❝fallen angels are destined for little else but raising hell.❞
[dark angel!5sos au]
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cw: this book contains strong language, descriptions of blood/gore, supernatural occurrences, mild sexual content, talk of various religions, drug/substance abuse...
Blood on my shirt, rose in my hand, You're looking at me like you don't know who I am, Blood on my shirt, heart in my hand, Still beating.
"Teeth" (Live at Royal Albert Hall) ; 5 Seconds of Summer
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✞
Rain slices against Ashton's cheeks no softer than the contents of a knife drawer would. The clouds have become thicker and lower to the ground the closer he gets to the Compound. Goddamn, Hemmings. Always has to make every fucking thing a show. The bastard is dead; he's so. fucking. dead. Ashton decides to climb; his ebony wings cut through the late evening sky easily. He pushes upwards, needing the upper-hand; Luke knows Ashton is on his way. His message was damn clear, but it takes two to play chess.
As he reaches thick cloud coverage, in the middle of the storm, he begins to make every flap of his wings deliberate, calculated; avoid every strike of lighting, go with and not against each gust of wind, do not let Hemmings' over glorified meteorology frighten him. Ashton is an Exemplaris, a degree away from king of the underworld, with all the fires of hell at his fingertips. Do not fear, do not be discouraged.
His insignia begins to burn deep into the tissue of his lower back. Ashton's nearly at the Mouth. Would they have trained the harpoons against him already? It's more than likely; prepare for the worst. His hair is a deep maroon; it would have been scarlet had it not been for this damn rain. Deep veins of black soot have coated his fingertips, palms, and wrists. His eyes have begun to glow that flaming orange. His fangs have fully unsheathed themselves. Even his nails, usually hidden beneath his mortal-appearing form, have shown themselves: sharp, glossy, and black as a midnight ocean.
Ashton dives downwards, twisting to the right twice to avoid several horizontal strikes of lightning, just enough to see the ground below him. To anyone who wasn't searching, they likely would have missed him in the cloud cover. To anyone who did see him that evening, likely thought that the apocalypse had begun in that moment. He narrows his eyes, assessing the Mouth. Harpoons are indeed trained upon the sky, as they always were, but they seem hauntingly still. Where—?
A twinge in his lower back sends him instinctively downwards; Ashton backflips through the air, catching himself inches above the ground, gliding just above the soggy, muddy Nevada desert for a moment. He glides above the Mouth, kicking off of the ground for an assisted reentry into the sky.
Calum's sickle had not reached its desired target, but the effect it did have would be useful enough. Calum curses under his breath, taking another moment of refuge in the clouds, a good ten yards away from Ashton, who is thrashing through the rumbling clouds looking for Luke within the clouds with the most murderous look in his flaming sunset eyes.
