Sloane Fisher

You're a weapon, and weapons don't weep.

[huntersloane-blog]

Simeon Ayers + Sloane Fisher

“There's a light, there's a light at the end of the road Let it shine, let it shine, guide you into the shore It's alright, it's alright, you'll be mine, I'll be yours You're the light at the end of the road.”

[huntersloane-blog]

divinemanic:

In theory, picking up the lost wallet and asking around it to find its rightful owner seemed a good course of action – that is, until she’d gotten around to actually asking people. The first couple of patrons were friendly enough, and Thea, herself, was an amiable personality, but upon reaching the lone woman sitting and staring bloody murder at a newspaper and ripping her pancakes, well, she recalculated every decision that brought her to this very moment, in this very scenario. She’d dealt with ornery people aplenty at the hospital, but the professional setting there empowered her where she was more tentative in day-to-day life.

She almost backed out, but steeled her heart and cleared her throat, smiling brightly, even when she winced at the vehement reaction. She held the wallet up for examination, jerking her arms into motion. “I’m so sorry,” she apologized, prefacing her spiel. “I just wanted to ask if this was your wallet? I found it on the floor over there,” she said quickly. “I’m so sorry to bother,” she repeated, a little fearful of the grip the other woman had on her cutlery.

The smiling face that greeted her took Sloane aback slightly, her brows pulling together as she regarded a woman who looked to be about her own age, trying to gauge whether she ought to be wary or guilty for startling her so. Suspicion would always win out with Sloane, but the girl looked meek enough that she allowed her expression -- and her grip on her knife -- to soften a touch. Her head tipped to the side as the other explained why she’d disturbed Sloane in the first place, eyes flickering to the wallet. 

It wasn’t Sloane’s -- of course it wasn’t, for she would never be so careless -- but she couldn’t begrudge the other the gesture. If anything, the unnecessary apologizing was reminiscent of Simeon in a way that pulled at her heartstrings. Sloane set down her knife and shook her head. “Don’t be sorry, it was nice of you to ask.” Sloane could have apologized for snapping as she did, but she wasn’t particularly sorry. It wasn’t her fault the other startled so easily. “Did you check inside it? There might be an ID.”

[huntersloane-blog]

simeonayers:

Simeon had a breath of relief wash over them when Sloane accepted the flimsy excuse for why they’d gotten sick — she probably knew better, but was just humouring them, but they weren’t going to call her out on it either. They just wanted to soothe some of her worries and, unfortunately sometimes that means that you have to lie sometimes.

They breathed out a laugh at her calling them weird. “Yeah, maybe a little bit,” they agreed.

But Simeon didn’t miss that Sloane glided over their question, didn’t miss that her fingers tightened in theirs. Something was wrong — but what was wrong? Simeon didn’t want to jump to conclusions ( they didn’t want to jump to the likely conclusions ) and so they ignored the signs. Maybe they were getting soft, but they also had never been anything else.

A laugh, bright and just that little bit too loud, popped out of Simeon at comment about how they take their coffee. “At least I don’t put sugar in mine,” they said, smile on their face, “I don’t know how you drink something hot and sweet.” Simeon grabbed their fork, popping it in their mouth to get the rest of the tabasco off of it before they got to sample Sloane’s pancakes. “Iced coffee can be sweet but not hot coffee, y’know?”

Simeon stabbed a few cut up pieces of pancake thoroughly drenched in syrup until their fork was loaded, and shoved them into their mouth as Sloane spoke. They made a face at the sickly sweet taste of the syrup on their tongue, but still chewed the soggy pieces and swallowed. “Universities are always a safe bet to investigate,” they agreed. “There’s probably a few nephilim fucking shit up there too — those things like the university scene too.” Simeon forked another piece of pancake. “I think it’s because those uni years for people are just wild.” Not that Simeon themself would know from experience, but they could make an educated guess just from having watched humans for years.

“These are disgusting, Sloane,” Simeon said with a smile, and took another bite of her pancakes, “I don’t know how you get these at each diner.”

It was Sloane’s turn to be silently grateful when Simeon allowed her to gloss over her momentary distraction, not pushing for answers she couldn’t give. Only where they were lying to spare her worrying, she was doing it -- for what? So they won’t shoot you like you shot your dad. No. It wasn’t going to come to that. Sloane wasn’t going to let it.

So cute, Sloaney. 

Simeon’s laugh, familiar and warm and just barely too loud in a way Sloane had learned to love, grounded her again. She met their gaze with a defiant quirk of her eyebrow, putting down her fork to reach for another sugar packet, tear it open with her teeth -- unwilling to let go of their hand to free up her other one -- and dump it into her coffee. Then she picked up her mug and took a big sip. “Mmm, best coffee in town.” It was lukewarm now and tasted like shit, but that wasn’t point. She smiled, as sweetly as she could manage.

She rolled her eyes lightly as they pulled a face at her pancakes, the gesture more affectionate than anything else, and nodded her agreement. “All the more reason I never wanted to go to college. Angels and nephilim and frat bros.” She wrinkled her nose at the thought; higher education had never been on the table for her, nor did she mind. 

“I don’t know why you insist on trying them at each diner, since you always say that,” she teased back, picking her fork back up and taking a bite for herself. “I think they’re good. Plus -- it’s what my dad and I would always get, when were on a hunt,” she admitted, the kind of thing she wouldn’t dare say to anybody else. But Simeon already knew so much more than that, the confession came without thought or regret. “Can’t let the tradition die.” Not until you die, too. Her brows pulled together and she stabbed at the pancakes, taking another bite.

[huntersloane-blog]

irenebeckett:

Where: Elevator of local apartment building Who: Anyone

Irene stepped out of police station and into the sun, wincing at the bright, blinding light. Stomach rolling, the very hungover Irene began the walk home to her apartment building. Despite her numerous times in the drunk tank, she never got used to the uncomfortable benches, giving her a back ache that would last for days. Slipping a pair of sunglasses over onto her face, she tried to kept an even trudging pace home. Last night had started out fine, with her just quietly drinking in the corner of the local bar when a call from her mother had sent her spiraling. Go home to see her sick father? She didn’t think so. She’d be damned if she took another step into that town again.

Eventually, her very tired feet took her all the way to her apartment building, leaving her to slip into the elevator after another person. She’d moved her investigative office to Lawrence in the hopes that it might make the transition easier. All she wanted in that moment was to go up to her room, shower off the night’s exploits, light up and sleep for a couple of hours before the next bomb dropped and she had to be up. And after all, Lawrence was a hub of unusual activity.  God, though, apparently had other plans for Irene that day - deciding that he hadn’t suffered enough. While the lights flickering caught her attention, it wasn’t until the elevator suddenly jolted to a stop and she slammed into the side that Irene really started paying attention. Eyes wide, she grabbed the bar to stop herself from crumpling instantly, straightening up as the elevator’s lights flickered on and off, the machine refusing to move.

She hadn’t determined whether it was good or bad that she wasn’t alone in the elevator yet.

A new town meant finding a new place to crash while they worked, and while dingy motels or the back of a car usually did the trick, Sloane had a bad feeling they were going to be in this town for a while. Long enough that it might make better economic sense to find something semi-permanent. A skim of the local paper found her on the way to check out an apartment being sublet, the owner desperate enough to do a deal on a weekly basis. It seemed almost too good to be true, hence why she was checking the place out before committing to anything. 

The building looked fine at first glance, the coffee shop she’d stopped at on the way promising as well. Sloane stepped into the elevator and pressed a button, not quickly enough to stop someone else from stepping in before the doors closed. But aside from a wary glance and a slight stiffening of her posture -- she’d learned long ago not to trust strangers in any capacity -- she paid the stranger no mind. Until the elevator went on the fritz at the same moment she took a sip of her coffee, flickering lights and a jerky, sudden stop that had the hot beverage spilling down her front and dropping to the floor as she stumbled backwards into the wall. She sucked in a breath and exhaled an expletive. “Fuck!”  Her hand found the bar along the wall before she could fall, and only then did she spare a glance for her companion, partly concerned, partly suspicious, mostly annoyed to be in this situation at all. “You okay? Sounds like you hit that wall pretty hard.”

[huntersloane-blog]

simeonayers:

Simeon laughed again, smiling wide at the comment about their own food. “I just really like pepper.” The threading of their fingers with hers made Simeon’s shoulders relax — releasing the tension that had been sitting in them unknown to themself. There was just something about her that made them relax.

Attachment, they thought, so human.

They pet Sloane’s hand with their thumb, swallowing when she steered the conversation to how they were feeling. “I— yeah, I, uh,” they stuttered out, shoving another forkful of heavily peppered egg into their mouth; giving themself a moment to gather their thoughts. “I think I just didn’t eat soon enough. Acid reflux, y’know? And you combine that with the shit ride we have right now? No wonder I threw up.”

Simeon paused.

“Do you think that we’ll find the angels that are jockeying the prophets in this town soon?” There was something about this town ( or was it Sloane herself? No, it couldn’t be her ) that was putting Simeon on edge and it wouldn’t do well to have both of them agitated or not thinking straight.

Keep your mind focused, Simeon, they’d tell themself, Your duty is to humanity first and individual humans second.

But they didn’t believe that. They wanted nothing more than to know that Sloane would live a long and happy life. They didn’t care if that included them or not, but they knew that they wanted her to live life to the fullest — to have love and happiness and contentment. To not have to worry about the angels or the holy war or anything of the sort.

They swallowed a gulp of coffee. “Can say that this ‘best in town’ coffee is shit though.” They laughed, but took another drink of the coffee ( four cream; no sugar ) and pulled a face when they got a bit of grounds in their mouth. They continued to pet Sloane’s hand with their thumb, not once moving to pull apart their threaded hands. “How’s your pancakes? Can I try a bite? I’ll give you some… uh.” They looked down at their mostly eaten and thoroughly picked apart breakfast — having tabasco sauce spread over everything on top of the too much pepper. “…Toast?” They motioned to the single piece of bitten, blackberry jam-covered toast, then gave Sloane a grin. “Please? It’s a fair trade.”

“You’re so weird.” There was nothing but fondness in her voice as she teased their odd taste preferences. It was dangerous, how much comfort Sloane took in her fingers intertwined with Simeon’s, their thumb brushing over the back of her hand. Only maybe it was more dangerous for them. Who would look after them if...--no. Sloane couldn’t afford to think like that. 

But Simeon needed looking after, capable as they were. Concern worked its way across her features as Sloane studied them carefully. Acid reflux, they said, like that was a normal issue for them. Sloane knew better, and Simeon would know she did. And they seemed better for now, so there was no sense calling them on it when they were likely just sparing her feelings.

“How soft they’ve made you.”

She looked down at her pancakes and bit the inside of her cheek, hard. Act normal, act normal, act fucking normal, she told herself. Simeon had asked a question. “I can tell you what they asked.” Sloane went rigid, forcing her face still, forcing herself to take a long, slow breath, her fingers tightening around Simeon’s. “Um...yeah...” she mumbled at her pancakes, hopeful the vague answer was enough to ease any suspicion for now. 

The change in topic was a welcome distraction; she looked up at them with a smile, hoping they wouldn’t notice the cracks. “Don’t know how you taste it with all that cream.” As if Sloane could talk, her own drink sweetened with two sugar packets though she had yet to take a sip. “That is so not a fair trade.” Her smile came easier now. “The pancakes are cold and you’re gonna think they’re way too sweet, but have at it.” Sloane pushed her plate toward them, taking advantage of the space cleared in front of her to move the newspaper, turning it around so it was facing Simeon. 

“Anyways, I think I’ve found us some decent leads. There’s a university here, you know how the angles love an impressionable audience. And there’s some journalist coming to town? Or she might already be here. I didn’t check the date on the paper but I doubt this is a weekly publication.”

[angstmemes]

Character Development Questions

Send me one or more and I'll answer these in depth questions

What’s an important lesson your muse has learned over the past few years and how has that changed the way they live?

How does the time your muse lives in influence their lifestyle? Are they happy they’re born in their time, or do they fantasise about a different era?

Does your muse focus mainly on one long term goal or multiple short term ones? What do they think about the reachability of their goals and what are they?

Is your muse an optimist or pessimist and how does this influence their choices?

Does your muse have any irrational fears that hold them back in life? Do they come from experience (trauma) or is it, for instance, part of a belief system they have?

Is your muse looking for a long term relationship? Are they in one? What do they think of marriage and binding themselves to someone?

What does your muse get out of relationships (be it friends, family or a significant other)? Do they find it energising or exhausting to keep up with?

How selfish/selfless is your muse? To what extent would they sacrifice themselves for others and is there anything they’d not give up?

What does your muse think of time/aging? Does getting older scare them? (Alternatively, for immortal muses: How does their immortality effect their relationships with mortals?)

Does your muse believe one should always work hard to get what they want or would your muse take a kind offer without feeling the need to repay it? What do they expect when they lend/give something to someone?

What are your muse’s thoughts on race? Are they biased/racist? Are they aware of discrimination; do they participate in it or do they ignore it? Are they discriminated against?

Is the way your muse sees themselves similar to how others see them or is it (very) different, due to mental illness/keeping secrets/etc.?

When faced with a tricky situation will your muse be proactive or passive? Will they, for instance, try to get involved when they’re not or will they try to get away when they are?

Do they take control or give control or do they believe in sharing power? What are their thoughts on control versus submission (either sexually or in relationships in general)? What do they think of authority?

How materialistic are they? Do they often throw things out or are they hoarders? Do they store their memories in their heads, in photo albums or in countless of boxes of belongings in the attic?

Are they addicted to anything at all? Do they crave something when they haven’t had it in a while? Has this ever endangered them or others?

What prominent habits does your muse have and how would they respond if they were forced to change them? Are they adaptable or dependent on their routines?

What skills does your muse have and how did they come to have them? Was it hard work to learn them? What do they use their skills for? Are there any skills your muse wishes they had?

How concerned are they with their appearance and how do they regard the appearance of others? Do they find it important? Do they enjoy aesthetically pleasing people?

What does your muse think of secrets? Do they keep many or a few and what is their motivation to keep something secret? Have they ever been hurt by a secret someone else kept from them?

[huntersloane-blog]

simeonayers:

Simeon tucked into their breakfast as Sloane pored over the local newspaper — having ordered the special with medium poached eggs and multigrain toast to go with the greasy sausage, bacon, and soggy hashbrowns that came with it — it was one of the things that they both liked and disliked about being disgraced — having to eat. But they couldn’t ignore that Sloane was slicing up her pancakes in the way that screamed ‘DISTRACTED’ and ‘STRESSED’.

So they cleared their throat to get her attention.

The rough reply that they got from it didn’t deter them, having dealt with Sloane in a far worse mood before. “You should eat your pancakes before they get cold,” Simeon said, the words quiet, “I still don’t know how you can eat them with so much syrup.” A laugh, low and easy, before speaking again, “Find anything?” They nodded toward the newspaper as they reached across the scuffed tabletop to gently brush their hand against hers — showing that they wouldn’t mind holding her hand if she needed the comfort ( or more that they needed the comfort, who knew? ). “There has to be some here,” they said, “I just have a feeling about it.”

Because I used to be an angel, Simeon added in their head, I know because I know the feeling of another angel being around.

But Simeon couldn’t shake that they’d had the feeling of an angel being around for the last hundred miles — the queasy gut feeling had hit them hard enough that they had made Sloane pull over so they could be sick on the side of the road. They couldn’t tell her why that had happened. She’d hate them, that was something made clear by how much she hated the angels.

How much she hated their previous brothers- and sisters-in-arms.

A bite of the cooling hashbrowns, the pepper haphazardly shaken onto it burning on the tip of their tongue, and they let out a small sigh. “There’s always angels around anymore.”

That low, easy laugh was a check to Sloane’s frayed nerves, the kind only Simeon could have offered. She couldn’t give into the voice in her head, she wouldn’t, because it wasn’t just herself she was hanging on for. “Says the one with an entire pepper shaker on their eggs,” she grumbled back, though she put down her knife and stabbed a fork into the mess she’d made with slightly less force. She answered their question with a nod as she chewed, the sweetness of the syrup turning bland at their addition. Ask them why they have a feeling. 

Simeon’s fingers brushed against hers, anchoring her in her own thoughts, and she laced her fingers through theirs without thinking about -- for her own comfort this time, though she couldn’t admit why. She couldn’t even look at them as she nodded her agreement. “I have the same feeling.” There were always angels around her, or at least there was always angel around her. “Are you feeling better?” She asked abruptly, turning her focus to Simeon for a moment in the hopes of chasing the angel away before they got down to business. I’m never gone, Sloaney, not even when you don’t hear me.

[huntersloane-blog]

Where: Nondescript local diner Who: All ya’ll 

If Sloane had learned anything in her time on the move, it was that nearly every random town in the Midwest looked the same. And if she’d learned anything else, it was that once you looked closer they were all distinctly different. They had their own history, their own charm, their own magic, their own angels. Every town had them these days, or it felt like it. Every town we’re in has one, Sloaney, the angel in her own head taunted. Sloane’s jaw tightened, her fingers gripping the dinner knife on the countertop before her and driving it into her pancakes with more force than necessary. 

She’d been reading over a local newspaper, food and coffee (the best in town, according to the flickering neon sign in the window) getting cold as she pored over the pages for any sign of angelic activity until the voice needled at her again. Now, she was taking her anger out on her pancakes, slicing them to shreds until her plate looked like a murder scene coated in maple syrup. It was only when she heard the soft sound of someone’s throat clearing that she looked up with a scowl. “What?”

[huntersloane-blog]

AtWSQ -- Pro-Holy War Angels

“The angels that are actively trying to bring about the Holy War were the first to come down and possess prophets in the modern world. They want to expedite the coming of the end of days because they feel that, with God’s apathy toward humans and the temptation that humans give angels themselves, it is in the best interests of the “more important” species and essentially hit the reset button on Earth.”

[huntersloane-blog]

AtWSQ -- Disgraced Angels

“If an angel falls in love with humanity ( either as a whole, or for an individual ) and they are discovered to have clouded motivations from their original purpose, their fellow brethren will claw the angelic nature out of the offending party — which forces them to fall to earth and take up a prophet as quickly as possible, or else they dissipate into the atmosphere.”

[huntersloane-blog]

AtWSQ -- Prophets

“Prophets are humans that have been selected to be used as vessels for an angel.

In the months leading up to a possession, an angel has to convince the chosen prophet that they should allow the angel into their mind and body — usually an angel will promise entrance to heaven when the prophet dies.

It’s a hotly debated topic on if the prophet dies at the moment an angel takes over, or if they are trapped in their own body until their body dies ( even if an angel decides to leave the prophet ).”

[huntersloane-blog]

David/Pietà.

Pietà: Name something that tugs at your heartstrings.

Answered.

David: Are you the bold type? Do want your ideas and thoughts to be heard all around the world?

“That’s two different questions, isn’t it?” She paused, thinking it over regardless. “Am I bold? Yes. Do I want my thoughts heard ‘round the world?” Another pause. An amused twitch of her lips.  “...Sure, if anybody would believe them.”

[huntersloane-blog]

irene, amalthea, ramiel

Irene: what do you think makes you who you are?

Sloane tilted her head to the side, considering. She thought of her mom, buried in the backyard. She thought of her dad, buried next to her 20 years laters. She thought of old newspapers marked with highlighter; of dusty tennis shoes; of the bruise she’d had for a week when she didn’t mind her dad’s warning about the recoil on the gun she got for her fifteenth birthday; of ear-marked bibles; switchblades tucked into her boot; dried flower petals; summer rainstorms; the ring of a burner phone; Simeon’s voice crackling on the other end of a walkie talkie; their hand in hers; how bad they’d looked the first time Sloane gave them a haircut; even the voice, unwanted but ever-present in the back of her mind. “Everything,” she said simply. “It’s everything.”

Amalthea: how do you cope with loss?

“What’s there to do but get on with your life?”

Ramiel: describe a moment when you felt all was lost.

Answered.

[huntersloane-blog]

ramiel

Ramiel: describe a moment when you felt all was lost.

Briefly, Sloane’s thoughts flickered to a night five years ago. Pinned to the ground, a Prophet’s knee against her windpipe. Her dad, long gone, buried in her old backyard. No one to help her -- or so she’d thought. Her fingers fiddled with the small sliver cross on a chain around her neck; an ironic accessory if there ever was one, but it was all she’d ever had of her mother’s. “The thing about us Fishers? We don’t give up easily.”

[huntersloane-blog]

Pietà

Pietà: Name something that tugs at your heartstrings.

A ghost of a smile found its way onto Sloane’s face as she thought about the way Simeon’s shoulders relaxed slightly when she could tell they were stressed and she'd take their hand before they could reach for hers. They’re lying to you, an unwanted voice cut into the memory, and Sloane’s face contorted into a  scowl. “I don’t know, babies?”

[huntersloane-blog]

the last supper ; the scream

The Last Supper: Are you religious at all?

A wry grin tugged at her lips, a humorless chuckle as she flicked open her switchblade. “I’m a believer, if that’s what you’re asking.” God, angels, demons – they were all most definitely real. It was just that none of them cared for humans as anything other than playthings, to be used and disposed of on a whim. “You won’t see me getting dressed up on Sundays or going to confession, though.”

The Scream: How easy/hard is it for someone to startle or make you lose focus?

Sloane’s gaze settled on a point far in the distance, not granting eye contact with the person asking the question. It used to be an easy one; she had a laser sharp focus, a single-mindedness for whatever task she deemed most important at the moment and very little patience for anything that got in the way of that. But now? Are you going to answer the question, Sloaney? The voice in her head whispered, taunting. Her brows pulled together. Her gaze refocused. “It takes…persistence.”

[huntersloane-blog]

AtWSQ ask meme

Simeon: what is a belief you would fight for?

Uriel: who or what deserves your utmost dedication?

Sloane: what little things matter the most to you?

Tucker: what does "living your best life" mean to you?

Eydie: do you consider yourself an optimist?

Juliette: how far would you go for love?

Logan: what's worse: the ugly truth, or a pretty lie?

Irene: what do you think makes you who you are?

Amalthea: how do you cope with loss?

Laviah: if you could spend a day in the life of anyone, who would it be?

Ramiel: describe a moment when you felt all was lost.

Valentina: what would you sacrifice for love? what wouldn't you sacrifice for love?

Levi: what line can never be uncrossed?

Zahariel: do you hold grudges?