#* dean

Fallen hadn't watched for long. It'd been a long time since she'd shied away from violence of an kind. A child, bitterly lost and alone – but becoming a jackal had changed that. Or at least, it gave her permission to be far less forgiving – but watching dean step into the ring felt like picking at a loose tooth. In the end, it'd only leave a gaping hole in its wake should she pull on it too hard. Instead, she lingered in the hall of Hells Gate, straddling the window sill several stories up. The strike of her lighter like a fucking beacon apparently as she drew back heavily on the joint, and he appeared in the nearby doorway, just as bloodied as she so often saw him, "You must actually get off on that shit to be doing it so often."

The taste of cotton candy burned bright upon her tongue, the sweetest reminder of the first time she ever felt the same rush that chaos now filled her with. Despite the outburst from Tati, the questionable nature of the young woman morphing from brief concern at drawing such blatant attention to something more primal as two of the MC members beelined for the kurtlar bonehead. The sharpened red accusatory gaze that shudders its way through the crowd feels like christmas to her and like hell she isn't going to make it worth it. a quick sweeping hand snatches the hat from upon the man's crown; it feels expensive - perhaps a steston, and worn in, loved. "You a bettin' man," as if she cares, as she tips the hat to sit precariously upon her own head. "or the kind that's ready to jump ship at the first sign of blood? Sharks and all." Begs the question whether the apex predators on board, of below the surface would feed their bellies first. Would he bite?