The Way to Hell

Chapter Twelve: Blinding Lights

Warnings: Smut in this chapter, public fingering, sexual intercourse. 

A/N: Just found out my story was plagiarised on Ao3. The plagiarist just changed the names to post it to another fandom but someone who read my story before alerted me. This is the second time it happens with this story and as always they get caught. It still sucks, sadly...

Title: Blinding Lights

Naked and glorious, an angel stands captured by his sight. She wields a massive silver sword in her hand while dark ashes float eerily around her heavenly form. White and sparkling, her wings spread open in the air, feathers quivering at each flex of her muscles while she hovers over the barren, scorched ground.

She chants his name, her voice pleasantly familiar. Like a lighthouse, offering sanctuary and peace.

Still in his suit, August marches on, eyes locked at the heavy grey firmament. He watches as the black particles fall from the clouds and tarnish her wings. He holds out a hand to brush them off; but as he does, one by one they burn to cinders.

"You made me fall." She whispers.

"No!" He protests, reaching a hand to touch her face.

The flesh burns to a crisp at his touch.

~*~*~

Panic spears him at the back of the head. Sweat drizzles ice-cold down August's wrinkled forehead, setting a lock of his hair astray. Exhaling, he tucks it back neatly and scans his surroundings. The ashen dark fantasy changes abruptly, fading before his panicked glare to be replaced by empty train seats. Outside the window, raindrops splatter onto the glass, and the green Scottish thickets smear into a shadowy smudge.

"What did you dream of?"

Doubt flashes onto his face upon hearing the soft voice from the seat next to him. Yet here she is, his enemy - turned -

'What is she to you anyway?'

Something strains inside his lungs, his diaphragm pushing inward as these thoughts trouble him. He forces them away, reflecting on the obvious. Ingvild is, by all means, a sight for sore eyes. The two times he had sex with her felt like fucking heaven itself.

There's an inquisitive look on her face, observing him quietly while his heart still raises a thundering ruckus in his ribcage.

"Nothing," he lies and clenches his jaw, trying to avoid another direct glance.

Yet his own voracious need of affirmation that she's real betrays him. The notion that Ingvild is nothing but another phantasm toys with his thoughts.

'Touch her before she vanishes into smoke.'

Delicate as a feather, his knuckle rises to graze her cheek, caressing down the well-defined jawline. In silence, she accepts. The sharpness of her gaze still cuts; it slices deep into a battered soul before turning her head to escape his touch with no other questions asked.

She sets her daggers on an old lady who sits several rows in the opposing direction: an adorable, crumpled, little thing. Her wrinkled hands hold a book, yet she peers at the murderous couple through her large square glasses instead of reading.

The expression on the older woman's face can be interpreted as what Ingvild believes to be as concern. Bruises and cuts cover both August and her. Their injuries are a screaming evidence to their battle at the old church. But, they are nothing compared to the mess August left under her black leather jacket and the silky pink scarf tied around her neck. His handprints still tingle on her flesh, yet oddly it seems like her body begs for more whenever she looks at him.