❝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...
It all feels a bit supernatural But we work so naturally So maybe I'll cast a love spell And you'll fall in love with me On Halloween
Halloween; Matilda Cole
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Meet me at the MGM Grand ballroom at 9:00 p.m.. You better be wearing a costume. Don't be late, sweet thing. xx.
Ashton presses send without a second thought. He gently sends his phone—screen side down—on his bathroom counter. Prolonging having to put on his suit as late as he possibly can, he gently washes his face, once again freshly shaven, and considers his options for jewelry. Sizable crucifix earrings seem to fit the theme for tonight. He removes the regular hoops from his ears and clasps the crosses on tight. A couple of simplistic silver bands find their way to his fingers with a few twists. The slightly-fogged mirror still brightly reflects the blood red moon tattoos across his forearms as he slicks his ebony hair into a tight and elegant swoop. A silver watch decorates his wrist last of all.
There is something he must do before he embellishes his entire body with white cloth.
His stubborn hair slowly falling out of the gelled swoop a few strands at a time, Ashton momentarily exits his bathroom, striding towards the dresser at the other side of the room. In the top drawer lay the box which he purchased last night after his brief altercation with Luke. He grabs the box and pries it open, letting the contents fall into his other palm. A silver necklace with a crescent moon charm glints back at him in the dim light of his apartment, almost in welcome. He smiles at the thing.
Next to his dresser, between it and his mini fridge (currently filled to the brim with alcohol), sits a small shelf with cups and wine glasses stacked neatly within. He grabs a small, deep glass, and heads back to the bathroom.
He sets the glass down on the countertop and gently drops the necklace to the bottom of the glass, the chain slowly snaking around itself, a metallic knot. With a measured inhale, Ashton brings his right pointer finger to the flesh of his left palm and slides it down with intent. The slightest of grimaces appears on his face. Blood bubbles to the surface of his hand immediately.
He flips his hand over, his palm now hovering over the glass. His crimson life force slowly fills the glass, crawling and growing towards the top of the glass until the silver chain is completely covered. Once satisfied with the coverage, Ashton pulls his hand back, palm upwards.
He once again must ignore the taste of his own blood as he drags his tongue across the wound, closing it faster than waiting would allow for. The blood stops bubbling. The necklace sits. It would be ready by the time he returns.
He takes a deep breath, a slow one, making sure no residual blood is left on either of his hands, before he grabs the stark white dress shirt which was draped across the tub behind him. He, decidedly not in a hurry (it's currently 8:50 p.m. and he lives above the rendezvous point, after all), lazily buttons his shirt from bottom to top. One spritz, two of his favorite musky cologne across his chest. Another dab behind his ears.
