Self Control [Closed, Complete]
Characters: Machi Tobaye, Portgas D. Ace
Setting: Cricket Bedroom
Time: Early Day 14, before the music box thread.
Summary: Raile and TC establish some continuity. Machi hurts. Ace hurts. Machi can smell your blood.
Warnings: Angst, pain, bitchiness, and some creepy.
It hurt.
It hurt a lot.
Everything hurt--his bones and muscles, his skin and the back of his throat, his head, and even his teeth. But his legs and shoulder hurt the most and he knew it was because they were going bad--bad how, he didn't know, couldn't think of, but it hurt, jarring, constant, agonising pain that nothing could diminish. And he could smell. Everything and anything--the horrible, overwhelming influx of senses had not abated since they'd left the tunnels--if anything, it had only gotten stronger. stronger and more insistent, more potent, filling not just his nose and his brain but his mouth, the sharp tang of metal, of people, of heat and cold and blood, not fresh but underneath, gnawing at him, aching. He screwed his eyes shut, burrowed in blankets under the bed, trying to shut it out, to shut everything out--even if it were just pain now, and nothing else, just pain with no urge, no anger and hate and scent, he would be happy, but he couldn't, couldn't shut it out and he actually closed his mouth over the edge of the fabric, biting down, tasting wool and hair and dryness but nothing else, his throat raw and sore from the lack of moisture, but he almost didn't care--and yet he did and gagged, spitting it out, turning over under the bed.
There was too much.
Setting: Cricket Bedroom
Time: Early Day 14, before the music box thread.
Summary: Raile and TC establish some continuity. Machi hurts. Ace hurts. Machi can smell your blood.
Warnings: Angst, pain, bitchiness, and some creepy.
It hurt.
It hurt a lot.
Everything hurt--his bones and muscles, his skin and the back of his throat, his head, and even his teeth. But his legs and shoulder hurt the most and he knew it was because they were going bad--bad how, he didn't know, couldn't think of, but it hurt, jarring, constant, agonising pain that nothing could diminish. And he could smell. Everything and anything--the horrible, overwhelming influx of senses had not abated since they'd left the tunnels--if anything, it had only gotten stronger. stronger and more insistent, more potent, filling not just his nose and his brain but his mouth, the sharp tang of metal, of people, of heat and cold and blood, not fresh but underneath, gnawing at him, aching. He screwed his eyes shut, burrowed in blankets under the bed, trying to shut it out, to shut everything out--even if it were just pain now, and nothing else, just pain with no urge, no anger and hate and scent, he would be happy, but he couldn't, couldn't shut it out and he actually closed his mouth over the edge of the fabric, biting down, tasting wool and hair and dryness but nothing else, his throat raw and sore from the lack of moisture, but he almost didn't care--and yet he did and gagged, spitting it out, turning over under the bed.
There was too much.