snake in your boot

Mavros 'Mav' Drake Fallen One Weilder of Darkness & Smooth Criminal Here for a good time, and a long time.

[mavrosdrake]

❝ ✦ Is that THEO JAMES walking through the neon-lit streets of Las Vegas? No, wait, it’s none other than MAVROS DRAKE (HE/HIM), looking like a THIRTY-FIVE-year-old mortal working as a LICENSED THERAPIST. Once Heaven’s own TRICKSTER, they were cast down and reborn as a DEMON. Considered to be ADAPTABLE and PERSPICACIOUS, others would accuse them of being ANARCHIC and DUPLICITOUS, sins they carry like trophies from the Fall. When I picture them, I see the taste of transgressions blanketed in the rush of red plum wine slowly dripping down your throat, the vacant gaze of one who watches horrors occur and then spins up another, the unblemished apple leaking delectable juice down your lips quietly poisoned with snake venom, the sightlessness of waking in your bed past midnight, the clenching of a fist on a plush upholstered chair, and I hear the heavenly choir sing BORN FOR THIS (THE SCORE) just for them. Banished from Heaven, they’ve made the City of Sin their throne. Will they claim it all… or burn it down? ✦ ❞

Belovedly played by Kyra ( She/Her/28 ) in Diesirae RP. Please don't interact if you are not associated with this roleplay.

google doc | starters. | memes. & asks. | headcanons. | inspo. | aesthetic. | interactions.

asks: 0 | replies: 2 | starters: 0

[rpdepartment]

when does a ᴄᴏᴍᴇᴛ become a 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚘𝚛 ? when does a ᴄᴀɴᴅʟᴇ become a 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚣𝚎 ? when does a ʀɪᴘᴘʟᴇ become a 𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚕 𝚠𝚊𝚟𝚎 ? when does the ʀᴇᴀsᴏɴ become the 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚎 ?

when does a ᴍᴀɴ become a 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 ?

[sinlaced]

closed starter for @mavrosdrake location: Near Lilith's Nightclub, Eden

She'd abandoned the party as soon as Cassiel fell to the ground and blood stained her nightclub. Preparing for the worst, Lilith collected all the needed paperwork to possibly reason with some of the Angels or Demons, to cut herself a deal, find new allies while the throne now remained vacant until a new replacement could be found. One mind in particular lingered: Satan. Had he been at the party and, if he did, was he alright? With Michael and all the other Angels around, Lilith feared they'd soon try and make their move against Demons, including him. Her man, her long imprisoned lover, she hoped to reunite with him as soon as possible. The surrounding area had since cleared, however she could see a figure further back. Unmistakably him.

She breathed in sharply to calm her nerves. Lilith knew him by heart, by his mere silhouette and the way he stood, no light, no other pointers needed. Her most trusted ally, her most beloved. With her head slightly tilted to the side, the cursed mortal tried her best not to let emotions rule over her next actions, to not put a target on both of their backs, but she refused to spend just one more second without him. "Satan," her voice, filled with instant relief and warmth, propelled her forward as she practically jumped against him. His familiar scent, his height, the way he exuded that sort of darkness most would want to avoid -- she craved it all and more and had been waiting for it for the past centuries. With her arms now wrapped around his neck, Lilith kept him in place like a snake, ironically, just to take in his scent and warmth as much as possible. He almost felt unreal given the time between their last meeting. "Satan," she whispered again, fingers quivering against his neck as she eventually released herself to look at him. "You're back." She didn't care if anyone saw how close they were, if that would put a target on them. No matter the consequences, she knew they'd be able to suffocate any potential attacks before they even began. "I've waited and waited." Her hand moved from his neck to his cheek as Lilith's finger gently brushed alongside his lower lip, "It's been far too long."

[mavrosdrake]

He lingered. He paced; in a dignified manner that did not draw the suspecting eye. And he kept to the shadows. A silent observer waiting as people cleared out of the nightclub after the gory show put on for him and his brethren rather leisurely. Too slow for his liking. It put him almost … on edge.  As, while he enjoyed a healthy dose of murder, he hadn’t enjoyed it being revealed so close to her and causing quite a stir between him and all his counterparts. Any number of them could be lethal in such a heated moment. Any who could have ruined a moment he had avoided, and yet spent eons waiting for at the same time. A speck of a moment he could only have in the solitude, and cover,  of night after such a divisive moment that would keep heads spinning, and not intruding in on what he might be doing. Or who he was seeing. This would be a second for them, and them alone. 

A second that felt like the closest he’d get to heavenly when her body slammed against his, pushing him a step back from the sheer force of it. And it’s like his entire body just lets out a release of breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding all these centuries; the missing piece of his soul finally finding its way back and slid into place like it was a seed awaiting its chance to grow. It wasn’t an earth-shattering feeling, though. Just a simple ‘ah, finally’ falling off a long-lost lover's lips. And when she says his name, everything settles. He doesn’t feel split in two. He isn’t wrestling with discord or wrath. He is just himself, leaning into the feeling of something he has spent an eternity getting back to: her arms wrapped around his neck. An anchor he’d gladly go down for. “Lilith,” he says, softer than he’s ever said anyone's name. The taste of it on his tongue is a feeling he can’t quite put into words after so long. 

She pulls back slightly to meet his eyes, and he has no desire to lose the space between them. He snakes one arm around her waist to keep her somewhat pulled against him as he finally, finally smiles. Something sincere and warm. Then he uses his free hand to leech light from the space around them. Preserving them in more darkness and out of the eyesight of any wandering eyes. “I said I would be back.” He gently grabs the hand she places on his cheek and presses a kiss to her open palm. “Nothing was going to stop me from getting back to you.”

[hourofsilk]

Satan’s displeasure is unmistakable. From what his earlier patient had said, he is usually inviting and terribly warm, a counselor with a comforting voice and a careful ear. The contrast to his antipathy now is stark. Where such disdain might have wounded Chamuel in earlier ages, when he was softer and still certain of heaven’s shelter, he finds himself almost pleased by it now. There is a quiet delight in rousing the demon's annoyance, a fragile pride blooming at the sight of it.

“Yes, Mavros. Or do you prefer doctor?” His dark gaze lifts, unhurried.

Chamuel does not sit. He drifts through the space instead, taking in the office with the curiosity of someone examining an artifact from an unfamiliar world. It suits Satan well. Sleek lines, shadowed corners, the sharp scent of paper and polished wood, tall windows that invite brooding or whiskey or both. He imagines how many vulnerable mortals have confessed their wounds here, and how Satan must have collected their sorrows and desires like jewels to pocket, or like morsels to savor, darkened with his own gifts of strife and discord.

A soft laugh escapes him, feather-light. “Please. I know an exercise in futility when I see one. No, this is curiosity. I was intrigued to see what form the Serpent takes on Earth. Still whispering into their ear, I see. Or perhaps they whisper into yours.”

He lets that linger. With domains born of hatred and wrath and old discord, Satan must have expected Chamuel to seek him out, to right balances, to soften or counter whatever harm he spreads through his touch.

“Mostly,” Chamuel murmurs, circling back to face him with a mild, unsettling serenity, “I wanted to see what your counseling looks like.”

[mavrosdrake]

“Dr. Drake will do,” he confirms. His intent was clear: we aren’t on a first-name basis. There is a palpable divide. A sour taste left in the wake of his soft scents, as Satan was never one of the more forgiving in nature. And he couldn’t help but despise them more for what they represent and how little he saw of that in the centuries he was left forgotten. 

When Chamuel does not sit, Satan does. He leans against the dark wood of his desk and crosses his arms against his chest. Scrutinizing their every move around his low-lit office as they do his office space. Gleaning something malevolent off the room, he assumes, just because of the color scheme. He knew his very existence unsettled them all, and they drew conclusions that there was always ill intent in everything he did. It’s practically confirmed as his guest speaks up again. 

“Hmm. Didn’t anyone ever tell you the human saying that it isn’t the snake that kills the cat — curiosity does." He watches then as he draws nearer. Stepping more into his space than he would like. He has to resist the urge to tighten his fist and make an undignified face at the man. He quells every part of him that craves to give into divine fury, or return to a state of violence. Not here. Not in this space he carved out for toying with the fragile minds of humans. 

Arms still crossed, however, he scoffs. A harsh sound. “I’m sure your mind can come up with the necessary conclusions without having to witness it firsthand.” He shrugs, tempering the annoyance. “If I told you I was just hearing out their private thoughts, their feelings, and alleviating their pain with small guidance here and there… you’d probably tell your friends up above I’m telling them to stone their fathers, and steal their friends' wives, or something along those lines.”

[cxecution]

“Who are you then?” Azrael asked, almost a challenge. “You can say that you’re free all you want, and maybe you are, but who are you? What do you stand for?” It wasn’t in her nature, getting heated even in the slightest (especially if her hands had anything to say about it!) – more often than not, she would accept that answer from a demon and go about her day. Demons, angels, humans, hellmouths, all of them had their own perception of their world and their reality. Was there any one reality? Questioning perceptions would do her no good, serve no purpose… but Satan really brought out the best.

“You stand for freedom? From where I stand, you have to credit Lucifer. You listened to him, you followed him. All you stand for is chaos.” He would love that, she knew. She didn’t know if he would love her saying he had essentially been Lucifer’s plaything, a cog in his machine, but telling him he stood for chaos? “And I’m certain that’s all well and good with you, I’m certain you believe that to be even stronger than a divine purpose… and that’s why I find you so very miserable.” Pathetic, even. 

“You’re right, Satan, you're right. It is very possible that even the holiest among us will do an about-face when God’s true absence is felt, but very few are beyond redemption,” she said, tone far calmer than it had been. Then, as an aside - “You’d be proud to hear that you’re not among them, I’m sure.” That was what made the man so frustrating in conversation! “But if you think for a second that I have not held that same sentiment ever since you fell, you’re sorely mistaken. What an honor you have – you truly do bring out the worst.”

[mavrosdrake]

He grins. True amusement leaks into his features for the first time this night. “Well, isn’t that the age-old question.” Who was he? What does he want? Who will he be? It was always asked, but it never felt like the answer was meant to be actually received. After all, they all had their own preconceptions. They all had their own judgments they clung to with a ferocity. “I am whoever you want me to be.” The simplest form of his answer; a loose form of the truth. Because even saying that already compelled a gut reaction; thoughts swirling in their head of who they made him out to be. 

“I am your wrath. I am your desire. I am your discord. I am your every thought, and the action that follows.” He meets her glance, the challenge in her eyes, head-on. “So, yes, I stand for freedom and chaos.” There is the barest shake of his head then as he listens to her undercut him — who he is, and who he can become. Not just a toy tossed around. Not quite. “But I don’t have to give credit to anyone.” And if he says that statement with a little more annoyance, a little more exhaustion, who could blame him? He has spent eons just being boiled down to a flicker of Lucifer’s greater light. “Because even if you find me so miserable, I’m just a reflection of you. So, maybe what you actually find miserable is yourself.” 

He can’t help but continue to dig the knife in. To pull at the seams of her anxieties and things she might loathe about herself.  “I represent free will. I represent you — who you could or couldn’t be with just a simple choice.” He lifts a brow at her, still grinning. “And maybe that annoys you because here you already are, becoming more like me with your use of free will.” 

He lets the knife loosen just a tad then, metaphorically. A give and take. Never pulling too far that he loses the person entirely from being influenced. “Now I have you admitting I’m right.” He laughs. A quiet, ruinous sound. “An auspicious day.” He certainly could be too prideful. Especially at angels admitting their faults, and seeing how little he cares about their redemption or perfidious love. “Nice to see I can still bring out the real you.”

[lordof-flies-deactivated2026021]

Although her every nerve is alight in fight or flight to be approached in this way, she remains poised, collected. Satan is behaving himself; he keeps his distance, his face not contorted in disgust nor manipulation. It's more than she can say for any other demons she's interacted with lately, but in this case, it's possibly more of a concern.

"I won't argue with that word choice," she says, "although it wouldn't be my own." She does feel the grief in her chest; of course she does, no matter her disagreements with God.

She knew that he saw the same vision as she, even if she wasn't sure how she knew. The mutual recognition floated in the space between them, clear as day. "More enlightening for some than others. I wonder how much you know, Satan?"

He won't give her a straight answer. She doesn't begrudge it - neither would she.

[mavrosdrake]

He can’t stay still. Never settled. So, he moves slowly, starting to walk around them in a circle. “And what word would you use?” He asks with a perfunctory tilt to his head. Curious, but not. Wondering what could make her tick, and if she felt half as much as he did when he was struck down. 

“Would it be sorrow, torment, or fury?” He prods, continuing his walk. “Why don’t you say it? Whatever it is, you should never keep it bottled up. You should express it.” 

He only pauses his strides when she asks a question of her own. He grins. There is a glint of something more fortuitous in it. This was a chance. The start of something.  There is a lot he can weave from just the fragment of hidden knowledge they have over the others, and he knew they both knew that. “I would say I know as much as you.”

[vainglouried]

It feels like a riotous scream, tracing through his veins like thin fractures right before a shattering. Lucifer can't feel anything for that sharp moment, nothing but memory. A tremor through his blood, stirring through his lungs, heavy on the back of his tongue. Honey lush in its comb, the weight of ripened fruit, blood and ash, falling. God is dead. One of you. That sound of weeping that Lucifer knows he'll carry with him for the remainder for his life.

The only thing that reveals his thoughts is that slow flex and and tightening of a fist. One second too long before he relaxes. His face is cold, empty. That vastness of the sky as the stars bleed away into the coming dawn, gray and all encompassing and utterly empty. To Satan's question, that is his answer.

Empty. Lucifer meets Satan's look and it is as black as it has always been. "Is this really the space for that? Let's see you do your best guessing and tell me ... how do you think I feel about all of that?"

Half a dare, half something else. Seeking, searching, trying to put words to the roar of the unspooling cosmos that had been so meticulously designed. What happens next? What happens now?

[mavrosdrake]

Eyes met his own: colorless, and devoid of the delicacy of sentiments. Those eyes threaten to swallow those around them in their deep, unyielding abyss. Darker than even his gifts could succumb others to as they gave signs of nothing beneath the pale moonlight. And yet… And yet, he knew him. He was a piece of him. The extension of his very soul; fragmented as it was. 

So, he didn’t have to ask. He didn’t have to look for telltale signs of wetness streaking down cheeks, red-rimmed eyes, or the tremble of a body like a house during an earthquake. There wouldn’t be any to find. There would only be stoicism and eternal repression. 

“Is there ever time for it?” He retorts. Not in anger, or annoyance, but something more wistful and disconnected from his prior coolness. Darkness blots out the sun for seconds through a simple act of murder, and suddenly there is no time for silly sentiments or feelings. People are lost to his own domain of wrath, hatred, and discord. “I don’t need to guess,” he starts, too sure. Certain to the core. Certain of the eons of what was shared between them. “But there aren't enough words to explain the depth of layers and feelings that reside in you right now from a death like this. And despite that,” he pauses. More forlorn “Others have already decided the wrong answer for you, for me, and for all us sinners.” That they could be nothing but glad. Nothing but envious it wasn’t them. Nothing but eager to sit upon the now emptied throne. 

[heavecnlys-deactivated20251130]

blood stained her existence, spilled through millennia for a heavenly purpose, wrath, a sword forged to rip anything in its path. there doesn’t have to be a why. the words evoked a chuckle, cynical, or rather cruel. " so cain walked into heaven and killed god because he simply felt like it... was it thursday the most convenient day? "

michael had killed for the sake of it, on a whim, but this... it felt strange, rare, planned. " you are one lousy therapist " fingers pulled a small blade from the pocket of her jacket, stained in demon blood from earlier. " cain is someone's bitch, much like you, he might have enjoyed this... but feelings were not guiding his hand. "

" there is purpose to you too, my little brother's spawn " a stain in a creation, such as the blood in her own blade. " reconvene? " michael stepped towards satan, barely hiding a grin, incredulous or rather amused. " my father died so we could be buddies? " brows arched, her blue eyes piercing the demon. " i think you forget who i am... "

the archangel pointed that old blade towards him, only a few inches away from his pristine shirt. " i don't need comfort, certainly not from you " could their kind ever find some semblance of peace? no, not after the fall... not after this. " how very naive " a quick move returned the blade to her pocket.

" a demon that won't get his hands dirty... " michael leaned over the bar, picking a bottle of whiskey to serve herself a dose, an old poison. " why this sudden desire to comfort me? we are not attempting to murder each other, yet " blue eyes found satan as she sipped the drink. " you think i will fall? "

[mavrosdrake]

“Well, people are known to push their luck on Thursday,” he says on a shrug. “Why not roll the dice? Use up the whole cup of free will and target the God who likes to play favorites. Maybe Cain blames Him for the loss of his brother, and the rage finally boiled over. Or hell, maybe he just enjoys murder.” Another roll of his shoulders, indifferent. That’s how it was here, how they lived. People woke up. Some went to work, and others sought to make their marks with knives. Then people slept. Rinse. Repeat. Rationale had left them. It all simplified to choices based on feelings and delusions; shaping already weakened minds to become erratic. 

“Oof,” he exaggerates a grimace, his hand flying to his chest in mock hurt. “Do me a favor and refrain from leaving me a Google review. I’d hate to see my five-star ratings drop from such a biased opinion.” 

He watched as she slipped the blade from her pocket then in… anticipation. Some depraved part of him enjoyed this, her. Watching her fall to a more wrathful version of herself. “His feelings? Perhaps not. But someone's? Yes. Someone felt God should die, and Cain delivered.” And if her words are meant to offend, they don’t. He isn’t bothered by them thinking he was someone’s bitch or just another spawn. Harder truths were always swallowed after a great deal of pain. They would find out soon enough. For now, he just… smirks. His mouth twisted into a wretched little thing; beaming with debauched enjoyment as she pointed the bloodstained blade his way. He almost wanted to press it to see skin. See it drip with his blood in her hand. But then it’s gone, and she is back to her inflated sense of self-worth and spewing vitriol. 

“I didn’t say me, Mikah.” Then, with a hissed intake of breath, like the sharp intake of someone who pretends to feel awkward at the eagerness of another to be near them that is unreciprocated, he continues. “Oh, were you hoping it was going to be me?” A pause. Brief. Smug.  “Don’t lie now. Remember it’s a sin.” 

He watches them seemingly move away again, but follows this time. “People don’t heed the advice of others who can’t keep dirt off their clothes,” he says, taking a seat at the bar. Near, but not too close to invade space yet. “I have a doctorate in comfort; in helping others fall, and rise anew. And you aren’t special, Mikah. Everyone falls. The book of Romans will tell you that.”

[cxecution]

This time, Azrael could almost laugh. Almost. Satan spoke of repentance, of temptation, of falling, and all she could do was shake her head with a smile formed out of disbelief. 

“You speak as though you would ever consider repentance.” Some demons, she knew, were not beyond saving. Many still possessed moral clarity, at least as they began passing from one side of the thin line between life and Death to the next. It was not common, of course, for a demon to die, and perhaps that was why. Perhaps, upon realizing that their immortality was simply conditional, they looked to God again… or, at the very least, became good again. She did not ask questions. She did her job. God was not the arbiter of moral clarity, after all – plenty of people who did not believe in Him had called upon her – but demons… a special breed. “We both know you’re beyond redemption.” And she was sure he rejoiced in that. “You are a miserable, miserable man,” she said with a light laugh. To find joy in bloodshed, to find joy in the wrath and chaos of others. “You think it such a joke and delight? I can only hope that you’ll be on the other side of that knife sooner rather than later.” She did not wish death lightly! But she would not come to him, if ever he were. He did not deserve peace.

[mavrosdrake]

“No,” he says, immediately. There is no hesitation. There is no question. He fell, and it was for a reason. He was forsaken, and he did not have any urge, any desire, to make a rise back up towards the heavens. Not in the state it was. Not when it was dripping in false prophets and hypocrites — those who shame for what is ultimately human and was bled for by Him; the slightest sins. “No, I have no need for repentance. Or whatever form of scraps you all call forgiveness at a table that is far from inviting. I know who I am.” He knew he would never measure up. He would fall short. He would drown, and only suffering would bleed from his eyes at having to be so… uptight. They couldn’t even unclench enough to grab the sticks out of their asses. 

“Miserable — no.” He felt anything but miserable. They could decorate who he was in whatever they wanted, but he knew what he was. “I am free.” Simple. No decorum. Down to its barest bones. “There are no shackles chaining me down. No impossible expectations are choking me. Nothing missing in me, no absence, as I cut out the thing that made me feel less for having a single wavering thought.” He looks around then in mock amusement. “And now the absent father is even more absent. Permanently. Who do you all become when the absence starts to be felt? When you can’t help but become more like me?” 

Loyalty wouldn’t hold up. He’d see to that; help foster the discord. “Will you prescribe them as miserable as you have me? Or unchained, unbound, and capable of much more? The apple didn’t kill anyone, Az. It released them. This will, too.” He smiles then, unashamed. “So, maybe I do think it’s a delight. It’s a delight to see you all become more depraved… I mean, look, you’re already praying for more bloodshed now. Even if it's just mine.”

[lordof-flies-deactivated2026021]

starter: open / event 01 pt 2. where: eden ariel & ?

There's something out there, and it's laughing at them.

Ariel isn't typically prone to being so cynical. She's supposed to be light and life; optimism is supposed to run through her blood (so to speak). But God is dead, and the party continues.

She runs through all the options. This does not seem like Lilith's work. Lucifer, perhaps? But he hasn't showed up to gloat just yet, so it seems unlikely. She's unsure which other demons would even be capable of this.

It must be something else. Where is Cain? She hasn't seen him yet, but that vision cannot have been a lie. The tension in her mortal muscles is new to her, making her heartbeat speed up and making the noises all blend together. But she will be sharp, and strong.

And someone is standing behind her. She realises just now, and she's unsure how long they've been there. Ariel glances over her shoulder, meeting deceptively mortal eyes.

"Strange evening, isn't it?"

[mavrosdrake]

There had been clarity for few of them, and he had watched as a shadow of truth had danced across hers. He’d noticed, because of course he had. He couldn’t help but keep a trained eye on them the second they entered the same space as he, filled with a hefty degree of loathing. And her eyes had briefly matched his after the vision faded with its clarifying answer; he was confident of it. 

So, he had followed them when they left. Kept at a careful distance to see where they would go, what they would do. But she had stayed alone and… contemplative. How boring. That wouldn’t do. So he steps on a twig. A loud snap in the empty space between them to alert, and he only glowers as her eyes meet his for that one brief second. 

“I would say an enlightening one,” he says, keeping a wide berth between them still. Almost seething from how little space it felt like there was between them.This was so small compared to the battlefield between them long ago.

[hourofsilk]

for @mavrosdrake / mavros drake's office

By the time Mavros Drake opens the door to welcome his next appointment, Chamuel has already spent several minutes speaking to the client who came before him, catching them on their way out with a soft, disarming smile. He offers a gentle confession that this is his first appointment with Dr. Drake, that he is nervous, and that he hopes — truly hopes — the good doctor is kind.

He had been alarmed when he first heard of Satan’s modern profession, and he is certain the demon finds it darkly amusing that he, of all beings, would take up the work of counseling mortals. Chamuel does not bother wondering whether Mavros intends harm. Of that he is already convinced. The only question is how grave a danger he poses.

He rises as the door opens, smile serene, his very presence fragrant with hyacinths and the faint hush of distant choirs. “Hello, Dr. Drake. Thank you for seeing me.”

He brushes past him with featherlight grace, settling into the chair across the desk. “I trust you have found no shortage of vulnerable mortals whose ears are eager for your whisper?”

[mavrosdrake]

He couldn’t say he was stunned to see their name on his clientele list today. He hadn’t even missed a step nor a beat to the heart. It had been… expected. His profession likely had all their wings twitching in irritation and minds rattled by what he could be inspiring in the hearts of humanity. 

Nothing good. That was suspected, and that wouldn’t be far from the truth. But far from what he would say. Rather, he just phrased it as emboldening and fortifying emotions that were already present. It wasn’t good to bottle up emotions, after all. There needed to be a release. 

Something he had reminded the man in his office moments ago and sent on his way without another word to prepare for the next arrival: Chamuel. The name on the sheet struck a chord of vitriol. A deep desire to tear up the sheet of notes on the basic information and cheap reasoning for needing this visitation. But he withheld. Not falling to his own temper just yet. 

He carefully sets the sheet on the table next to his chair instead, and opens his door. Not bothering to mutter a greeting. They didn’t need to posture that much. He is immediately struck by an overwhelming presence of scents that he is sure intend to soothe, but it has him wrinkling his nose as he closes the door behind his visitor. “Alva… is it?” He says, the human name sounds sharp on his tongue. Tasting it for a second and not liking it immediately. “Mortals and angels, it seems. Have a seat.” Not an order, but certainly meant to be taken as one. “And what dragged you in? Here to foster peace after the dust has already settled?”

[heavecnlys-deactivated20251130]

heavenly fire burn on her fingertips, blue and rather cold, ancient, a reminder of home and a war fought millennia ago. michael held anger as a weapon, a curse branded by god himself. he had never loved her, yet the archangel felt sorrow sink its teeth in. faith often relied on love to burn bright, and hers remained strong.

" you would know that, wouldn't you? " blue eyes darted towards the sky, beneath such bravado, michael hummed a prayer... something ancient she reserved for fallen soldiers, family. " he is the father of murder... still, why now?" slowly she neared a chair, sitting herself for the first time in that night, exhaustion washed over her body. " are you low on clientele? offering services to the first sinner that walks by. "

the wasn't much to hide from satan because she did not know of more than he did. cain killed god, but why? a piece was missing, someone had sent him, leaving behind an empty throne, one they all chased. " blame myself? i have been doing that for millennia, but not tonight " guilt suffocated michael since the first betrayal, a condition to her own existence. " my father is no weak creature, if he died, he allowed it to happen.... there is purpose to this. "

faith, unwavering, her true strength. " how silly it would be to seek comfort from a creature such as yourself " michael stared at both hands, a comforting fire emanated from them. " i don't have to save them all, my duty is to creation, not my own feelings " to protect humankind and this universe at the cost of others and herself. " you, on the other hand, must be bitter to not have been the one to kill him. "

[mavrosdrake]

“I would,” he says, never ashamed of his ‘considered’ offenses to humanity and God. They all fall short; why should he be made to feel bad. He wouldn’t — ever. Instead he keeps his chin raised as his eyes follow her worn-out steps to a chair. “Murder doesn’t conform to perfect time or reasoning. It can happen in the blink of an eye; with the sudden rush of rage or emotion. There doesn’t have to be a why, only feeling.” And this is something he is achingly familiar with, as he doesn’t simply stomp upon the word of the sin others want to commit. He tugs on the emotions of it. Draws out the burdensome feelings. 

“Low? No.” There was not a limit to who he could touch. “Every breathing thing is a client of mine.” He draws a hair's breadth closer now. Just an inch. Like the first swing of a hammer to a nail in the wall; careful to ensure the nail is struck and in the right spot. No heavy swings. Just the setup. “Always a purpose,” he says, not really believing it. There didn’t always have to be a purpose. Sometimes death was just that… death. Sometimes you faced loss with no real justification, and he hated that they always had to find rationale when there was none. But he doesn’t say that here. It would serve no purpose to God’s most holiest warrior. He inserts a fresher take instead. One duplicitous at its very core. 

“And maybe the purpose is for his creations to reconvene, to connect and seek comfort in those you wouldn’t normally.” He doesn’t suggest such as himself. That would be hitting the nail too on the nose. He just leaves it to hang out there in the open; ready for something to crack or fall. He laughs then. Maybe the first sound of any amusement since the slaughter and deep sorrow emanating in a small building that couldn’t quite hold in it all the varying emotions of all His creations. “How presumptuous.” A shared opinion, it seems. That he would be covetous or bitter. How far from the truth. “Shouldn’t you angels refrain from such strong judgments?” He asks, not really desirous of an answer. They both know the answer. “I encourage the sin, not commit it.”

[cxecution]

You demons, she could have countered – but that was the thing, wasn’t it? Despite their flaws, she still believed in them; she still believed that they could turn around, that they could be good again. She still believed that they were not evil, that they were not made of sin, that they were not beyond redemption. 

Every demon except Satan.

Satan, whose thirst was pointless. Satan, who had little motive. Satan, who saw death and thought it casual.

She even preferred Leviathan.

“A statement I find hard to believe.” Disappointment from Him? Azrael could believe part of Satan’s ‘fun’ related to betraying God, but she could not believe that he cared enough about disappointing Him. “I find it even harder to believe He would have had enough hope in you to become disappointed in the first place.” A foul creature, a delirious creature, and a creature she certainly did not have any bias against! Of course not, of course her close relationship with Death did not factor into her belief that God had never cared enough about Satan to feel anything about him! Absolutely not! “How much, dear Satan, do you wish that you had been the one who spilled the blood?”

[mavrosdrake]

“Oh. Is that so?” He asks, and he could not have a more patronizing tone towards the mere notion of belief; of faith. Or how little they all seemed to have in him. He might have laughed, if he didn’t hold to a more austere image. He long ago gave up on sharing in their capricious form of faith — more wayward than an envious second son. 

“Did He not build his kingdom upon hope, love, and faith?” He mocks, curling a hand around the zipper of his coat with a hard stare. “You seem to have a strange image of your loving Father. As I seem to recall, he embraces those who repent. He holds out for any lost soul; no matter how far they’ve fallen.” A pause. Then, “but you would know nothing of falling, or temptation, and how long it can take to rise above the surface again.” 

He smirks then; crooked. “Spilling his blood does nothing for me.  It’s the transgressions of his creations that I enjoy. The bloodshed, that’s a sin for his other children to enjoy and for me to watch.”

[cxecution]

Azrael knew Death far better than most, so well acquainted that they were often likened to each other. Death, to Azrael, was another spirit, another angel -- her angel, as it sung of peace and reckoning. Life and Death, they made sense; creation and destruction, they made sense. They were clear. They were black and white. You are alive or you are dead. You were created or you are now destroyed. It happens to all, it's the one inevitability in the universe -- the universe that would, one day, meet Death. It was the one certainty...

-- with the exception being God.

His Death called to her far stronger than any other. Death whispered with the average mortal, Death spoke in a murmur with the saintly, Death spoke aloud with the martyrs, Death yelled with the divine, but Death nearly lost its entire being when God fell.

What is one to do when the person who created Death meets it?

She hadn't much time to ruminate (not that she would have been able to, not consciously) before he spoke up.

Satan.

Satan, the one being she could bring herself to revile; Satan, the one being who treated Death like a joke; Satan, the one being she craved reaping. Satan, the one being she hated.

"You have never been so happy in your entire miserable life, have you?"

[mavrosdrake]

“You angels,” he huffs, soothing and almost pleased. “You are so quick to judge.” He’d barely breathed, and it’s as if he’d been caught with the bloody knife. Well, at least a knife might have matched the fresh stain of ichor on his clothes from a rather expeditious death that happened mere moments ago. 

“Now Az,” he says, adjusting his posture with the straightening of his shoulders and pointing towards his rather passionless features. You’d sooner find more life in the eyes of a cold, dead fish. “How could you believe that? Does this face look happy to you?” He almost thought to compel a frown then. But that felt too theatrical for his tastes. Instead, he remains impassive yet almost… earnest? Like a person on the verge of being willing to give a halfhearted hug; only if required. “I think I am actually quite miserable like you so lovingly suggested,” he continues. “I mean, it’s quite the tragedy — I’ll never feel the same sting of disappointment from a father figure as I tempt every last one of his children again. That was half the fun.”

[heavecnlys-deactivated20251130]

agony sunk its teeth into michael, ancient, or rather primordial, it recoiled within the archangel. god is dead. golden ichor stained heaven, the empty vessel of cassiel beneath... cain. fists clenched, wrathful, she despised their kind, their sins. " bastard " a sword, heaven's most deadly weapon, the thought of revenge crossed her mind.

seeking cain only to dismember him, she yearned for bloodshed, yet stood still, blue eyes consumed in holy fire. "how do i feel? " a snicker escaped michael, empty, losing god left her alone, none to trust or love, only anger. " take a wild guess, boy " the word echoed along a particular brand of contempt for satan... a stain in creation, as her own brother.

" cain did not warn any of you, did he? " who had pushed him to this? killing god, it was no easy feat. " your kind can't even keep the first murder on a leash... " some minor demons attempted to escape the tension slowly burning through the place, before any of them could, michael gently lifted her right hand. fingertips burning bright in heavenly fire, one that scorched any creature in its way.... leaving her and satan alone.

" i'd blame you, but this... this is above your cheap pay grade. "

[mavrosdrake]

There’s a generous raise of his brow, and an exceptional degree of levity at the dismantling of an angel like a ball of yarn unwinding at the singular swat of a cat’s paw. They can be so impassioned and human, these angels. Already falling apart at the seams from a singular loss — and some so easily susceptible to a ravenous desire for what now could come from the first domino collapsing.  

What would she do? If he pushed. He was almost eager to find out as she already fell into her rage. “These are some deep feelings. Almost deadly how fervent they are.” He adjusted his suit coat then, dusting off a fleck of dust and… was that blood on his shirt? Delightful. “Cain?” He echoed, keeping his cards close to his chest. Not letting much more than he wanted to slip past his lips. “Hmmm.  This does seem like his style, doesn’t it? First a brother then the heavenly father. Quite the Oedipus complex. He should probably seek some professional help. I’ll make sure to let him know my door is open when I see him.”  

He watches her hand raise in brilliant fire, and smirks. Hints of his own darkness begging to dim the lights, but he refrains. For now. “Then who do you blame? Yourself?” He asks, tilting his head in curiosity. “Are you seeing your own shortcomings? That not even the leader can protect them all. Do you need me to tell you it isn’t your fault? You can’t save them all.”

[mavrosdrake]

THE AFTERMATH Moments following… 

It burned the air; tension. It was an undercurrent floating throughout the bar, and it threatened to suffocate. Or unleash an unbridled rage usually only he tapped into. It was heavenly, but also… infuriating. The throne emptied. The ichor licking the bar floor. The screams had, and tears shed. But none of it by his hand. Rather another chess piece — Cain, and company. But who else? He didn’t know and it gnawed at him. Sunk its vicious teeth in his thoughts as others scurried about and preened their metaphorical wings in anticipation, or strain. He simply shrugs. Lets the tension in the air breeze past him, and tries to follow suit with others who just left. He wasn’t in the habit of cleaning messes, and he had other trails to preoccupy his obsessive mind now. Of what he needed to do next to counteract this. 

But as he moves to leave, others seem to disapprove. They appear to attempt to command his presence for a moment longer. To see how he feels, or if he knows anything more than the rest already do. But it was hard to articulate what you feel in your bones, especially when you do not yet understand it. So, he pivots. Reverts the spotlight back to them. His mind geared towards needing to counsel and direct, “and how do you feel about that?” 

[nixscriptum]