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Summary
The second the man’s hands clasp around his throat, Rubens is gone.
At it’s own behest, it floats away like smoke reedily spilling out between his fingers. Rubens is far. He’s a million centuries and continents distant from where he is tethered— Where someone is squeezing the tender muscles and delicate tendons of his throat.
Or;
Rubens has a Bad moment and I get to add tasty descriptions to trauma and dissociation <3