[He feels the dig of his own arm, straining against gravity-- against itself, even-- and for a brief moment he cares nothing for the bitter taste of dirtied rainwater on his lips, or the layer of grit they've acquired since this absurdity began: he's blinded with fury by the thought of being subdued by someone of Hux's stature and ability, manifested in the sharpness of the jab he throws before twisting like an animal straining to tackle its prey.
Normally instinct would dictate a chokehold, but he knows-- keenly-- what would occur were he to go so far. The consequences of his last foray into said territory cost him the robes he'd kept with every waking moment; instead one hand goes to Hux's jaw, a pinching, bruising vice grip while the other fists in his collar. He's straddling the former General, bearing down with every ounce of strength in his body.]
no subject
Normally instinct would dictate a chokehold, but he knows-- keenly-- what would occur were he to go so far. The consequences of his last foray into said territory cost him the robes he'd kept with every waking moment; instead one hand goes to Hux's jaw, a pinching, bruising vice grip while the other fists in his collar. He's straddling the former General, bearing down with every ounce of strength in his body.]
Yield.
[It isn't a request.]