#i rep

[ronracer]

Anon asked for a pic of my house. I didn't forget about you.

[vengeaunces]

Hoping for Healing

Closed To: @rxphaels​ Date: October 3, 2016 - 12:10 PM Location: The Yard

On Samson’s recommendation, Phoebe was hoping to find Raphael in the yard today. The blonde knew that everyone was always coming to her friend for help, no matter how small the cut or scrape; Phoebe tried not to do this. She could understand and endure a fair amount of pain, especially so as not to be a burden to her dear friend. And, to be fair, so much of her torture was psychological in nature, given Alastair’s preferences; it was less likely that she fell into physical harm, though she also had Lilith to thank for that. Stranger alliances had been formed before and in truth Phoebe cared for nearly none of demonkind, if only for what they represented. Lilith was different and she could appreciate that. In contrast, demons that licked Lucifer’s heels perplexed her; the demons had hated being reigned in by God, these creatures of indulgence and chaos—only the be reigned in by one of their own instead, who keeps them on as tight—if not tighter—a leash?

At least when God was in charge, the demons could do as they pleased and the angels had to clean up after. 

With great power—responsibility, as they say. It was strange how they took to it, filled with self-importance. How long until that waned, until they no longer wanted to clean up after their own consequences, until Lucifer had a rebellion on his hands? Phoebe didn’t know, but she was willing to bide her time and exploit it when it did. It was inevitable. It was demon nature. Allegiance was just a nice word in the shadows until someone else gave more freedom, offered a stronger leader. Lucifer was still nothing more than God’s favourite, elevated in dishonour. Without God, Lucifer wasn’t enough to fill the void; Lucifer could never bring peace to even his own people. And his people didn’t want peace. How long until the demons woke up and tossed off their yolks? The world is only worth burning down if someone builds it again after. Demons rebuilding after other demons destroyed only fueled dissent; they needed a common enemy to blame, to rile against. Without God, without the angels in full function, the demons could only have boredom and then anarchy. Rank and file held little long-term appeal.

But these ruminations would later need to find appropriate ears; for now, she stepped lightly into the yard, trying not to be dragged down too deeply into the disaster around her. Demons lurked, black wings soaring over, taking as little notice of her as humans did of ants. She looked for Raphael’s tousled dark hair, skimming the tops of heads across the yard until she found him. Moving with the swiftness of a dove in flight, somehow airy and light even among all the drab, she came to his side and lightly placed a hand on his forearm with a gentle smile. “Hello, my friend,” she said with her courtesies, her eyes warm and kind beneath the bruising on her forehead. Her other bruises and contusions—and her fracture—was hidden beneath her clothing. “Might I trouble you for some help?” she asked with a dizzying laugh, gesturing to her head. She didn’t know if he’d heard what happened already, so she didn’t try to explain.

[vengeaunces]

Event 03: Genesis

Full Script w/ @alastairofdivinecruelty Date: October 1, 2016 - 6:20 AM Location: Phoebe’s Cell

Dawn crept in through the windows of Phoebe's cell, just the same as ​Alastair​. It was an early morning, a bright morning, a ​perfect​ morning. "Quite a day already, Phoebe," he laughed as he ran a hand through his thick hair, tugging on the curls absently. He leaned back against the wall in front of her, a certain touch of lazy satisfaction to his expression. "No dreams this time, though." A light, whimsical breath left his parted lips as he eyed Phoebe through the cell bars. Thoughts of an obscure and horrid nature rolled about in his skull as his head ticked to the side. "D'you know ​Isaac​? Interestin' creature, he is." His fingers drifted from his hair to tug at his bottom lip absently before he pushed himself away the wall. "​Escape​ is a funny thing, innit? You think about it often?"

Phoebe was used to these morning calls by now. He crept in with all the stealth of a wolf in sheep's clothing; like could spot like from so far off and closer was even easier. She smiled at him with all the sweetness of a dove and commented, "Indeed a day, a dawn just broken." The breaking having a multitude of meanings, it seemed. Shaking her head when asked of Isaac—she didn't know him, that she could remember, at least not personally, but she'd heard the name—and her smile didn't waver as she replied with utter truth, "I do not think of escape often." She was perfectly still as he drew away from the wall, unintimidated; she thought of other things more often. " “Good morning, Alastair. Have you come to ask me today?"

Alastair matched her smile as it crinkled the corners of his eyes and edged his teeth closer to being seen. He hadn't expected her to know of Isaac, but Phoebe had her ways of surprising him. What she knew was uncertain to him, though her insistent question clawed at his mind that she knew something or everything. Or, the answer he truthfully felt most comfortable with, she knew nothing. Each day, each morning. His smile faded from his lips into something more feral, something that lacked tainted joy and or any thought of being cordial. "No," he seethed. "What is it that you think of?" He pressed, as still as she was save for the slow rise and fall of his chest with every irritated breath. "Is it her? D'you think of her more before or after I...?" He waved his fingers, the very same that had tore out Arianna's heart. "Well, y'know. You were ​there​, after all."

Phoebe noticed he was in a mood this morning; all the bustle at the fence seemed to foul him up. Was that actual concern? Was there something afoot that was vaguely threatening? Phoebe let him see the pleasure of his discomfort on her face. The more feral his features, the more pleasant she became, as if they were having tea together, as if this were a choice. He was taught as a strung wire, humming with the promise of a snap. Phoebe didn't answer what she thought of—he was doing it for her. "Very well," she said, in response to his not asking, and carried on with the conversation. "Indeed, I was there. It is a memory very clear to me." While other things blurred, this flashback never would. "Well, I think of her as ​God​ intended her to be, of course, Alastair. How else to keep her alive, her flame tended, her soul honoured?" The question was, of course, rhetorical. She also prayed.

Alastair swallowed the bitterness in his throat and sugared it with an impish smile. It was a silent clash of expressions, of feelings made tangible in the faintest twitch of brows, the clench of jaws, or the narrowing of eyes. It was a bloodletting he was growing used to, until they both bled their concerns and thoughts onto the floor. Her ​question​ was of little importance, especially when a meatier subject was brought to the table. Though, with her years under the ground, he knew Arianna had no meat left to her. "God intended? He had a funny way of intendin' for people to die," he said, jovial in his use of past tense. "So many." A smile of reflection, of ​good​ memory, softened his features as if he were thinking of a lover. "D'you know what she said...? Before your God let her bleed out all over heaven?"

Phoebe smiled, unbothered by his insinuations; she was–had been?—devout to God. Such an accusation lofted God's direction did not deter the blonde, nor shake her. "All creatures serve their time on this earth," she said, narrowing her eyes ever so slightly so he would catch her reference—both that she had died young and had made peace with that, but also that there was not an intention for there to be a ​second time​ for her on earth, as she was now. This was a travesty in all its forms. And that—that fault fell squarely on the demons. "Funny how it is you, Forgiven, used it only to Fall. I believe that choice was yours. My God's only fault was believing in you." She did not answer the latter part; she didn't wish to know, and in part, she didn't believe Alastair to tell the truth of it, anyway. Anything he said would be only to get beneath her skin.

Alastair had made a lifetime, the only one in memory, of shortening as many lifetimes as he could. Earth, heaven, hell. Didn't matter to him where they roamed, he would bleed them out all the same. He chuckle. "Your God had many faults, Phoebe," he said with a shake of his head. He'd ​never​ asked for God's belief, never prayed for it. "More than just believin' in me. Though if you'd like to see me as his worst, his ​one and only​, I'll happily take it." It wasn't a bitter pill for him to swallow, more of a sugar cube if anything. Her artful question dodging made him smile even more and it was well enough, he could carry the conversation himself if need be. "She asked about you, of course, wonderin' where you were lettin' her die like that. And a ​great​ king," he said wistfully, pulling the words from his mind like petals from a flower. "Some palace in Versailles, I think? Couldn't quite catch it through the cryin' and blubberin' and pleadin', though..." He perked up. "Did she think she was a princess, Phoebe?" As he spoke, he went without blinking, without hardly even a breath to stretch his lungs as he simply looked at her. The demon's smile was small and didn't meet his eyes. "Well, princesses have a habit of gettin' their hearts snatched up so it's just as well, I 'spose."

Phoebe actually snorted her laughter at Alastair, at his aggressive presumptions, his need to have his ego stroked. She gestured dismissively with her hand, granting, yes, "Of course a God who makes us in His image has His flaws, as being flawless itself is troubling, but I hardly see you as His worst. Though I'm sure Lucifer approves of your hubris on the matter, to jump to such conclusions." The fault in her God she'd stated was with regards to the situation of the death of her sister, which indeed had been a choice made by the man in front of her, and no god at all. The rest of his offerings didn't crack the blonde's resolve; she doubted her sister would blame her death on her, especially as she'd sacrificed her own life for Arianna's once already. The crying, though, that sounded about right—because Phoebe had witnessed that; it wasn't as if he was sharing something she hadn't been present for. If there had been a whisper, that was all she could have missed—the rest of a confessional, hardly. She met his gaze without blinking, unabashed. "Their hearts are claimed by wicked queens and charming princes, neither of which you are, so don't fancy yourself a Grimm fairy tale."

If ​Alastair​ hadn't taken to Phoebe ​so well​ before, he might have graced her with a personal reenactment of Arianna's death. His smile was no longer a smile, it was something otherworldly and sinister. Inhuman. Hateful, even. His thoughts turned away from Lucifer, lovely and wondrous Lucifer, and he scorned any idea of hubris. Whispers in dark corners and shadowy gatherings of two and three murmured that he, Alastair, ​could​ hold a candle to Lucifer. He was an entity in Lucifer's horde, yes, but he was separate and would keep his flame to himself unless He or others (namely, ​Abbadon​ in all her beautiful fucking treachery) had need for it. "Not charmin'? Well that's not fair. Arianna would disagree with you, love. How'd you think I got so close to her?" The hanging lights flickered in warning as his fingers laced and curled around one another. "I can still smell her, feel her heartbeat, remember the count of her last breaths," his voice was a low hum, a growl. "How can you be the one honorin' her soul?" His lips pulled back into a snarl as lights sputtered and began to fade. "When I'm the one still ​tearin'​ it apart."

Phoebe was not privy to Alastair's thoughts, though if she heard him scorn hubris and hold a candle to Lucifer in the same sentence, she'd have had a hearty laugh; how blind did one man ache to be? Phoebe was not in awe of Lucifer, nor saw him a worthy aspiration: she still thought his goals small-minded, his execution lackluster, his eye for design immature; Phoebe had judged Lucifer and found him wanting. To hear that Arianna had affections for Alastair was a surprise to her: this new information she found, while it was taunting, had a ring of truth to it, unlike his previous accusations. Arianna not only preferred the men who brought trouble—how Phoebe always had to clean up!—but also the men who kept Phoebe's company, of which Alastair had been one of the few, in heaven. It seemed—coldly logical—that Arianna continued that even with her white wings. Blonde brows furrowed, seeking through, shifting through, her memory of those final moments. Had there been something other than fear in her little sister's eyes as she pleaded, crying, with Alastair? "Is that it?" Phoebe mused, taunting him in turn. "Is that the reason you refrained from sharing Arianna's last words before–something you would have gloated to share, something you can't even recite now—because she had spoken a kindness to you with her dying breath? Not honoured me, nor her God, but looked into your eyes and asked you with love still on her tongue for you to stay your hand? How did ​that​ feel?" The lights flickered, casting a ghastly shadow underneath Alastair's cheekbones; Phoebe's eyes narrowed in a flash of wrath.

Alastair had broken through her face of stone and frigid smiles. With the slightest crack in the furrow of her brow, he felt victorious. Each word had been a chip, but now he was ​getting​ somewhere and he would burrow into her heart one bloody way or another. If Phoebe wished for him to recall those last tender moments, he would oblige her with the most heartfelt of intentions. "It felt ​rapturous​," he crooned through a monster's jaws. "I reckon it was the first time I ever felt holy, y'know? I feel warm thinkin' about it now, after all this time. God has ​blessed​ me with the memory." Arianna's fingers scrabbling at him, pulling and pushing at his shoulder's in uncertainty and fear. She wanted to hold onto life, but he had peeled her finger's from the cliff face one by one by one until she took her nasty fall. A passionate crime. "I didn't want to share your sister's secrets, what would she think of me? Mine to keep, mine to hold." His voice was followed with a faint laugh, a scoff. Her wrath was bubbling, rising up in her like a volatile wave, and he stared at it with hopeful and hungry eyes. Eyes that went dark as the light and the faint hum of the electricity faded in a snap. "You want to know, truly? Oh, Phoebe, it felt like ​love​."

Phoebe allowed her face to become full of teeth, so white, and something like a smile. "Then she got what she wanted from you," and she let her words undercut him. Never could he have considered that the puppeteer might have been orchestrated by a little mouse; that Arianna, for all her calculating cloying covetousness, could get what she wanted from him. It wasn't for Phoebe to know if Arianna had actually loved him—for Arianna took her affections in manipulations more than in authenticity, and in that the two were well-matched; so if she had never loved him—all the better. The smile slid along Phoebe's face, gone cheshire, as the lights flickered again. The power going out had many offerings to give and her head was whirring with possibilities. "You, brought low by my sister, so stunted a show of love! Well, at least that left the one of us ​satisfied​." As the prison went full dark, she used her speed and the element of surprise to rush Alastair, all force in her fast run backing her elbow, which she aimed to knock him to the ground by inserting right below his sternum, hoping to knock the breath out of him.

Alastair laughed and it was a mocking, hollow sound. Oh, it wasn't the ​love​ Phoebe might have thought it to be. Even he wasn't capable of something that ​disgusting​ and inhumane. A misshapen feeling between blood and the ribs, if it were love...In his hand, it was as sharp and as deadly of a weapon as anything else and that was all. "I ​loved​ her only when she died and I had my bloody fist through her chest, you fuckin--" Phoebe lashed out from the dark and he had to commend her for how strong she had become. The blow stunted his breath and pushed him back from the open door, but his bones were strong. Something was happening, something at the fence or inside, but he couldn't be bothered. There was a hunt to be had. Breaths returned quick and he moved just as quickly to stand. When he reached out, he grazed skin with his fingertips before she was off, the quick little thing. The iron of the cell door clipped his wings when he burst through it. Her steps weren't far, ​just​ ahead he figured, and he used his wings to propel him forward with the intent to bring his weight down upon her.

Phoebe was not asinine; she did not imagine it to be the love she experienced, but for him to claim he had felt it, even from her still-beating heart, was a triumph, however small, however much he had wanted to reclassify it. May that be worth something to Arianna's legacy. As Alastair moved out of the way from the open door, which wasn't her goal but she'd take it well enough, she figured she could use it to her advantage. While he was winded, she slipped by him, scratching at his neck on the way, one long and deep gash—or as deep a gash and grown out fingernails could manage, ragged and unkept as they were; though she despised them, they were useful. He may have taken her wings, but she'd give herself claws, and now she'd marked him. He grazed her with his fingertips but she moved quickly, knowing she was no match for his strength and so had to rely on her swiftness and her subtleties. She knew he could fly, ​would​ fly, so Phoebe anticipated that and ducked in the shadow of an open cell door, allowing him to rush forward. He seemed to have desired to come down on her, but she was not where he had anticipated. Rushing out of the shadows while he was disoriented, she jumped onto his back and wound her fingers tight into his hair, yanking hard; if he disengaged her, she'd take a good clump of scalp with her. But she was trying her best to stay on his back, his shoulders, like a bullrider or perhaps more like a six year old throwing an impressive tantrum, unbridled and wily.

Alastair grunted at the split of his skin, the angel's ragged claws a ​welcome​ surprise. Red warmth trickled down the line of his neck and he grinned with monstrous thrill. She was gone when he came down like a meteor and cracked the floor, his hands braced against the stone as his impact jarred his skull. His head snapped back when she wound her fingers through his hair and threatened to rip it from his skull. Whether he was laughing or growling, he couldn't differentiate the rumble in his throat. "Look at you ​go​!" Alastair reached back with both hands and searched for the bones of her shoulders, vicious fingers searching for the scars of where he had torn her wings out. He wanted to dig in deep, split the scarred skin of memory, and draw out her wrath like ichor. Raven wings flared out dangerously from where she anchored herself on his back and folded in around him as tight as they could. The demon kept his weight in his heels as he angled himself to fall back against the nearest wall in an attempt to jar her just as his fall had done to him.

Phoebe seethed quietly through his approval; that was not what she sought, but if it came down to it, if his dying also pleased him, then it would please them both. She could live with that, if she had to. He stood up from the floor with jagged footsteps, uncertain from the impact with the floor, and as he swayed, so did she, but she held on tightly. He scrambled to try to find her shoulders, the place he'd ripped out her wings, but elbows didn't bend well backwards; he kept grazing her scars, her wounds, but drew little blood. She had just a moment's notice as he adjusted his wings around himself, but it wasn't enough time—he slammed her against the wall, knocked the breath from her, probably bruised more than a few ribs. With her legs wrapped around him and her hand still buried in his hair, she used her other hand to scratch at his face, his eyes; her nails searched for his eyeball, to pluck it out, to ​scratch​ it out. If she failed, his eye would at the very least be indisposed for awhile, scratching at the socket, the lids, the cornea, and then switching hands, burying the one in his hair and freeing the other to repeat. She heard one of her ribs suddenly crack from his pressure, but she would not yet let go.

Claws cut open ​Alastair's​ face, created cracks of red in his mask of jubilation. Oh, she was volatile and he roared in glee and hate. He stole her breath, but it wasn't enough. His head shook against her tight hold of his hair and drew her nails away from his corneas, through the skin of his eye socket instead, as he was very keen on ​not​ losing his sight. The wounds of her wingless back were fruitless and with one hand, he gripped her right ankle without mercy and pulled to loosen her hold around his waist. Alastair's other hand snapped up and ​laced, twisted, his claws with hers. His own blood made them somewhat slick, but his grip was relentless and he tugged her arm violently forward in an attempt to further dislodge her hold. Where she was sharp, he was brutal. She wanted to sever, he wanted to break. Whatever pain he felt in scratches and tearing became secondary, perhaps even third to the chaotic mixture of rage and happiness, as he bent forward and pulled her arm again to tear her off his back, to perhaps even tear her arm from its socket. How long had she been waiting for this moment? He would make it worthwhile for the both of them.

Phoebe noticed that as he stopped grabbing her shoulders to shift his hands to protect his eyes, she had more maneuverability. With the pain in her ribs, she couldn't stay between Alastair and the wall; when he grabbed her ankle and pulled down ​hard​, she went, scratching his back in red rivulets all the way to the ground, where she landed and would probably have a bruised tailbone from it. As such, his slippery grip would not have found her where he expected, with his first effort being so fruitful. From the ground, like a child, she sat around his ankles, sitting on his feet so that he could not walk, and punched him repeatedly in the groin. Even in demons, that still had to hurt, enough to give pause, she figured, and then bolted in a run away from him before he could grab her, ducking into a small dark crevice that barely fit her body, but she'd be out of prying eyes—especially eyes with blood in them. Phoebe prayed her thanks to the power outages, the shadows that concealed her. She knew eventually she'd have to go back to her cell; she didn't know what he'd say to coax her out, but she was going to stay hidden as long as she could.

Even as she tore open his back, ​Alastair​ didn't hate her. ​Even​ as she punched him in one of his greatest assets, he didn't hate her. A thrill of pleasure tingled along his back as blood dribbled down taut muscles. It felt wonderful to fight, to ​bleed​. His blessing of a high pain tolerance drove away any unnecessary feeling as each of his senses, bleeding eyes be damned, latched onto the smallest pinpoints of movement and the sound that followed. The Club was a pack of predators, a destructive and highly capable one at that, but they could function well enough alone. He peered into the dark with narrowed eyes, having halted any attempt to wipe the blood from them. It was a useless action and his body was a taut string ready to snap and lash out. "Look at you, a proper hellion," he rasped as he oriented himself in the dark and stalked further down the hallway. "Consider me a proud ​friend​. Even if you punched me in my fuckin' cock, you cheeky angel." There was good-hearted humor in his tone, but he didn't follow it with a laugh like he may have before. He shook his head and flicked blood over the stone. If she thought the dark would keep her safe, what did she imagine Hell was? It was a dark, smothering heat that comforted as much as it burned. The dark was for demons. "Come on out, love. I'm not even angry. Can't ever stay mad at ​you​ very long."

Phoebe heart was cool-calm, she counted her breaths, made them even, thought about how even breathing wrong might give her away; it reminded her of times she had to hide in heavy curtains out of watchful eyes. Alastair may be a master predator, but there was a power in being master prey, too. She even kept her eyes closed so that the white of them wouldn't betray her, wouldn't shine out of the darkness. Relying on her other senses, she could hear his footsteps, yes, and of course his ​words​, his taunts which out of habit were so hard not to reply to, to taunt back. ​Steady, steady,​ she thought to herself, thought herself again a bird evading a housecat—for that's how she saw Alastair by now: a proud, incessant, pampered housecat. Even housecats could startle and while in her heart Phoebe knew she would have to go back to the cell, she also knew that she could lose a battle and win a war—she ​had​ to believe it. So, she chose carefully. She chose a word out of the recesses of memory, knowing it would give away her location at the same time. Out of her hiding place, she opened her eyes into narrow slits for seeing; she whispered like a hiss, "​Crissssssanto​," just above silence, the kind of thing he may not have been sure he heard, and then like an echo, ​"aaaanto,​" as she launched from her hiding place toward his face when he looked her way. She knew this was the sword she'd fall on, she didn't know how, but she was going to take something ​with​ her. Her hand shot out of the darkness and went for his left eye, the one she'd been working on so rabidly earlier, and made sure he wouldn't be seeing out of it for a very long time.

Alastair followed her voice, but the whisper of a ​whisper​ compelled him to snap before he desired to. In his head, it wasn't her voice, but a distant child's. Was it a boy's? What was it? What ​was​ it? "​What the fuck did you say​?" The humor was gone, the joy was gone, all that remained was the echo and the rage as he stared into where she was. Whatever she had used, it had worked, and he spat blood when her claws found his face, his ​eye​, again. The pain cut against his nerves, straight into his skull, but he didn't falter as he whipped his body around and gathered her in his arms. Alastair dropped forward, one hand pressed against her throat to hold her down, and the other grabbed her by the top of her skull, bloody fingers tight in the roots of her blonde hair. "​Say it again." His eyes glared back into hers, one faded and dark, as he hissed blood. He didn't wait, he didn't want to hear it. Her skull made a muffled crack against the floor as he slammed her head against it and when her poisonous words went silent, as well as her body, only then did he sit back and wipe the blood from his eyes.

When Phoebe had attacked Alastair, she was surprised by the change in his face—no longer nonchalant and jeering, this was a contortion that made her believe her could be above petty hate, that his destruction ran deeper and down. His voice was chilling, and for once, ​she​ had the satisfaction. He could gloat over her new violence, but it paled compared to the stillframe of his face like this, something she'd keep seared into her memory next to the memory of her sister's death. This ​triumph​. She could crack him, and would. Battles and wars, battles and wars. And that was her last thought before he dropped her like a babydoll; she felt the cold of the prison floor pressing its harsh patterns into her throat, and then the world went dark.

Alastair stared down at her stillness, his breaths heavy and his eyes flaring red. There were no gasps of horror, no eyes stretched wide by fear. There was no ​audience​, only him and only her. ​Anto, Anto, Anto...​ He stared at her until the quiet overcame any sound the two of them had made, any thunder his heart had created. The storm went silent. ​Damn her​. He should have killed the both of them. He stood and instead of slinging her over his shoulder like nothing, he cradled her in both arms. Blood dripped from his face, onto her skin and her clothes, with each step he took toward her cell. His eyes could barely register the light (his right more so than his left) when the power slowly kicked back to life. When he left her in her cell with a smile, it was both fond and...something. It was ​something​.

[aintnohero-blog1]

When the Pawn: Drea ✘ Roulette

Drea rubbed her palms on the thighs of her jeans like some fifth grader at a moving-up dance. The blonde from Saturday said to check back into Bishop & Pawn this week, that they were supposed to be opening their doors again, and that’s where Drea could find Jessica. It was a little frustrating to know that her instincts had been right, but the wrong timing. But the time was now, so Drea had walked down Broad Street almost six blocks until she was standing in front of a pawn shop that proclaimed, Grand Opening! and wondered what it had looked like before. When she went inside, everything seemed very posh and clean, especially for what she was used to seeing from pawn shops on the corner of busy city intersections. The best they had going for them was the metal store-front covers that seemed like garages.

Her dark brown eyes moved over the floor where some fancy looking carpet lie, over the white showcases filled with pawned jewelry, past the paintings that hung on the walls, trying not to get caught up in the case of vinyl. When she got to the counter, she briefly realized she had no cover story, and wondered if she even needed one to get to Jessica—she was the owner, after all. And, well, if Drea was being honest, she could use a job. She couldn’t up and get back into firefighting right now, her mind and heart wasn’t in it and that was a dangerous issue. All her running helped her stay in shape, but it wasn’t enough. Scanning the people working behind the glass counter, Drea wondered which one she could be. Biting her lip, she tapped on the countertop just to show she had an interest in speaking with someone, and when someone came by, she said, “Hey, I’m looking to speak to the owner?”

[aintnohero-blog1]

Aftershock: Drea ✘ Cash

Drea went to the block party to get out of the house, if only because the main hub of the block party was actually a stone’s throw and on the same street as her apartment; she couldn’t escape the noise, no matter how loud she blasted the music, the music outdoors overcame it. There was nothing left for it but surrender. She rolled out of bed, where she’d been staring at the ceiling, still sleepless at two in the afternoon. The automatic coffee maker had been on for hours; it would probably be overdone, but she’d barely taste it, anyway. Slugging it back black this time, Drea sighed and thought, Well, maybe Jessica will be at the party, too, and could kill two birds with one stone.

She shimmied into slim black jeans and an oversized tank with the arms cut off, tied up her hair into a messybun on her head. On a last thought, she undid it all, put on a simple black bikini underneath, and redid it all. Maybe she’d even have fun, that would be unlikely, but nice. Drea wasn’t so pessimistic she couldn’t prepare for the (low) possibility of fun. She changed the water for Jack and put down fresh dry food, stroking her cat a few times and cooing affections. Jack was one of the few things she had left in this world; she briefly considered taking him with her on a lead, but figured the sounds would be too distressing. On that thought, she snorted. Distressing for them both, more like. Then she headed down the stairs without even thinking to knock on her roommate’s door—she barely saw the other girl, Mona, and that was probably for the best.

——

Water rushed into her lungs, feeling like she was choking, throat constricting, sputtering as her arms flailed, her feet found their footing, and slowly Drea came above water again. She shook her falling bun out of her face and choked again, but laughed, spitting out a bit of water and not trying to think of who else had spat in it before her. When her vision cleared, she met the cloudy eyes of a platinum blonde, the one who’d thrown the baseball after Drea had dickishly egged her on. In truth, Drea had just been looking for that rush of pain, the distraction of another kind of feeling other than blur. She gave the girl a thumbs up and went to get back on the Dunk Tank’s seat, waiting to see who else would aid her petty self-indulgence. No one was immediately in sight, but the other girl lingered. For a moment, Drea racked her brain: no, that wasn’t a face she’d seen following her, but she had seen her around town. Maybe she knew something. Drea got out of the tank and shook herself like a wet dog, taking up her clothes but not yet putting them on. “Hey, you,” Drea said indirectly to Cash.

[fastestfoxintown-blog]

Birthday: Honey ✘ Cash

Dixie is welcome to reply at her leisure!

Honey felt there was a lull around the week, like the town was collectively holding its breath, waiting for an exhale. It was like, after all that had happened, even the squirrels were waiting for the next big thing. In the meanwhile, though, Honey was glad to live in the moment; to close up shop early and watch the late summer sunset from her Indira as she drove home to meet her sister. She couldn’t imagine a better way to spend her birthday—especially when Dixie was going to be providing the sugar intake. Revel would drop by later, but Honey has told her to wait for her call—Honey had wanted this night with Cash, especially the later hours, those past-midnight hours that would forever belong to these sisters. Revel understood that, and Honey loved her more for it.

The wind whipped through the bottom strands of Honey’s long, blonde hair as she wove her way down the roads, to the fork at the end of Clay Street, headed left toward the dead end. It was a small town and her commute to her shop was short, too, but even a moment on the bike felt like freedom, lifted her heart a bit from all the heaviness she’d been handling. The thought of Delta, of her—obituary—that needed written, she pushed that from her mind, just for today. Today was a celebration of her birth, and of everything that had tried to kill her so far and hadn’t. It was a good day. After locking up her bike, she checked the chickens—which had been fed, Cash had gotten home earlier than her, less piercings today—and stoked their soft feathers before heading inside, unsure what would greet her, but smiling wide. “Caash!”

[vengeaunces]

Cell Block Tango

Closed To: @eve-baptized-by-fire Date: September 30, 2016 - 6:00 PM Location: The Cells

It wasn’t long after they’d gotten back from the Whipping that afternoon that Phoebe’s mind started to wander. The blood on Abel’s back that burst forth like a crushed rose, staining whoever dared clutch it that hard. She remembers the last time she and Abel really spoke, about the train on the outer borders of the county, and how that seemed to have made Lucifer discontented—and anything that made the demons discontent was something Phoebe valued greatly. She wondered if he was paying for that knowledge, as much as Junia’s absence—or if it was just her own conscience acting up: information was not a disease. Anyone that treated it as such were closed-minded people, afraid of those with questions. People who didn’t deserve power, that’s who limited information. All the same, she’d prefer if Abel didn’t undergo the process any further—but she had no information on Junia, no way of undoing the damage.

At least Junia had made it out into Paradise, like Phoebe had tried to do back at L’Aperitif. How could she and Eve fault her for that? But oh, the struggle here continued. That, despite the silent, guilty glee she had taken seeing Mammon slain and wingless. It was almost good enough, but not nearly good enough. Not nearly. That’s another reason Phoebe had returned, keeping up her facade as the docile little dove: if she ran, she’d be far from her quarry. Her mission of vengeance far from over, Phoebe made sure to steel herself, to withstand this life, as long as that end game was in sight. But sometimes her vision got blurry, started to see things that weren’t there, had trouble calling up memories, each scene slowly shifting sands. There were nights she would have woken screaming, except she slept with her fists balled under her chin, to stop her jaw from excessive opening. The darkness in the cell was nothing compared to those dreams; night terrors parading as memory, or vice versa.

“Eve,” Phoebe whispered low as a hiss, crawling to the wall they shared; she placed her hand on it, as if Eve would be able to—she didn’t know, sense it, feel her energy, anything, any mode of connection with her friend, a mode of connection with someone who wasn’t Alastair. “Eeeve,” she crooned again, more urgently, her ever-calmness slowly shaking and she could sense it, sense the anxiety rising around her throat and she started to slowly drag her hand down the walls, feeling the rough texture of them against her calloused palm, palms that were never meant for callouses, not ever. But this was what the world had handed her, now, and she would rise to the challenge. Clawing at the wall more desperately, Phoebe slowly started to wonder if Eve was still there: had she been killed? Had she been sent away? Was she being whipped now? How long had it been in this cell? Phoebe shook her head, her quick tic to shake her brain back into place, as it were. “Eve, I’m slipping,” she said, just above silence.

[vengeaunces]

Event 01: L’Aperitif

Closed To: @rowanofwar​ Date: September 3, 2016 - 5:40 PM Location: Lucifer’s Mansion

Phoebe’s eyes darted as the eyes peering into her cell didn’t match those of Alastair’s: her betrayer, her companion. What rules had changed that someone else’s eyes should be peering at her? She couldn’t tell immediately if she was familiar with who was on the other side and the voice that followed was of little assistance: if she had met them before, she didn’t recall. The blonde shook her head, a small twitch, as if to shake her brain back into place, her mind slow-scanning for any memories that could be attached to those eyes or the sound of the words. Nothing came up, but that didn’t mean the blurry edges wouldn’t come up with something she’d forgotten in the moment—later, perhaps too late to matter. It mattered little: she was being escorted to the mansion and she had little and less say in the matter. 

At least the offering of a dress was something that, if Phoebe was being honest with herself, perked her up—even the smell of fabrics like these called up memories of a happier time. The irony wasn’t lost on her: much of that time had been tragedy, and yet, from this vantage point, it took everything in the angel not to laugh. What folly, what freedom had the Courts been, compared to this. Despite herself, she enjoyed the gown, which she found fit her well—that was also a touch unsettling; had Alastair given her measurements, caught her sleeping curled cat-tight, vulnerabilities unexposed, and yet still found a way to violate her sleep? Phoebe pushed the thought from her head: like so many others, lately, it was irrelevant. Just another on the long list of reasons for her rich and recently morbid fantasy life.

Phoebe was walked by her escort into Lucifer’s mansion, and at this point, she couldn’t hold back a snicker. This was the sight she’d been waiting to see, this was the masterful architecture of the arch seducer, the prince of sin, the king of luxury and temptations? God, apparently Louis XIV had grown white wings somewhere along the line, for surely he had better taste than this and was unavailable to assist those with tar black wings. For a brief flash, Phoebe wondered if her sovereign had been killed—that, like the others, was an irrelevant question she tucked away for a later time. Even the room to which she was escorted rang of ‘opulence,’ but something about it stank of new establishment, of new money, and had none of the elegance or glamour of Versailles. Phoebe eyed the champagne warily; it would be in the nature of the Courts to spike it with something more shameful, if there was a sinister intent to the evening.

—But of course, what part of this brave new world held anything else but sinister intent? And so though she longed for champagne, ached for it, in a small way, wondering if she could have tasted it in heaven, had she thought to—she restrained and did not drink. Instead, Phoebe was more masterful, taking out a pin from her ornately arranged hair—she had some memory of how to do this, to be sure!—and headed for the door, uncaring about those angels who would prefer to stare at the pig’s wares hanging on the walls. Confusion wouldn’t serve, here, no: Phoebe began to pick the lock of the door, thinking of those times she snuck around the palace, all the ways she had learned to be seen and not heard, or to be unseen and far more quiet than silence. Even her breathing, monitored, slow, and low, never to give her away. And soon! The door released them into the halls, she and whomever had the gumption to follow.

Almost immediately, a human came into her sight: one with dark hair and a dark smile; she made note of him for another time, a later time if it came to it, if he could be valuable—but for now, no, she had to escape, if she could—find her wings, if she could—find weapons, if she could—for though she was little, she was fierce. She could tell from the magnetism and the growth in disgusting decorations which wing was Lucifer’s: she did not go there, that was not her goal today. She headed away from that and away from the other bodies, toward a quieter wing, where there would be less eyes to find her. A room guarded by one or two, she could work with that, if she had to—and rooms carefully guarded had things worth guarding. Lightfooted and swift, she wove through the corridors.

She came upon a room with a heavy door, one that had the smell of recently being manned, and if she listened closely, could still hear an echo of footsteps down the hall—it meant she had to be quick; that, or there were more coming. Given enough time, she could surely pick this lock, though she had no idea that the War Room was what was behind the door. Surely some of the noises of the attempted picking would have drawn the attention of a careful ear, were it to be honed, were it to be intent on the listening—many people never learned how to listen, and this was something Phoebe readily and frequently took advantage of. However, some still remained more keen than others, and it was possible there was never any way out of this mansion.