( he doesn't look back. his entire world is that switch, the dread settling into his stomach that maybe the fall to the floor flicked it anyway, and maybe none of this mattered at all. maybe he put alina at risk and failed her anyway. but — no. he grabs the box in careful, cradled hands, landing flat on his ass, as sees the switch in an upright position. a breath knocks out of his throat as he shuts the lid, turning to the tussle to hold his trophy up to alina in victory.
however, there's no one there to praise him. a most unfortunate sight.
instead there's newt pinned underneath alina, her hands on the lapels of his jacket — and newt's hand swiftly rounding on her, clapping her hard on the cheek, knocking her aside. a stiff breeze, that's all it is. alina will get up, surely. but she doesn't, and newt makes a move on her, and rhys is on them before he gives his feet the instruction to move, gripping newt by the scruff of his neck and tossing him off, back to the floor. there's no thought of mercy then, is there? alina is bleeding, and the blood thumping in her veins is the soundtrack to his necessary violence. was he actually saying he wouldn't kill newt? only under the caveat he didn't hurt alina. now?
he settles his large body over newt's prone one, knees on either side of his chest as he reigns down, fists like hail, slamming into his face, one, two, three, four. if he weren't limited in his strength now, there'd be the sound of breaking bones, ruddy cartilage, the scent of brain and blood staining his scabbed knuckles. for now it's just the blood, the splatter across his chin and the gratification in knowing he — he can't hurt alina anymore. alina —
funny, the very thing that set his frenzy is the same that knocks him out of it — alina bleeding. he stops all of a sudden, fists raised to pummel another storm on his body when he realizes alina was hurt, alina was hurt, and he didn't go to her. two promises in combat with each other. suddenly he scrambles off, blinking at the blood on his hands — feral, a caged animal, seeing violence he inflicted and curling in on himself, memories of a not so distant war evident in the space behind his eyes. corpses. he saw enough of them. created enough of them. many bodies who didn't deserve the pain he inflicted — newton doesn't either, and he doesn't even have the ability to take the pain away, now.
crumpled, he shakily wipes the blood off on his shirt, a garish streak of red across white cotton. ignore it, swallow it down. forget it ever happened. )
Tie him up. ( he can't do it. alina probably can't either. but — she just has to. ) Will you, please?
no subject
however, there's no one there to praise him. a most unfortunate sight.
instead there's newt pinned underneath alina, her hands on the lapels of his jacket — and newt's hand swiftly rounding on her, clapping her hard on the cheek, knocking her aside. a stiff breeze, that's all it is. alina will get up, surely. but she doesn't, and newt makes a move on her, and rhys is on them before he gives his feet the instruction to move, gripping newt by the scruff of his neck and tossing him off, back to the floor. there's no thought of mercy then, is there? alina is bleeding, and the blood thumping in her veins is the soundtrack to his necessary violence. was he actually saying he wouldn't kill newt? only under the caveat he didn't hurt alina. now?
he settles his large body over newt's prone one, knees on either side of his chest as he reigns down, fists like hail, slamming into his face, one, two, three, four. if he weren't limited in his strength now, there'd be the sound of breaking bones, ruddy cartilage, the scent of brain and blood staining his scabbed knuckles. for now it's just the blood, the splatter across his chin and the gratification in knowing he — he can't hurt alina anymore. alina —
funny, the very thing that set his frenzy is the same that knocks him out of it — alina bleeding. he stops all of a sudden, fists raised to pummel another storm on his body when he realizes alina was hurt, alina was hurt, and he didn't go to her. two promises in combat with each other. suddenly he scrambles off, blinking at the blood on his hands — feral, a caged animal, seeing violence he inflicted and curling in on himself, memories of a not so distant war evident in the space behind his eyes. corpses. he saw enough of them. created enough of them. many bodies who didn't deserve the pain he inflicted — newton doesn't either, and he doesn't even have the ability to take the pain away, now.
crumpled, he shakily wipes the blood off on his shirt, a garish streak of red across white cotton. ignore it, swallow it down. forget it ever happened. )
Tie him up. ( he can't do it. alina probably can't either. but — she just has to. ) Will you, please?