❝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...
If it feels good, tastes good, It must be mine, Dynasty decapitated You just might see a ghost tonight
Emperor's New Clothes; Panic! at the Disco
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Moments after Eden leaves, heavy unhappiness settles on top of Michael's heart. He retracts his wings, almost shamefully. He stares after her as she disappears into the moderate crowd currently occupying Fremont Street. He knows that his treasured garden has to end things with the Fallen Angel independently, but his position as her guardian angel is causing an internal battle to erupt within him. Against his better judgement, in order to suppress this oppressive feeling he has dealt with since the day he was turned, he once again retrieves the bottle of tequila from its temporary place on the bookshelf. He may as well go to sleep, forget about all of his many mistakes for a while.
Michael trudges up the stairs and down the hallway towards his room, the chilled glass of the bottle kissing his lips every few moments. It doesn't take many sips for him to begin to feel very tired, slowly, then all at once. He makes a slight turn into the bathroom and just stares at himself. He's presented with a mere shell.
Purple ditches have dug themselves under his eyes, and he isn't all the way convinced that his best friend doesn't hate him after telling her his little backstory and somewhat forcing her to breakup with her new boyfriend. Fuck, some guardian he is. Swig.
He removes his crucifix earrings, rubs his eyes, pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it in their hamper, so he can sleep in his gray sweats comfortably, and exits the bathroom before he loses control of his stomach at the sight of himself. Swig. The tequila has began to numb everything, every limb, every sensation, every feeling. What should have been a burning "WAKE THE FUCK UP: DANGER IS COMING" pain striking across the back of his neck as he enters his bedroom is reduced to a slight irritation that Michael fatally mistakes for an itch. Swig, motherfuckin' swig.
Calum stands at the southern entrance of Fremont Street, impatiently. His blonde hair is plastered to his forehead due to the now torrential downpour Luke has caused to erupt over their heads. Reluctant to follow anyone's orders, let alone any from Hemmings, Calum's face is in a semi-permanent state of "resting bitch". He knows he could do this job alone, easily. But would he be promoted without Hemmings' help? He couldn't be sure; so, he took this irritating chance. His dirty gray wings remain visible, as always, folded, relaxed against his back.
He pops the collar of his trench coat, and quickly conjures a simple water-deflecting spell to save his clothing from any further saturation. Just like Luke, he's carrying a plethora of poisoned chains and Fallen weaponry in an inconspicuous gift shop drawstring bag. His cargo pants and plethora of pockets contain quite a few surprises as well. Growing even more impatient, he yanks one of his pant legs and presses his fingers firmly against his insignia: "Hurry up, dickhead."
