[ If someone can confirm "it", without frills or pity, he suspects it would be Law. It's not that Ace doesn't want for comfort ( he craves it, actually ), it's that right now — he would rather have something clinical, precise. Something he can hold onto that won't drop him into the sudden throb of dread-despair-doom that claws at his chest and up his throat. It's not in his head, it's real. It's real, and inescapable. Someone else can see it, see him. SEE HIM.
The temperature in the room drops, a few degrees. A cold chill beginning to rise, radiating from the epicenter where he's sitting — ramrod straight, still. His eyes aglow, suddenly and violently, as if something eerie is watching from the darkness. Observing, like a predator. His Natural Soul is rotting him from the inside out, and in the silence, where it usually lies quiet and subtle, it is clearly unhappy with being perceived. Ace's figure seems to fade slightly, eager to become nothing. His face, slowly melting into something formless, something threatening: a singular presence that ought to evoke the urge to flee, freeze, cower against a simmering, stomach-clenching dread aura.
His voice both rasps like a corpse, and sounds like his throat is full of blood. ]
[ there is a chill in the air. a part of law expects to see snow falling, his breath curling in tendrils of fog in front of him; but there is nothing, nothing but the otherworldly glow of fire fist's eyes, as if his eyes have themselves burst into flame.
as the edges of him fade and flicker, as all expression melts from his face until all is left but those fire-bright eyes, burning dots in the quiet room, law feels the cold seep into his bones, coil in the marrow until his breath freezes in his lungs, until his veins bleed the same kind of fear he'd felt every single day for thirteen years —
but he is an expert, in fear. in pushing through it. in feeling it, and speaking regardless. ]
You, [ he responds, his mouth tilting up into a smile, a sharp and cutting thing. ] How interesting. You're killing him — but I suppose you'd know that. [ you. something separate from what makes up the soul of portgas d. ace, the man he has never once heard anyone say anything bad about. ]
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countershocks) wrote2020-06-29 04:08 pm
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The temperature in the room drops, a few degrees. A cold chill beginning to rise, radiating from the epicenter where he's sitting — ramrod straight, still. His eyes aglow, suddenly and violently, as if something eerie is watching from the darkness. Observing, like a predator. His Natural Soul is rotting him from the inside out, and in the silence, where it usually lies quiet and subtle, it is clearly unhappy with being perceived. Ace's figure seems to fade slightly, eager to become nothing. His face, slowly melting into something formless, something threatening: a singular presence that ought to evoke the urge to flee, freeze, cower against a simmering, stomach-clenching dread aura.
His voice both rasps like a corpse, and sounds like his throat is full of blood. ]
— yeah? What do you see, Trafalgar?
no subject
as the edges of him fade and flicker, as all expression melts from his face until all is left but those fire-bright eyes, burning dots in the quiet room, law feels the cold seep into his bones, coil in the marrow until his breath freezes in his lungs, until his veins bleed the same kind of fear he'd felt every single day for thirteen years —
but he is an expert, in fear. in pushing through it. in feeling it, and speaking regardless. ]
You, [ he responds, his mouth tilting up into a smile, a sharp and cutting thing. ] How interesting. You're killing him — but I suppose you'd know that. [ you. something separate from what makes up the soul of portgas d. ace, the man he has never once heard anyone say anything bad about. ]