oldtimescratch

[oldtimescratch]

I can tolerate a stranger in my home, but I draw the line at vandalism.

The voice seemingly comes from everywhere and nowhere all at once. If Kenning looks, there is no one to be seen within the vicinity but there certain feels like a presence is beside him. The sensation of electricity crackles in the air, followed by the undeniable scent of ozone.

You've made quite a mess of things. I certainly hope you can explain yourself.

He had been hoping for entirely too much. With an angered sigh, he settles instead for relief, which he takes in the form of one of the beds, pulling aside the covers, not to sleep, but instead to rip off the sheets and begin to shred them with his scythe for bandaging. They seem clean at least. Soft, too. This place was fucking bizarre, but very... fancy. Reminded him of Samael's home. He tried not to think about this desperation for a connection to comfort, and instead took his bandages to one of the lounges, curling small into a chair to treat himself.

"This would be a really shitty way to die," he gripes to no one in particular, trying to tourniquet the gash where the last Abaddon had managed to get in one final blow. Kenning was going to save that particular soul for when things got bad. He looks around next for an idea of what to do next. He doesn't need food, but some might be comforting. And he'll squeeze every iota of comfort he can find out of this hellhole.

#deadinyourownskin

[oldtimescratch]

At first it seems like Kenning is gaining ground, going in a direction that makes some semblance of sense. Hallways have proper ends, doors lead into rooms which lead into hallways which lead into ballrooms, foyers, balconies-

Something wasn’t right.

Fortunately, there were rooms that contained beds. Some that contained nothing but beds. There were rooms that seemed to be entirely comprised of mattresses. Rooms that had lounge chairs that circled a central point where there was only a single cushion in the middle. Even if comfort was in sight, the oppressive green and the almost stillness in the air kept there from being any true rest to be had inside of the Manor’s walls. Respite was not waiting for an intruder such as the one now dripping bright red blood all over the floor.

This was both good news and bad news. Which was luckily a state of being that Kenning had become accustomed to.

With the pressure upon his... everything, Kenning takes a few deep breaths. He should move. He should probably move. He needs to move.

Here was the good news - He doubted he would be found here. It felt like a temporal glue trap. He couldn't think of any sane and healthy Reaper that would subject themself to this.

The bad news was that he fell under 1/3 of this label. He was counting on the lack of the other 2/3 right now to give him an edge.

He needed to move.

He shakily rose to his feet, using the scythe still as a support. He gropes for the sweet spot along the blade where he can reach into the warped pocket of impossible space, grabbing onto a feebly wriggling soul, and swallowing it down for shuddering morale. And he moves, looking for some respite.

#deadinyourownskin

[oldtimescratch]

Time does not flow normally here.

Even with all the clocks strewn about the place, it was difficult to tell just when it was and for how long Kenning had been there. The hands on the ever watchful faces seemingly tick at different intervals but strangely seem to be keeping the same time.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

The blood should have stopped by now. The wound seemingly never existed. It just tore open. How did he get there again?

The Manor stands unphased, unyielding. Perhaps it was best not to stay in one place.

@oldtimescratch

Kenning doesn't land so much as he stumbles blindly out of the dimensional jump - he isn't sure if it's the vertigo or the blood loss or some other new thing critically wrong with him but this place looks oddly... green.

He isn't going to question it. He doesn't have the time or the energy to do so, leaning onto his scythe for support, before hobbling himself over to bleed in a corner. This should provide at least a few hours of respite. He'd have a look around later to see if he would be able to stretch it out even longer.

#deadinyourownskin

[oldtimescratch]

#(image has alt text)

[oldtimescratch]

distanttracesofbeauty:

The redhead doesn’t even have time to gently snark back before Scratch pulls her in by the waist. Her eyes open wide with surprise as his lips meet hers. She’d only been joking, or so she’d thought.

…!

In life, kisses were one of Dahlia’s least favorite things; being physically intimate with that oafish Terry Fawles physically repulsed her to the point of wanting to vomit. But the Guardian’s kisses don’t taste like three-day-old tuna sandwiches, and his hands are gentle as they slide across her waspish form, quite unlike Fawles’ rough, repetitive pawing. For now, she surrenders (albeit somewhat warily) to this kiss, wrapping her arms around the stitched-up neck. She can always attempt to squeeze the life (figuratively speaking) out of him in a little while. 

Something in the back of her mind begs her to do it. Go ahead, try and squeeze what miserable life he has in his lungs. Just try to kill him. He’s desperate for it, just like everything else in his existence.

White, sculpted brows knit at the thought, his whole body aching for pain and punishment. He’s been left to dry and he sorely needs to be put back into the masochism tango.

#distanttracesofbeauty

[oldtimescratch]

distanttracesofbeauty:

Hmmm…how ever did you manage to re-attach that handsome head of yours?

And it is quite the handsome face, now that Scratch has adopted a human guise instead of the round, blank white surface he uses every day. Dahlia giggles a little as she fiddles with his bow tie, tightening it a little too much for it to be comfortable. This could be fun, in its own sick way; in life, Dahlia rather hated physical affection, viewing it as a waste of time. When one has goals to accomplish and people to kill, romance merely got in the way (as did Terry Fawles, that poor, poor sap).

You are a naughty one, Doc Scratch. We haven’t even kissed yet: Dollie is a good girl! Teehee~

“I can fix that.”

With her so close, it’s easy to press their mouths together. Go ahead, stab him, kick him, punch him... do something to remind him that he’s alive. He’ll let you. He’s been sorely missing his ass getting kicked by a certain time traveler. But for you, Dahlia, he tastes of cigar smoke and licorice. There’s a sharp, pungent flavor that is difficult to describe and comprehend that billows from his lungs. Is it tar? Is it burning motor oil? No. No that’s someone entirely different. He’s been playing a role for too long, and needs to remember what he’s like. Swirls of cream, mint and cinnamon press into the back of the young woman’s mind as gloved hands travel over a slim waist line.

#distanttracesofbeauty

[oldtimescratch]

I’ll Be Seeing You playing from another room Billie Holiday

#Another one for the record player.

[oldtimescratch]

[oldtimescratch]

distanttracesofbeauty:

What, the irritating girl with the sunglasses? Oh, you are wicked. 

Dahlia has never liked Dani Strider: that girl prevented her from killing far too many times for her liking. However, she also doesn’t know about Dani’s “older version,” so she seems to think that Scratch is having indiscreet dalliances with a teenager.

Ohhh, look at those…

Gently, she runs her slender fingers across the Guardian’s throat.

Lose your head, darling?

“Yes, I did. And my arms, and my legs. It’s amazing what one is able to survive when you are immortal.” Well, that format didn’t last long, now did it? He knows that this is much easier to use in situations like this. And surprise! Look at how hospitable he’s being, what with somehow miraculously being able to shift into a much more palatable and attractive and human-like.

The fully green eyes, from iris to sclera, work their way from ghostly finger to pale lip. How funny it is to think that he would be intimate with Wright’s former partner. This was some sort of revenge, wasn’t it?

“There’s far more underneath.”

#distanttracesofbeauty

[oldtimescratch]

distanttracesofbeauty:

My darling.

Dahlia purrs, slitting her eyes ever so slightly. How delightfully amusing; the things one learns in the afterlife never could compare to earthly knowledge.

A bared throat is just the beginning. If you’re a glutton for pain, then you can consider me the same when it comes to inflicting pain and agony. Teehee~ Dirty little secrets are so much fun. 

[o]

[The Guardian idly touches his throat, not so subtly showing off the almost invisible stitching that circles his entire neck.]

[o]

#distanttracesofbeauty

[oldtimescratch]

distanttracesofbeauty:

You do? You would be the first, my dear. Most would say that someone as pretty as me shouldn’t mar their features with rage.

Dahlia lifts a hand to her mouth in mock surprise, though she really didn’t expect the Guardian of the universe to enjoy such pastimes.

Oooooh, really? I never pictured you as one who likes to be hurt…would you really like me to?

She flirtatiously lifts her skirt a bit, showing off her white sandaled heels.

Naughty, naughty!~

[o] 

[The Guardian begins to remove his bow tie, pulling slowly and with much practice.]

#distanttracesofbeauty

[oldtimescratch]

distanttracesofbeauty:

My twin sister is a nun and the entire Fey clan basically lives the cloistered life as well; piety runs in our family, too. Unfortunately.

In any case, dear Scratch, do you delight in making me angry? I’m not nearly as cute when I’m in a mood like this.

[o]

[o]

[o]

#distanttracesofbeauty

[oldtimescratch]

distanttracesofbeauty:

My mother would have used a child of nine years of age to further her own political machinations…a child she favored above the rest, whom she cast out like garbage because they could not fulfill her desires. That is evil.

I do not excuse my own actions, as horrible as they were. But for a parent to cause such suffering upon her children…surely, that is an unforgivable sin.

[o]

[o]

#distanttracesofbeauty

[oldtimescratch]

distanttracesofbeauty:

I was a literature major once upon a time, dear; semantics was what I studied.

However, Dahlia’s own temper flares when Scratch compares her to Morgan Fey…that’s one of Dahlia’s sore spots. Her grey eyes glow into fiery white-hot orbs, flashing a dangerous look at the Guardian.

You leave my mother out of this. She and I are nothing alike! 

You sure about that?

Manipulating others, putting them down, murder? The apple doesn’t fall far, my dear.

#distanttracesofbeauty

[oldtimescratch]

distanttracesofbeauty:

Teehee!~ Temper, temper! I had no idea I had such an effect on you.

She giggles happily.

Maya Fey was no child when I made an attempt on her life; my own sister, a grown woman. I had no plans to hurt Pearl Fey. She was merely part of the plan–my mother’s plan, no less. You flatter me!~

Oh and now we’re getting into semantics.

You know what you’ve done and I know what I’ve done and you barely know all of what I’ve done but that’s another matter entirely. Your laws are easily broken and you know it. What “morals” you have left are nothing more than a means to hold yourself above others, just as your mother did.

#distanttracesofbeauty

[oldtimescratch]

distanttracesofbeauty:

Don’t say that, many of them were children. How unbecoming. 

Even I would not hurt a child. I have standards, you know.

Oh COME ON.

Do you not remember your sweet cousins? Do you not remember your own sister? We were all children once. I have a LAUNDRY LIST of your sins.

#distanttracesofbeauty #good job Dollie you made him break his stylistic format

[oldtimescratch]

distanttracesofbeauty:

I wouldn’t put it like that.

You’ve gotten in my way, of course, and forbade me from playing with my food before I ate it, but never completely crushed me. I doubt you would even want to, not with these good looks~

[o]

#distanttracesofbeauty