Hello! My name is Jess / Scherzo, Iβm 30 and this is my rp blog! I follow back from my main @littlebunnysanderβ.
I ask that you please READ MY RULES before following/interacting. Feel free to talk to me about anything. I can be reached here or at my discord (ScherzoSeven), but I may be a little slow to respond.Β
I BLOCK MINORS WHO INTERACT. NO EXCEPTION. EVEN IF YOU ARE A NON RP BLOG JUST LIKING MY CONTENT, I WILL BLOCK YOU.Β
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Slowly adding Muse bios under the cut! But all my muses ARE listed in my rules!
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Being heard. Being SEEN. It was always jarring. Time was broken in the dark. One moment, his dream was being bitten and clawed by the Hiss...and then the next moment, the moment he was spoken to, it was quiet. Too quiet. Silent.
It didn't stay silent for long.
Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β Β γΟ½γ "I..." Words were pointless, lacking meaning, muddled. No one listens to you, they hear but they don't listen, you aren't even human, you're a monster monster monster monster monster MONSTE-- "STOP....stop..."
This man...Dylan's vision was clearing, less like peering through a fogged window and more like the ripple of the surface of a pond. He looked Familiar but Not. He didn't sound familiar at all. There was a name that rang in his mind, though, a woman's name. One that he was assured this man would know.
"I don't know why I know this, but Cynthia lied. I don't...Who is Cynthia? She pushed her, she pushed her and she hit her head on the dock, I don't know why I..." His head hurt. It HURT looking at this man, being perceived by him. He had to close his eyes, visions stabbing through his eyelids, scratching at his brain. "H-Hartman wassss streeeetched...not a shadow, not the hissing whisper, but a thiiiird thhiinnngg--"
His chest hurt, his heart beating against its cage like a rabbit trying to escape. Even in his comatose state, his breathing was rapid, it hurt, everything hurt, drowning, suffocating, sinking, unmoored--
Dylan glanced behind himself, seeing himself lying in his medical bed, inside his blackrock cell, inside the Panopticon.
Right. Still locked away.
"There is a window in the floor, and a door in the ceiling...the songs of the Old Gods guide me. Music is the key to set me free. The Dreamer is the Dream and he is Wide A/Wake. I'm...I'm sorry, I don't understand. I can't...SEE here. This is the ritual to lead you on, your friends will meet him whe-- It hurts here...I don't...control where I go..."
Itβs no better when he knows whatβs coming, because Zane still doesnβt know how. One moment heβs in the very real feeling space of his hotel room-- wooden floors beneath his feet, water stained ceiling above him. It shouldnβt be water stained, but itβs such a small hole in the thing that he thinks heβs still safe here as long as the lights stay on and nothing can really find this room that isnβt a room.
The next moment, he is in the not-space that exists outside of where theyβre play acting in Alanβs nightmares because something-- someone?-- has found a way in thatβs much faster than the forever it would take for the lake to come in one droplet at a time. In comes the malleable wet darkness that Zane has dragged himself through over and over and over again to the point that it feels more like home than anywhere warm and loving heβs ever been. It loves him too, in a way and it clings and doesnβt allow the easy exit of quick edit this time around. Thereβs something pressing among the waters lapping over his skin this time-- in the words that make up the tide. Zane wants to cover his ears and block it out, but heβs forced to inhale it instead.
After everything had come to an end-- way back, in the early summer days of 1970-- there had been a cycle of bodies present at all times. Taking up chairs in the corner or forcing glasses of water into his hands or trying to get him to just talk about this. How was he doing? How was he feeling? He was feeling the throbbing of his own skull and a feeling like his lungs were trying to burst out of his chest and like he needed to get to a trashcan quickly. It was better than feeling anything else and he wished that it would go deeper and take away any trace of the incident-- every piece of Barbara in his very being, so that he could stop existing in a world where she was a phantom limb. So he could stop seeing algae tangled in dark hair every time he shut his eyes.
When the mourning dragged on and the liquor didnβt stop, it must have gotten harder to find people to occupy those chairs and to ask those questions because the numbers dwindled down to two: Emil Hartman and Cynthia Weaver. They dragged him two different ways while he wanted nothing more than to never move again. Cynthia, cloying sweetness and a shoulder to cry on but frustrated beneath it all in a way that Zane didnβt understand and never really dwelt on because the other voice in his ear had won out in the end.
βYou can fix this, Tom. Write.β
And he had-- god, he had-- and heβs still paying for every word now.
And she isnβt even here. Not really. Not tangibly, but Zane remembers her in the sunshine but her face is fading with the light. Dark hair, dark laceβ¦
He makes a noise like heβs choking because none of this can really be true. But the frustration. But the looks she gave him when heβd mention Barbara like she wasnβt the entire reason why any of them were there.
Zane still doesnβt want to believe it and partially because itβs being blasted into his head by a stranger who keeps crashing through his safety net forβ¦
For what was this exactly? Revelations heβd never even asked for.
βHow could you even know that?β Zane asks, incredulous. It canβt be true but he can see it playing out frame by frame inside of his mind, but that has to be a discarded script. Some way to push the blame off of himself for never being there.
But Zane has no problem sticking it on Hartmanβs shoulders because heβs been doing that for decades and the revelation about him pulls that predatorβs grin out of Zane-- sharp teeth.
βYou saw Hartman? Is he dead or did he find what he was looking for?β
That description doesnβt sound like dead, but you never really know and this man is speaking in riddles that rival even the things that Zane himself has rattled off. In some of his familiar words that bring back that feeling of something forgotten bubbling up over the surface that Zane feels like he could skim his fingers over if he really focused on it.
βOkay,β Zane begins with a firmness that implies that he has any of this figured out or under control, but heβs grasping at straws and fragments of ideas. βWhere is βhereββ? Like, for you. Because thereβs got to be something in between your βhereβ and my βhereβ and if we can manifest that then maybeββ
Heβs pacing now, forcing something solid into the void between them out of just the act, but thatβs only byproduct of nervous fidgeting. Zane stops in the middle of it-- hands frozen in a gesture that hasnβt quite taken shape yet.
βNo, wait. How do you know any of this? Because I donβt know you, man, but you know too much about me.β
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"Baggins, but pretty much yeah. You got it." It makes Ethan wonder what kinds things Heisenberg has and hasn't read, what kind of movies he likes. If he watches movies. But that's a line of thought for another day. They'll have time.
Ethan flinches slightly at the light only because he's still tired enough and the room is dark enough that it's startling. He grunts and rubs his eyes, muttering, "a bit of warning next time?" He doesn't expect there to be.
Ethan tugs his shirt off and carelessly drops it next to himself on the bed. He doesn't know what the Lord is going to look for, but it probably helps to see actual skin and not the filthy shirt that's been hidden under two different jackets for the entire time he was in the village. At some point, if he doesn't have to have a panic attack over sprouting fucking wings, he'll ask about the clothes situation in town- he didn't see any laundry mats, but if Heisenberg has a whole-ass factory, maybe he has a washer and dryer stocked away somewhere? There had to be somewhere to wash shit.
"Good enough." He flops back down on the bed, rolling onto his stomach to expose his entire back. His cheek rests on his folded arms. "Miranda could shapeshift, right?" Giving the Village a Magneto and a Mystique; makes him wonder if Salvatore was Toad. Not sure about the others yet. "So maybe she just.... liked the wings thing."
At the core of it, Ethan's just trying to give reasons that he won't end up like Miranda. Why he's completely different, even if he's got some mega-connection with the megamycete. He can feel something through that connection, as if it's laughing as his discomfort with the situation. He sighs. "I can't change shape." He's never actually tried. "I don't have any weird power shit going on." He's absolutely not counting the fact that his body just shrugs off extreme injury or that he can just shove limbs back on and have them work perfectly after. Why would he possibly count that? It's a completely normal and human thing to do.
Heisenberg frowns at that because "Baggins" doesn't ring any bells and it's been a long, long time but he he'd remember names at least. A couple of them. Well, the rest are blurs, but he does remember this name, but lets Ethan have it for now. As soon as Ethan has his shirt off, that's where Heisenberg's attention goes-- no room for arguing while he's got work to do.
He's only really half listening while Ethan makes himself comfortable, eyes moving across Ethan's body and trying to spot anything out of place until he realizes that he is being given permission to touch here. It'd be easier to peel back the skin and see what exactly is happening beneath it-- what's still human flesh and what's been replaced by fungus-- but odds are that's a step too far at the moment. And he doesn't really want to make a mess of his own bed.
"You ever try changing shape?" Heisenberg asks, intentionally stirring the pot. "Maybe you just haven't figured it out yet."
He shifts to kneel beside Ethan, one knee pressed against his body as Heisenberg leans over him. Normal, as far as he can see. Or as normal as a reanimated corpse really can be. There's almost no tells of that even until Heisenberg actually lays a hand on Ethan's back and feels the chill of death on him. Nothing shifts beneath his skin on that initial touch-- he's just another cadaver on Heisenberg's table.
No. Much more than that.
"You do have weird shit going on," Heisenberg corrects, starting his examination at the top of Ethan's spine. The vertebrae there feel normal, no breaks and nothing forced back together by spongy strings of fungus. He moves on, fingers working downward along Ethan's trapezius muscles on both sides.
"You have a whole file of weird shit."
And Heisenberg's read it front to back enough times to have it almost memorized. He tries to tell himself it's not something unique to Ethan; He knew the other lords in the same way too. What each of them could do and their limitations so he'd be prepared if they ever squared up one on one. It's just practical to know your enemy like that, and now ally.
Heisenberg's bare skin buzzes faintly with electricity-- without his knowledge and beyond his control-- while he searches for abnormalities. Nothing so far except for normal human tension. Not even the feeling of a body deep in rigor mortis.
"How many limbs do you think is normal for the standard man to lose in his life? I'll give you a hint: Lower than the number you have," Heisenberg says, unconcerned with the harshness of the statement. His hands are gentle in comparison as he works his thumb into the tight muscle of Ethan's shoulder.
Ethan wonders if Heisenberg realizes that he is thinking about tearing him apart as much as he's thinking about fucking him, though when he feels a thumb press into his thigh, one of the two takes the foreground.
He laughs softly in response to Heisenberg's scoff, tilting his head to the left with a slight grin at his following words. "But I could try," Ethan points out, "If you want me to, I'll try."
Heisenberg's shirt is already a mess, so Ethan doesn't feel bad for dragging a fingernail from the hem up to his chest and tearing the fabric apart with it. He then leans down to nuzzle the warmth of his exposed tummy, sighing into his skin contently after inhaling his scent.
"You're so hot to me when you're soaked in blood," he teases, mostly joking around even though there is some truth in the statement. Ethan travels upwards with kisses and soft bites until he reaches Heisenberg's throat.
Ethan runs his tongue along the sensitive skin there before pressing his teeth in, not deep enough to make Heisenberg bleed, but hard enough to leave indents.
"Didn't you just promise?" Heisenberg teases back, irritation bleeding out of him with every dumbass comment and touch. It's one step closer to actually asking for it and he wonders if that's why Ethan's dancing around the topic the way he is. He's trying to force Heisenberg to ask.
It's not gonna happen.
Not with his pants on anyway. His shirt's already been turned to ribbons by Ethan's impatience so Heisenberg does not at all feel conflicted about needing to stop touching the man to get the rest of it off.
"Could have fixed that," He grumbles, knowing damn well he was not going to. The whole sleeve would have needed to be replaced; It was just easier to steal another when he got the chance.
His own breathing hitches at the feeling of Ethan's breath on his skin, and as Ethan works his way higher, Heisenberg hastily removes his gloves-- biting down on a fingertip to suppress overeager sounds, and whipping his head to the side to fling it to the ground like a dog. The other one follows close behind and then there's nothing to muffle the groan that comes from his lips when Ethan's teeth find their way back home in the flesh of Heisenberg's throat.
"That's..." It takes a second to be able to speak beyond that one word and in that time, his hands return to Ethan's body. One curls over his thigh again and the other presses his head closer, weakly. The wound is deep, the pain not forgotten even though the little remaining blood in Heisenberg's body has already vacated the area. It'd be embarrassing how quick he's hardening beneath Ethan's body if it hadn't been a couple weeks since they last had the time or the energy. And if he hadn't been trained to associate teeth at his jugular with being fucked mercilessly into too thin, motel mattresses. He tries again at what he was trying to say, not aiming for anything close to eloquence.
"You're making yourself my doctor and you- you want me covered in blood. That's... isn't that uh... unethical?"
Itβs getting late, sun already dipping low into the water and painting the sky in oranges and deep pinks. Rose has been watching it through the the wide windows of the diner, elbow resting on the counter and chin resting on her palm. Itβs cozy, even though it means danger once she flips off the fluorescent lights for the night and steps out into the gloom, but for now all she needs to worry about is a couple of stragglers still nursing coffees.
Sheβs down to just one when the cook closes up the kitchen and leaves her alone-- checking in with her first, of course. But that last customer doesnβt seem like trouble, just a little lost maybe. Lonely. Or thatβs what she starts reading into him, anyway poking at ideas of what his story could be as she cleans the counter and then the tables one by one, starting at the one farthest from his. Just to give him a little bit of time to catch on that itβs nearly closing time.
He doesnβt say anything until she actually approaches-- to ask him if he needs anything, but itβs got to be either pie or coffee because she is not a good cook and besides, everythingβs cleaned up already. His answer fits a little too well into that thought of loneliness, enough that Rose stops thinking about locking up the doors and heading back to her trailer and gets lost in his story again.
βWell, thereβs still likeβ¦ ten more minutes until weβre closed closed,β She says. βAnd itβs just you here, so umβ¦ you can stay if you want. Just until I need to lock up, though. I canβt let you sleep in here-- it wouldnβt be very comfy. Thereβs not enough padding on the benches.β
She says it with a candy sweet smile thatβs meant to be disarming, but always comes off as a bit too much. Sheβs at least keeping herself from prying. For now.
He lets Zane's optimism linger without comment, only offering a derisive snort in response. Geoffrey knows he could keep pushing, keep insisting there are betters way to live an immortal life that don't involve so much cyclical disappointment and death -- but he also knows it'd be wasted breath. There is a solution to the Zane problem, but the hunter isn't going to act on it now, and so they'll remain at this impasse until one of them finally wises up. It's just a matter of who cracks first.
His eyes slide closed in the dying light. The scent of blood still hangs heavy in the air. It's not from Geoffrey's preferred source but the pervasive smell of it still makes his gums itch. It's temporarily overpowered by the tang of Zane's lit joint, though it's not enough to mask the carnage completely.
Geoffrey cracks an eye open at the other man's questioning, a more obvious half-smile now tugging at the side of his mouth that isn't snagged by scar tissue. "They were putting worse things in cough medicine when I was growing up," he says, like it's some kind of defense against the accusation of being uncool. Both eyes open now, he can't help but watch the pale column of Zane's throat when he inhales and exhales, the faint flexing of his muscles and corresponding pulse of blood vessels. His teeth ache, and he tears his gaze away. "But I haven't smoked in a long time. It used to be my excuse to take a goddamn break -- not like I'm hurting for time, now. Cigarettes got too expensive, anyway."
Just another human habit he's allowed to fall by the wayside over the decades. Maybe Zane just hasn't gotten to that point yet, or maybe the routine -- the act -- of it all isn't something he's willing to give up. Vampires today are different than they were when Geoffrey turned, but then so is mortal society. Everything is bigger and louder and more, and in the last few years he's had to deal with more leeches stalking night clubs than rat infested alleys. They're bolder, more self-confident, and he wants to blame it on media, but the truth is that people just aren't as afraid of monsters anymore. And the monsters aren't what they once were.
Christ, he really is getting old.
"Your projects scare me a little." Could be a film -- Geoffrey takes interest in those, at least -- but it could also be just about anything else. Zane and his whims are sometimes unpredictable. "If it involves more of a body count than what I've already seen today, I'll pass."
βLucky you,β Zane says wistfully, like heβs yearning for the other manβs childhood remedies. Theyβd wised up a bit in his own youth-- no more giving cocaine to toddlers-- but thereβs still things here and there he misses that were lost in the forward march of modern medicine and understanding of things you simply cannot do if you want to live past twenty-seven. Quaaludes are a sore spot, in particular, one he mourns like an old friend. Probably wouldn't even hit the same...
Geoffreyβs gaze wanders and Zane catches it from the corner of his eye as he smokes. His lips quirk up slightly in that grin thatβs never really far away. He tilts his head back for the exhale just to be a little showy and watches the smoke drift off into twilight.
βAnd now you just donβt take breaks,β Zane teases. βYou could bum off of me if you want. Then you donβt need to find your own.β
Obviously dripping with double meaning, but heβll still wiggle out of it if Geoffrey bristles at it. Theyβre just talking cigarettes. He pushes off from the wall, shoots Geoffrey a full toothed smile and turns to make his way inside, certain that he will be followed. Maybe itβs a cocky assumption, but even though he doesnβt know Geoffrey well, he knows that distraction from routine is a tempting thing to any of them after enough time has passed. Zane feels it, even with the excitement he creates around himself-- like a storm of death and drama. Everything becomes mundane after a point.
Even the death and drama.
And the distraction can come as different death and drama-- the kind that Zane has been crafting for decades under a few different names and with a few different crews. After the run in where Geoffrey had seemed actually interested in Zaneβs work, heβd made a point of keeping around copies of anything heβd missed since the time theyβd last seen each other. Even if the project never saw the light of day and stayed as some unedited mess, it still was witnessed by one set of eyes. That kept the despair away. A little.
βNo more real bodies, I promise. Just effects, man. If I get too real with it, theyβll accuse me of making snuff again and then the feds will get involved and itβll be a wholeβ¦ thing, yβknow?β Zane says, gesturing with both hands as he crosses the threshold into his most recent home, now tragically missing its front door. Itβs been ripped off its hinges, probably in pieces now somewhere in the lawn.
The inside is in a worse state than the yard-- furniture upended and broken, gouges in the walls, blood in the carpets. Zane suspects Barbara is the redecorator, but heβll answer with a shrug if asked about it. Like he does with most things. Itβd really hurt the whole resale value if Zane wasnβt planning to turn the whole thing into a pile of ashes-- itβs much easier to skip town than it is to deep clean everything and disclose a dozen deaths on the property to the next buyer. Way less questions.
βItβs kind of unfinished due to a very recent tragedy, I hope you understand.β
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"What?"
Heisenberg's never even considered it-- to the point that the question is absurd to him. Reflexively, he reaches up to touch the brim of his own hat, eyebrows furrowed. A beret?
"It's for practicality, not fashion. Protection from the elements! What's a- what's a beret going to stop?"
He looks disgusted at the thought, at the mental image of it.
"Besides, I don't want to be associated with the French."
The doubt starts to creep in after a little bit; maybe he was hearing things. Or maybe hearing something meant nothing and no one was there. He doesn't know this place as well as the Oldest House; it might just make it sound like people are around. Maybe the building gets lonely. Ethan can understand that.
He's fixing to turn around and try some other doors or see if the windows can be broken and maybe climbed out of when he gets a response and his heart skips a beat. It's a person! Probably! Probably a real person that doesn't work for the FBC! He can't remember the last time he talked to just a real, normal, not government employee person!
"Holy shitballs you're real!" Ethan presses an ear to the door as if that'll help him hear the voice beyond a little better. "I can't believe it!" He almost tries the knob again, but then realizes that might not be appropriate. Instead, he pinches himself just to make sure this is real. He can feel it. It's real.
"Amazing. Hi! Uh-" how does talking to normal people even work? He doesn't know anymore. Most everyone is briefed on him long before meeting him. He laughs, something small and nervous. "I'm P8- uh, I mean. Ethan. My name is Ethan. I'm just- sorry, it's been a while. A really long while." About fifteen years. "I've been-" is it safe to say? What if this is just a ranger he hasn't met yet?
What if he's going to end up being taken back? Fuck. He pulls away from the door slightly, frowning at it. He doesn't want this to be a ranger. But maybe he shouldn't mention the FBC yet. Just in case. "It doesn't matter. Uh. We can just talk like this, you don't need to open the door. But. If you know a way out of here, could you give me directions? The front door's locked."
The reaction makes Zane smile, despite his suspicion. He's still not completely convinced that the person on the other side of the door is truly being genuine, but he's a good actor if it is an act.
"Maybe I'm real," Zane teases, hitting closer to something deep than this man will ever know. "Maybe you're making me up."
Zane's intimately aware of the loop that actually made him or rewrote him or simply plucked him out of a dream to sit here on the hardwood floor and have a conversation with a door. And it's not the man on the other side. He doesn't need to know that though.
P8 rings a bell in a hazy kind of way, just enough to make him glance nervously behind himself to look for another exit that doesn't exist unless he wants to climb six stories down to the ground. It's a designation and not a name. Getting a name after it doesn't really do much to calm Zane's nerves, but nothing would. The comedown is starting to set in and sweep away all of the good vibes.
"Ethan," Zane repeats, patting around his jacket pockets until he finds a joint and a lighter. "I don't know what to tell you, man. The door shouldn't be locked. I never lock it. People need to get in and out."
Or a person. Again, it's something this guy doesn't need to know, especially with a letter-and-number designation like that. Alarm bells are ringing in Zane's head, but he's enjoying the attention too much to let them win. And there's still a door in between them.
With the joint between his lips, Zane flicks his lighter open, lights up and takes a drag.
"You could try the fire escape-- or like, the door again," all said through the strain of keeping the smoke down. He exhales away from the door and keeps on talking.
"You sure it's locked. I don't lock it-- I don't know who can lock it, it's kind of..."
A gesture goes along with the pause, one handed and vague even if Ethan could see it.
"Down stairs in the lobby? Or are you trying to get into the alleyway? And hey, do you care if I smoke? I already started, but I can stop..."
Ethan, holding up the whores shirt. "Save a whore, ride me." He then doubles over laughing. He is very drunk. - @diedindulvey
Heisenberg is not as drunk, but tipsy enough to not think about his words before they come tumbling out of his mouth.
"Am I supposed to wear that or are you offering?" he snaps, his own repression turning into anger yet again. It's a beat before he realizes what he's even said. Too late to take it back, Heisenberg's only got eyes for the bottle in his hands now.
βI mean, uhhβ¦β
No way out, especially not gracefully. He looks up at the shirt again and then at Ethan. And then he knocks back the rest of his drink.
βNo. Fine. I mean it. You offering?β
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"i'm not as simple as you like to make out. i keep trying to tell you that." For Heisenberg
"You misunderstand me," Heisenberg says. It's one of those occasional information and supply swaps-- more information on Heisenberg's end, but there's the occasional object or favor that can earn him some credit from the Duke. In exchange, he gets his cigars. And whatever else has "fallen" into the merchant's hands.
He's not in the mood typically to stick around. Too busy for that, but in honesty too cagey to ever not be glancing towards the exits whenever Heisenberg's inside of someone else's space. Always ready for the snare.
Today, though, the Duke's words get into his head in a way that warrants more than a grumbled parting comment. Heisenberg picks one of his cigars from the box. His lighter and a knife slide their way out of his pocket to be caught by a gloved hand.
"I don't think you're simple-- opposite of that, actually."
Heisenberg doesn't ask permission to smoke here, lighting up with barely a glance the Duke's way as he leans against an available tabletop. He's at least mindful of where the smoke blows.
"You're too fucking complicated. There's some-- You've got some game you're playing. I got my own business. Don't need to get wrapped up in whatever the fuck you're planning too."
