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She remembers the feel of cool angelic steel in the grasp of her hands. The way the grooves of the staff perfectly fit into her fingers, her hands holding firm with experience and certainty. It feels… good? She can’t understand why that feels surprising, as if it shouldn’t be the case.
Vaggie breathes through her mask, custom-built by Heaven’s work smiths to fit her head snugly and comfortably. She breathes too heavily, and a cloud of heated breath blurs her vision. She can barely make out the tip of her spear. It’s covered in something, sinners’ blood most likely.
Around her, she can hear the laughter and satisfaction of her sisters, loud and clear. The crisp cut of sharp metal meeting flesh carving a holy melody throughout the red-tinted backgrounds. Something caustic fills her gut. It flows all around her, the beautiful sound of Heaven’s judgment rendered physical on these… things.
She looks down at her feet, and she sees the grabbing limbs of too many faces reaching up to her, each a face she does not recognize. They do not speak as so much groan as they continue to pile onto her legs. She desperately tries to fly up with her wings, only to find the conglomerated corpses underneath her growing to a mountain. Their groans slowly turn into screaming, ear-piercing and shrill, all around her, but still she climbs and climbs and-
“CLEANUP ON TABLE 8!” Vaggie snaps back into reality as somebody screams from the other side of the room. It’s Angel Dust. Of course.
She looks down at herself, gone are the corpses, instead pink and white tiles greet her. A mop has squirrelled its way where an angelic spear should be, heavy and unwieldy. The sleek latex uniform of Heaven replaced with a frilly dress that warms her heart inexplicably. The hustle and bustle of a crowd far too large for the small diner-sized establishment replacing the dead-eyed stares of fresh corpses.
“Hey, where’s my goddamn latte? It’s been 15 minutes y’know?” A sinner lazily shouts from one of the tables in the café.
It reminds Vaggie why she’s here in the first place, some sort of promotion for the Hotel cooked up by the staff. She doesn’t quite remember the details, only that a certain princess of hers conscripted the fallen angel into the whole thing.
“O-of course! We’ll be with you in a second!” Charlie helpfully supplies, it does not seem to help alleviate the frown on the heckler’s face.
“You’ve said that twice now.” He replies, unamused.
Vaggie steps in instead, snapping her head around on instinct, “Hey, asshole! It’ll be ready when it’s ready, you understand?”
Her glare helps to settle the debate for now, the customer slumping back into his own table. She sighs, turning back to look at a wide-eyed Charlie.
“What? It’s not like you can just snap one into existence just because someone asked.” Vaggie replies with a shrug, still holding onto the mop. Out of the corner of her eye, she can still see Angel gesturing towards the messy table.
“Rightttt, well,” Charlie replies, “I guess so. I just didn’t expect so many people to come?”
“Babe,” Vaggie replies, “When the Morningstars decide to open a restaurant, people are gonna want to at least see what we’ve got in store, yeah?”
Charlie nods with a slow exhale, “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Where’s the drinks anyways? Isn’t Alastor usually our ‘expert’ or something?” Vaggie asks curiously, turning her head this way and that. The freaky tall demon is nowhere to be seen, which seems odd. Usually he’d be sticking out like the sorest of thumbs.
“Yeah, I dunno, he should have had the drinks out like, five minutes ago?” Charlie questions curiously, “I did see dad heading into the back a while back too.”
“Hope they’re not fighting again…” she mutters nervously.
Vaggie glances at the door to the back, curiously held slightly ajar. She sees the faint glint of a silver tray peeking through the door. Something in her tells her to investigate it, and at the very least find out where that latte went exactly. She only manages a couple of steps forward before being interrupted by a familiar New Yorker’s voice.
“HEY! You deaf or somethin’?” Angel Dust scream from across the countertop, having moved closer to the duo manning the front desk, “I said clean up on Table Eight, like, a minute ago!”
Vaggie snaps back at Angel Dust, then to the mop in her hands.
“Right! Right! I’m coming!” She says, rushing towards the front.
The mystery will have to wait for sometime later.
He can’t remember the last time he felt this nervous, back pinned against the flimsy thin wooden door, breath dizzily short. Alastor cannot find any sort of purchase on the door, less he swings it wide open the other way and himself falling on his ass. Doubly so with the tray full of drinks and refreshments resting on his left hand.
He feels too full to let that bother his mind in the moment however, lips pressed tight against alabaster skin. It turns off his synapses momentarily, the heady scent of too-sweet flesh meeting his own, tempting his twitching sharp teeth to close down on it to keep it in his mouth forever.
It quickly leaves before he can contemplate it any further, a thin string of saliva connecting Lucifer’s lips to his own as it does.
“Sire,” he grits out between short breaths, “Is this really the time to be succumbing to these desires?”
Lucifer looks up with glowing yellow eyes into his own, wide yet focused. Alastor can swear he can see fires in those pitch-black pupils of the archangel, growing and threatening to consume his own head entirely in the haze he denies exists.
“Sorry, you just, fuck,” Lucifer presses for a shorter, lighter kiss, “You just look so goddamn hot in that uniform.”
Alastor does not exactly deny that fact, he does consider himself especially fetching in this attire. The freshly-pressed and tailored suit only further accentuates the slim curves of his body, his coat far more restrictively pressed along his body lines, far more exposing than most wear that Alastor can tolerate.
“Be that as it may,” Alastor replies, refusing to acknowledge it in their present circumstances, less it go to Lucifer’s head, “There are waiting customers outside eager for their beverages of choice that I must serve, you understand that much do you not?”
The bite in his reply is softened by the breathiness of his voice, still searching for air from the archangel still pressing down onto his form. A rogue thigh moves itself between his slacks, heat gathering somewhere below his waist that he would rather not think about.
“They can wait,” Lucifer mutters straight into Alastor’s face, “For their King’s satisfaction first.”
Without waiting for another reply, he shoves his face back into Alastor’s, tongue invading his mouth once more with unrestrained want and need. It takes all that the radio demon has not to downright moan at the thought of himself being taken like this, and even then a small whimper escapes his throat. He does his best to lean into the kiss, still all-too aware of the full tray of liquid that could ruin the moment if forgotten.
It feels strange, indulging in his own desires like this, but Alastor can find little to complain about as his own tongue dives into the battle within their mouths, twisting around Lucifer’s prehensile tongue to infuse the cotton-candy texture of Lucifer’s appetite with the bitter warmth of bourbon and coffee.
Lucifer shivers lightly as he does so, and Alastor can tell he’s been truly affected by the way he presses into the door even further, only saved by the archangel grabbing tightly onto the door panel, preventing it from pivoting even further outwards. Perhaps in another locale, they would begin dancing, but Alastor is satisfied with the crude ballet occurring between both of their lips instead.
The kiss lasts for an eternity, but finally, restlessly, it ends. Both of them breathing in quick short gasps. Eyes locked into each other as eyelids open from the love-infused trance they found themselves falling under, passionate and slow. Alastor’s brain takes more than an embarrassing second to reboot as his face darkens with a blush.
Lucifer wiggles his eyebrows, as if to say, That good eh?
Alastor doubts that he would not have said it, were it not for the need to put oxygen back into both of their lungs. He finally wills himself to push off from the tight embrace Lucifer has placed both of them in with his free hand, though none-too-roughly.
He pivots around on the spot, intending to rush out from the kitchen to finally serve the beverages at-hand.
Alastor clears his mouth before speaking, “I-if that’s all, sire,” he turns his face to the side to meet Lucifer’s gaze, rigid and stunted “I shall be availing myself of these, uhm, d-drinks!”
Lucifer’s eyes go slightly hooded instead, and Alastor refuses to let it be shown how much that bothers him, moving to push the door open with his free right hand. Instead, he feels a rough smack on his posterior that triggers an involuntary eep from the radio demon.
He stops, turning around to glare at the archangel. Lucifer looks up to him with the world’s largest shit-eating grin.
“Go get ‘em tiger!” He chirps merrily as he walks off further into the kitchen, presumably to help with the preparations.
Alastor does not find it in himself to care what Lucifer chooses to do, rushing out with a face looking redder than a cherry. He meets a café nearly in riot, a rush of customers screaming at Charlie’s face while Vagatha is bafflingly holding them off with a… mop?
Curiouser the curiouser, Alastor thinks to himself. He sighs, and starts mentally taking note of how many bodies he’ll have to send flying back into the city at this rate. It really is a shame that Charlie banned his cannibalism practices for the duration of the whole café charade.
Alastor lets his mind wander back to those porcelain lips once more as he starts grabbing irate customers with his shadows. Perfectly smooth yet warm instead of cold. Intoxicatingly rich in scent, unlike any hunt he’s ever conducted.
He does not understand how he has come to love that man, but it seems they are well and truly stuck in it now.
