❝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...
Turns out he'd been lying to both of them for oh so long, They decided then, he'd never get away with doing this to them, Two black Cadillacs waiting for the right time, right time.
Two Black Cadillacs ; Carrie Underwood
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The concrete behind Luke is left slick with rainwater as he trudges down the labyrinth to the Altior dormitories. His eyes resemble the benthic ice of some behemoth iceberg; not even a sparkle of light. Every atom in his body feels heavy, saturated by his own rain, his own damn emotions that his brain can't seem to process.
How long has it been since he slept?
The question gives the Altior a brief moment of pause, but no longer than that. He shakes his head, more droplets falling to the cold ground below, and presses forward. The space underneath his eyes feels heavier, somehow.
His room is arguably one of the coldest in the compound. Tucked in some far away corner, not near the throne room or the prison cells, but close by the weaponry cellar, the few Altior-ranking demons sleep. Those swords, Luke has noticed, have a special kind of glint when you're sitting in front of them with a three-quarters empty bottle of tequila.
The inside of Luke's cheek is raw. His gray wings, nearly black due to their saturated state, are folded, almost in a shrunken state, behind him. He cannot bring himself to expand or retract them completely. The numbness, a few moments ago a solid wall, begins to fade in and out in waves. Luke becomes increasingly aware of the lingering smell of Eden's blood, having stained his suit in several places. The smell nearly makes him retch as a fleeting image of Ashton pressing her against that damn glass is triggered inside his mind.
He shakes his head. More water. The walls shake with some distant thunder.
His room, solitary and desolate, is practically impenetrable to any untrained demon. No one could ever unlock the door; Luke changes the lock every other time he returns, creating a new key from scratch. Though the look of the lock never changes: a large padlock on thick black chains attached to the industrial sized latch on the door.
He takes the lock in his left hand, closing his eyes, studying the insides of it, remembering the hatches and notches he created, he closes his right palm, concentrating. A small metal key materializes in between his fingers a moment later, and he shoves it inside the padlock without a second thought. He pushes the door open, pulling the key out and crushing it between his fingers simultaneously.
His left hand ghosts over the door, pushing it almost shut. The low light of the corridor leaks through the small crack as Luke finds a fresh, not soggy, box of matches from his ancient dresser, and lights two kerosene lamps hanging from his ceiling.
