the floor in a taut, bracing fist. Shit - fuck.
"Asadi," he wrenches out, ragged and reaching his unsteady free hand forward in an effort to snap his focus beyond the mental atonal smear following that surge of phobic release.
no subject
They heave him backwards and he stumbles after in a jumble of pain and panicked instinct, there's the distant crackling, hissing fold of reality rebelling against its unanticipated warping, and then he strikes ground and rolls without warning. The unbearable pressure of his shirt squeezing itself around his neck loosens in a palliating blaze of force and area and weight and volume and the liberation of kinetic energy and he can fucking respire again. Rush breathes in a sequence of unstable shuddering wheezes, gasping, choking, gripping fistfuls of crumpled paper as some form of fucking stabilizing force. Fuck, fuck, they're on the ground. Fuck. And Asadi -
Asadi, he constructs hazily, is the one who propelled them out of their imprisonment. And she is - currently hunched on the ground, obviously in some extreme amount of pain.
Four successive attempts allow Rush to make himself relatively upright and kneeling with one hand to the side of his head and the other ground against the floor in a taut, bracing fist. Shit - fuck.
"Asadi," he wrenches out, ragged and reaching his unsteady free hand forward in an effort to snap his focus beyond the mental atonal smear following that surge of phobic release.