Work Text:
THERE EXISTS NO TASTE OF HEAVEN IN HELL save for the feeling of Alastor’s arm over the valley of Celeste’s waist, playful fingers meandering across the chalcedonic terrain of her skin in a temperate march. His eyes hold hers with an intensity born not from the desperate hunger of a long-famished man before which laid a glittering feast concocted in the galleys within the Golden Gates, but with the fullness of spirit that comes in the wake of a cathartic reckoning, of an ushered, tranquil sense of belonging.
She, in all her fallen grace and resolute grit, is his fountain of youth, the eternal spring whose waters he would cup and take into his hands—and it is in the chalice of his palms that he would drink her up in all her entirety, savoring her every exhale, her every caress.
“Speak,” she whispers, and their faces are so close together that the warmth of her breath flutters lightly over him, a fleeting, phantom touch. “What sins are lingering in your thoughts at this moment? You stare so intensely I’m beginning to think you plan to devour me whole this early in the morning of this sun-abandoned place.”
“Sins, you say. How rude of you to insinuate.” Alastor smirks at her, but it has none of his usual whetted snark—rather, what looks upon Celeste now is a mellowed image of his familiar naughtiness. “My thoughts are of little consequence, darling,” he says breezily, tucking her hair behind a feathered ear. “But fret not—I bear no, ah, indecorous designs, shall I say, for you today. I simply wish to hold you like this. Would you be so kind and indulge me, mon chere?”
“Your sugary words mean nothing to me, Al.” Celeste pouts, reaching up to stroke his ears, and much to her delight, the Radio Demon instinctively nuzzles closer upon contact. Behold, this Sinner Demon—an Overlord, no less—and how for all his power in the dominion of Hell, he, too, is in the end but a deprived body that falls to his helpless knees at this fallen angel’s every touch. “Tell me, before I grow impatient and leave. You know I must head to the hotel soon. Those guests won’t assist themselves. In fact, don’t you have your own duties to attend to as well?”
The thought of her leaving him brings down a chill upon his body, and he suppresses a childish groan from escaping his mouth.
“Must we leave this perfectly comfortable, deliciously splendid bed?” He responds with a playful pout to mirror her own. He shifts in place, pulling her closer so her head is buried in the depths of his chest. “Would you truly prefer the monotonous drone of hotel obligations rather than staying in this embrace with me forever?”
When Celeste attempts to speak, he quickly puts a finger on her lips to shush her. “Ah-ah,” he crones. “I know what you will say, and I don’t want to hear it!” In a terrible impersonation of her voice, he says: “Yes, Al, my sweet, perfect darling, the apple of my eye—I would much rather stay in bed with you than do anything else!”
“I don’t sound like that!” Celeste huffs. “Now you’re pissing me off.”
“My deepest apologies, mon ange!” Alastor gasps aloud. “Would a kiss perhaps make you feel better?” He presses his lips on her temple, and comes away with a noisy smack. “Not enough? How about two?” For this, he offers her another kiss; this time on the nose.
Dear Lord—temptation had never been the easiest for Celeste to conquer, especially not when it came in the form of a tall, dashing demon with pretty, furry ears that simply begged for her to tease. And most especially not when said demon is holding her so tightly that his naked chest presses in on her just short of ensconcing her within the cage of his ribs.
In the very first place, it is precisely this non-aversion to temptation that fascinated her into her ill-fated incarceration to the prison that was the V Tower—only, the difference between then and now lies in the comfort of his arms arms around her, fingers combing through her wings as though in quiet lullaby to coax her back beneath the waves of slumber.
The difference—this glaring, perpetual night and day difference—between then and now is that Alastor’s embrace is that of endearing greed, not of dastardly possession.
If she is his eternal fountain of youth, he is the first breath of fresh air—no, the preternatural key that unsealed the fetters which had once kept her immured. Annoying as he may be at times, grating and scraping at the walls of her sanity with his mischief and madness, still it holds true that the heart she thought would have become icy with despair in the aftermath of her hellish (and heavenly) tribulations melts instead as she makes herself at home next to him.
“Five minutes,” she allows at last, for what is Celeste Illumora if not a headstrong woman weak only to his impish yet charming tricks? Indeed, this delightful pair may very well be mirrors of one another in this regard. How fitting that two persistent and seemingly untiring people seek sanctuary in each other’s presence.
“You seem to have forgotten how to pronounce forever,” he complains. “Five minutes, really? That’s not enough, not even close. Just tell me that you hate me—it’ll upset me considerably less.”
“I hate you,” she complies, voice muffled as she clings closer to him.
Alastor lets out a dramatic sigh. “Oh, so now you know how to heed my words.”
“You’re lucky I even let you hold me,” Celeste says. “You should be grateful.”
“Ah, now that I cannot contest,” he admits, and Celeste doesn’t have to look at him to know that’s smiling; she hears the laughter in his voice as loudly and as clearly she can feel the blood rushing all over her body. “How lucky I am to hold something so divine.”
Divine. How long has it been since she’s heard the word used to describe her in this manner? In Heaven, divinity is something angels are expected to be, something they just are, modeled after their creator. In Hell, her divinity becomes something she must take great care of, lest she be snatched up by power-hungry overlords—the poor bait dangling upon a flimsy rusted hook.
Now, before the primed red sapphire gaze of Alastor, she once more feels the enormity of her own divine grace, fallen as she may be, and it is a flame that comes alive in his presence—a flame that licks every fiber of her body and rivals even the brimstone and red acid sky of this godforsaken realm.
“Alright,” she surrenders with a smile. “Let’s make it ten minutes.”
Alastor makes a clicking sound with his tongue and holds her no less loose. “Only you can make me deliriously happy over a measly addition of five minutes, mon ange,” he whispers. “Only you.”