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FOR AS LONG AS HE CAN REMEMBER, never has there been a time when Alastor’s eyes don’t immediately search for Celeste if he knows she’s near. It doesn’t matter where they land—her winged ears, the smooth curve of her cheeks, her feathered wingspan, the waves of her hair—he’s simply drawn to her presence no matter the context or the setting.
And today he watches her from where he sits on the bed, glass of whiskey in one hand, cigarette in the other. His crimson eyes follow her every move, follow her as she paces a tight line across the room, arms folded over her chest. It does not take a genius to know that the fallen angel is agitated—about what, though, he cannot have been able to point out.
As it turns out, there are a plethora of stressors that plague her pretty little mind at the moment. Stressors that, if Alastor were being frank, he can easily make vanish with peppered kisses and some warm snuggling.
Of course, he has every intention of doing so later on. For now, he’s settled on allowing her the moment to let off some steam. Hell knows that Hell hath no fury like a fallen angel scorned.
“Do you hear them tonight?” she mutters, voice climbing as she goes. “It’s worse than usual—Angel’s screeching at Husk over something stupid, and I swear someone set something on fire again—” She stops, dragging a hand down her face. She’s been going on and on about how everyone’s been getting on her nerves tonight, but Alastor knows that isn’t the worst of it.
Celeste’s pacing gets quicker with each word she manifests aloud. Clearly, having these thoughts fester in her only serves to make the agitation worse. “And that’s not even the worst of it—” she spits out, sighing in frustration. “He’s—he’s been calling me again.”
The bitter edge to her voice is difficult to miss; Alastor longs to hold her in her arms and whisk her worries away with his caress.
“Bothering me just so he can get the satisfaction of doing so,” she rants. “Every ten minutes—buzz, buzz, buzz—I can’t get a damn moment’s quiet.”
This Radio Demon cannot lie: the thought of Vox persistently pestering her again pisses him off to no end. More than that—the ugly, green monster stirs in the pit of his stomach at the mere mention or implication of his name, and for all of Alastor’s power as an Overlord of Hell, this monster is one that he cannot simply tamp down.
“Ah, that fucking creep just can’t get a grip, can he?” he mutters under his breath, but Celeste hears it anyway. “He’s never just been able to sit still and wallow in his pathetic, pitiful turf.” There’s nothing pitiful about the V Tower, they both know it, but Alastor digresses.
She snorts. “Tell me about it.”
“I would very much rather not, mon ange,” he drawls, taking one last drag of his cigarette before putting it out on the ash tray. He raises his glass of whiskey at her and holds his arms open, beckoning her in. “I’d hate to spend all this time with you talking about that… that… moron.”
Celeste doesn’t look convinced. In fact, she’s still got more to say—but one look at Alastor’s open arms is enough to make her resolve crumble. With a resigned sigh, she stops pacing and crawls onto the bed.
Alastor’s ready to receive her. As he puts the glass aside, his arm slips around her waist and pulls her close. “Shh, my darling…” he murmurs into her feathered ear, making her tense from the suddenness before melting into his embrace. “You’re working yourself into such a dreadful state over this… noise.”
“It’s not just noise, Al,” she huffs. “It’s—” But she’s cut off with a quick kiss at the corner of her eye before she can finish the sentence. “Hey!” she says, but it’s a surprised giggle rather than a reprimand.
“What?” Alastor says innocently, though he knows he’s not fooling anyone with the oblivious act.
“I was still talking.” Celeste pouts—only to be once again taken aback with another kiss, but this time on her cheek. “Al!”
“I simply could not resist, darling, I’m sorry,” he says, before pressing another quick kiss on a deliberate spot just shy of her lips.
“No, you’re not,” Celeste quickly concludes.
“No, I’m not,” Alastor agrees.
“Did you even listen to a word I said?” she pretend-fumes. She has no doubt that the Overlord had not missed a single thing that had left her mouth—for she knows Alastor would crawl into her skin and live there for all of eternity if he could.
“Mmm—yes, yes, the rabble are positively insufferable,” he hums, pressing another light kiss on her forehead. “Is there anything new?” He traces his puckered lips down the slope of her nose, a trail of warmth in his wake. “And our… ah, persistent caller does lack some charm and decorum.”
Try as Celeste might to hold on to her irritation, it slips from her grasp with every kiss he leaves on her now-flushed skin. It’s ridiculous, really, the effect that he has on her—in mind, heart, and body.
She supposes that if there’s one way her frustrations could dissolve into absolute nothingness, then this one isn’t the worst way to do that—not by a long shot. “They’re going to drive me insane,” she mutters, snuggling in his embrace.
Alastor chuckles softly, brushing his thumb along the line of her jaw. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much, darling,” he says. “If they become too unruly, you need only to say the word and I’ll show them how to behave.”
“Would you, now?” Celeste answers with playful defiance.
“You sound incredulous,” Alastor said in mock hurt. “Do you not believe me when I say that I would do anything for you, mon ange? Shall I prove it to you, then?”
Alastor does not have to prove a single thing to her, for Celeste knows without having to be told the depth of his devotion for her. Celeste knows without having to be told that he’d turn the expanse of Hell upside down if it meant being able to hold her close. She knows without having to be told that he would burn down the paradise of Heaven if it threatens to take her away from him.
She knows all this without having to be told—but Alastor tells her, shows her, all of it anyway, because, in the same way that Alastor can never stray his eyes away from Celeste, that is how it always has been between him and her. Take away all that snarky banter and the petty pride, and all that is left is the basal, hardened truth of their utter devotion from one fallen angel to a Radio Demon.
Still, she whispers, “Yes.”
And with a wicked grin, Alastor presses their foreheads together and, finally, brings his lips to hers.