Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The throne room stretched out before Alastor like a cathedral built for gods long dead. Black marble and deep carmine stone formed sweeping arches that seemed to bend under their own gravity, drawing the eye toward the twin thrones at the far end, monuments of bone and shadow. Stained glass windows, tall as towers, bled molten light across the floor, which gleamed like wet ink beneath the shifting glow of suspended chandeliers. The air was heavy with incense and something sweeter, clinging like smoke to the vaulted ceiling.

Alastor entered with the deliberate grace of a predator among kings, his clawed fingers wrapped loosely around his staff, the eye on the microphone dilating in response to he’s subconscious anxiety. His long coat rippled around his ankles like liquid shadow, the soft tapping of his footfalls and cane echoing against stone in an oddly melodic rhythm. His smile, was a perfect thing, too perfect, a mask lacquered in performance.

At the far end of the hall, atop a dais of petrified bone and luminescent crystal, sat the twin thrones of Hell.

To the left lounged King Lucifer, relaxed to the point of mockery, his frame draped over his throne like silk over steel, one leg thrown lazily over the armrest. He twirled a ruby-laced ring over his thumb, a trace of ash-smudged confection still on the corner of his lips, the scent of burnt sugar sweetening the air around him. His amber-red eyes gleamed with interest that might have been amusement—or warning.

At his side sat Queen Lilith, a vision of quiet authority and lethal elegance. Her back was straight, her ram-horned crown curving like a divine script toward the heavens. Eyes the color of dark garnet held Alastor in their orbit, dissecting him with the clinical patience of someone used to peeling apart souls with her voice alone. Her blonde hair cascaded down her shoulders like a shroud of woven smoke.

The air grew heavier as Alastor approached. Their gazes hit him like twin blades, one burning, the other cold as ancient stone. Static began to crackle faintly at the tips of his antlers. His grip on his cane shifted by a fraction.

The microphone at the end of his cane gives a small squeal of feedback an unconscious betrayal of the tension coiling in his chest. He silences it with a gentle tap of his finger, his static aura crackling softly around him.

With a final step, he stopped precisely twenty paces from the thrones, as protocol dictated. A whisper of movement preceded his cane vanishing into curling ink-like smoke, and he bowed with elegant precision. One hand pressed against his chest, the other swept outward, claws catching the light. His antlers dipped low, the red tuft ears nearly brushing the black stone beneath him.

"Your Majesties," he intoned, his voice layered in the warbled timbre of an old phonograph, touched by arcane resonance. "What an honor to be granted this audience."

Lilith’s chin lifted in acknowledgment, but it is Lucifer stretching languidly, the ruffles of his midnight suit hissing softly against the bone who speaks first. His voice lazily unfurls, rich and perfectly controlled, "Alastor. You are more punctual than our usual guests." He bares his teeth in a smile that lingers between camaraderie and hunger. "Rarity is a flavor I savor."

Alastor straightens, feeling the twin pinpricks of their regard like a crosshairs trained on his spine. "Your time," he answers, voice honeyed with flattery, "is a commodity I wouldn’t dare squander."

He senses a ripple of amusement from Lilith; she doesn’t smile, but the light shifts in her eyes. The static at Alastor’s horns quiets a heartbeat.

"To business," Lilith intones. The syllables slip from her tongue as if in a forgotten dialect, deliberate and weighted.

Alastor waited, perfectly still, in the rigid posture of someone who understood very well how many guns were pointed at him.

A low hum echoed as something shifted behind Alastor—a small, hunched creature shambled forward, trailing scraps of fabric and breath that smelled of withered ink. Its limbs were too long, its eyes too wet and bulbous behind cracked crystal lenses, and in its clawed hands it held a scroll bound in thread made from human hair.

With a wheezing gasp, it unfurled the document. It unfurled. And kept unfurling, parchment scrawled with demonic glyphs, contract sigils, and infernal shorthand so dense it might have counted as scripture.

Alastor did not look at the creature. He kept his eyes forward, fixed somewhere between the thrones and the flame-tongued air above them. His aura crackled in restrained pulses, more sensation than sound, as if somewhere deep in his chest a broken radio fought to tune into a storm.

"Your Infernal Majesties," the creature croaks, "I present Alastor, known as the Radio Demon, Overlord of the Eastern District, Terror of the Pentagram, Master of Eldritch Shadows." The scroll continues to unroll as the demon reads. "In Hell since 1933, responsible for the Cleansing of '35, the Radio Tower Massacre, and the fall of seven previous overlords."

The creature pauses to catch its breath, the scroll still unraveling. "Record of souls claimed: uncountable. Territory: expanding. Threat level: extreme." It glances up nervously before continuing. "He is the final supplicant on today's royal agenda."

With a snap of his fingers, Lucifer dismisses the announcer, who scurries away, dragging the still-unfurling scroll behind it. The king's eyes gleam with something that might be amusement, or might be hunger.

With a casual flick of his fingers, Lucifer dismissed the creature. It let out a squeak of relief and scrambled away, scroll trailing behind like a serpent shedding its skin.

Silence pulsed.

Then: “The Radio Demon himself.” Lucifer leaned forward, elbows on knees, fingers steepled before his mouth. His eyes gleamed not malicious, but lit with something too ancient to define. “We’ve heard much of your... exploits.”

Alastor did not flinch, but inside, his thoughts twisted, restless beneath the skin. It wasn’t fear, not quite, but recognition. The kind of awareness predators feel when they enter the domain of something older, something incomprehensibly powerful, and realize they are being measured in more ways than one.

Only a handful of beings in this world could end him. Two of them sat in front of him now. Still, he stood as though sculpted from confidence and darkness. But his reason for being here, it gnawed at him. This wasn't about power. Not territory. Not revenge. It was about control, or rather, the loss of it.

His purpose here coils uncomfortably in his stomach, a serpent of necessity that has driven him to seek audience with these dangerous monarchs. Since his arrival in Hell nearly a century ago, Alastor has faced countless indignities with sardonic humor and brutal efficiency. But none has been so persistently frustrating as the designation forced upon him—omega.

The memory of his first heat still burns with humiliation. The weakness, the need, the vulnerability, all anathema to everything Alastor values about himself. The secondary genders assigned in the afterlife seemed an especially creative torture, particularly for one who had felt no sexual desire in life. He had quickly learned to acquire blockers, medications that dampened the biological imperatives that came with his designation.

For decades, they had worked adequately. He had built his power, his reputation, his territory—all while keeping his omega status a closely guarded secret. The Radio Demon, feared throughout Hell, reduced to trembling need every few months? Unthinkable. He would not allow such weakness to be exploited.

But recently, something has changed. The blockers grow less effective with each passing cycle. His last heat had nearly broken through despite doubling his dosage, leaving him locked in his tower for three agonizing days, shadows whirling protectively around him as his body betrayed him with demands he refused to satisfy.

Alastor shifts his weight imperceptibly, his gaze steady on the royal couple even as his thoughts churn with his predicament. If anyone in Hell would know how to permanently suppress these cycles, it would be the rulers of the realm themselves. Knowledge is power, and they have existed since the first sin stained humanity.

The risk in revealing such vulnerability to these particular beings is immense. The Morningstars are not known for their mercy or their discretion. Yet the alternative, the continued intensification of his heats, perhaps even a public incident, is unacceptable. His power, his standing, everything he has built would crumble if the denizens of Hell discovered this weakness.

As Lucifer and Lilith regard him with identical expressions of interest, Alastor feels a prickle of warning at the nape of his neck. Their gazes seem to penetrate deeper than they should, as though they can already sense what he has come to ask. Yet he maintains his composure, a perfect performance hiding the desperate hope that they might provide a solution to the curse of his unwanted biology.

Alastor draws a measured breath, preparing to state his business with all the dignified eloquence he can muster. The carefully rehearsed words arrange themselves on his tongue, but before he can give them voice, Lucifer leans toward his wife, his eyes never leaving the Radio Demon. "Didn't I tell you he was pretty?" the King of Hell asks, his voice carrying the casual intimacy of a private conversation deliberately made public. The words hang in the air between them, unexpected and disconcerting, like a spider dangling from an invisible thread.

Alastor’s composure stuttered. A brief distortion crackled through his aura, static hissing at the edges of his illusion, like a signal slipping off frequency. His ears gave the smallest twitch.

Pretty?

It wasn’t the insult of it—it was the intimacy. The familiarity. The unmistakable tone of a predator commenting on a fine specimen it already owned.

Lilith’s gaze slid along Alastor with the slow, deliberate intensity of someone savoring a rare and delicate wine. She tilted her chin, the silver-black curve of her horns catching the chandelier’s glow.

Lilith's gaze slid over Alastor with unhurried assessment. "Indeed," she murmured her eyes flicked to the tips of his antlers, then down to his sharp smile. "Such striking coloring. And that smile..." She tilts her head, sending a cascade of blonde hair spilling over one shoulder.

She tilted her head, and her golden hair spilled like water down the front of her obsidian-and-marble gown. “...And beautifully untamed.”

The Radio Demon's static aura flickers almost imperceptibly, a momentary glitch in his broadcast, but confusion ripples through him, disrupting the careful composure he had maintained. This is not how audiences with royalty typically begin. He has heard of other overlords' encounters with the Morningstars, formal, direct, often tense. Not this strange, evaluating familiarity.

Still, he bowed again, this time more guarded, more calculating uncertain how to respond to compliments from the rulers of Hell without seeming either arrogant or weak. One hand over his heart, the other extended just enough to acknowledge the attention without inviting more of it.

"Your Majesties are too kind," he replies, his voice maintaining its cheerful radio host cadence despite the unease crawling beneath his skin but with a fine crack ran beneath it. A single hairline fracture in his otherwise impenetrable shell.

Lilith did not smile. Her lips quirked just slightly a motion as precise and sharp as a scalpel. “We notice everything, Alastor,” she said softly. “Particularly when it concerns... rare creatures.”

“Tell us, Radio Demon,” she says, the title turned velvet in her mouth, half endearment, half appraisal, “what brings you to seek counsel with the King and Queen of Hell? You've built quite a reputation for handling your own affairs.”

The way she says affairs makes it sound like casual executions. Her voice purrs through the hall with honeyed precision, sliding into the bones like heat beneath the skin.

Alastor experiences a flicker of relief at the shift back to formal dialogue—the familiar dance of words and ritual, of performance and poise. This was a terrain he could navigate. His spine lengthens subtly, his shoulders squaring behind the guise of theatrical ease.

His response is crisp, artfully detached:

"Your Majesties, I seek knowledge or service that might eliminate or at least significantly reduce the heat cycles that have become increasingly... frustrating." A flicker of strain warbles through the final word, like a missed note in an otherwise flawless broadcast. “They now interfere with my affairs in ways I find most inconvenient.”

Lucifer's eyebrows rise with exaggerated surprise, though something in his expression suggests this revelation is anything but unexpected. "Oh? The great Radio Demon undone by his own flesh,” he murmurs with playful mockery. “How very mortal of you.”

He waves a dismissive hand, the movement elegant and precise. "Why not choose the easier route? Find yourself a mate. Or a reliable arrangement. I imagine there are more than a few demons who would gladly bend knee—and back—for the chance.”

The suggestion strikes Alastor like a discordant note in a familiar melody. His radio static crackles once, sharp and brief, before settling back into its gentle background hum. The smile on his face tightens at the corners, becoming fractionally more rigid.

"With respect, Your Majesty," he replies, each word measured carefully to avoid offense, "I have no interest in such arrangements." He barely restrains himself from scoffing outright, the very notion repugnant to him. The idea of surrendering control, of allowing another being such intimate access to him, it goes against everything he values about himself, everything he has built in his afterlife.

The words are polite, but the subtext is laced with warning. He will not be bred. He will not be tamed.

Lilith rises in a single fluid motion, her gown sweeping like the wing of a dark swan. Every step as she descends the dais is deliberate, echoing through the vast chamber with a weight that seems disproportionate to her frame. She moves like a storm in waiting.

As she nears him, the temperature dips, shadows pull in subtly, and the flickering of the chandeliers slows in time with her measured advance. She circles Alastor like a high priestess around an altar, like a lioness inspecting a newly captured prize.

"No interest at all?" she asks, her voice simultaneously sympathetic and amused. "How unusual. Most omegas crave connection, especially during their cycles even those who resist, feel the longing eventually. They crave the anchor of touch when the tides rise.”

She pauses just behind him, her presence a whisper at his back, closer than etiquette allows.

“But not you.” Her breath brushes the base of his antlers. “You hold yourself like an alpha, all rigid lines and masked fury. No wonder you’ve remained alone all this time.”

He does not turn. He does not flinch. But his static flares just slightly, the faint scent of ozone threading into the air.

She moves again, now in front of him. Her eyes, twin garnets rimmed in shadow, drag along his form like a sculptor taking measurements.

“You’re the perfect height,” she observes, as if to herself. “Not too tall to command, not too small to break.”

Alastor’s voice, when it comes, is soft and sharp:

“Was that a compliment... or a threat?”

Her smile is pure serpent.

“Both.”

A soft boom of displaced space echoed behind him, not a noise, but a pressure, and Lucifer stood beside his queen. One moment, the King had been reclining lazily across his throne like a cat in a sunbeam. Now, he materialized mere feet from Alastor without a single footstep, the shadows barely catching up to his presence. The hem of his coat shimmered with threads of starlight and blood, and his red eyes sparkled with a gleam that made Alastor’s stomach coil.

Mischief… and something else.

"I bet the Radio Demon has hooves," Lucifer says to Lilith, as though Alastor isn't present to hear the speculation. "Given the deer motif." He gestures vaguely toward Alastor's antlers.

A dangerous prickle crawled up the back of Alastor’s neck. Something was wrong. Not just the trajectory of the conversation, but the entire structure of it. He had entered with purpose, but now he was being maneuvered, subtly, expertly, like a piece on a board he hadn’t even realized he stood upon.

Still, he kept his composure. He would not grant them satisfaction by showing unease, not even as the king tiptoed the edge of mockery and the queen cut him with those bright garnet eyes. The conversation had gone peculiarly intimate, as though he was the only living thing beneath their gaze, his audience not a diplomatic negotiation but a… selection.

His mind sifted possibilities at a frantic clip. He was not unused to being watched, but this was the scrutiny of connoisseurs, not adversaries; they were savoring the process as much as the outcome. He tuned his smile sharper, the insides of his cheeks aching with the effort, and chuckled, that old radio resonance shivering in his throat.

“Your Majesties,” he said, “I assure you, I am not in need of… companionship. Only a solution to a wholly biological inconvenience. Surely such matters are beneath your personal interest?”

He regretted the jab the moment it left his lips. The words rippled out harsher than he intended, brittle as old bone, and instantly the room’s attention sharpened against his flesh.

Lucifer’s eyes glimmered with the savage delight of a child who’d just found a live insect to pull apart. His tongue flicked out, obscenely forked, dabbing at the sugar at the corner of his mouth before he spoke. “Never beneath, dear Alastor. We simply find… anomalies fascinating. And you, my fine velvet stag, are one for the record books.”

Lilith’s smile thinned. “I agree.” She surveyed Alastor, and he felt it—an anatomical inventory, cell by cell, right down to marrow and memory. “Biology. It’s the first instrument of rule, and the last.” Her gaze lingered on his antlers, as if measuring them for mounting.

Lucifer loosened a sleeve, showing a wrist bare save for a scatter of white scars. “You know, Alastor, the only difference between a king and his subjects is that the king remembers who he is between deaths. The rest just keep forgetting.” He stepped closer, until the world seemed divided by the sharp, sweet reek of his aftershave and the chemical tang of Alastor’s blockers eking through his own pores.

Alastor could almost laugh. He’d seen diplomatic negotiations end in blood and fire for lesser provocations, but here in this palace, the ruler’s egos demanded nothing short of theater. He straightened—just a whisker, the minimum needed to break the spell of their proximity, the minimum needed to remind himself that he was not, in fact, prey.

Yet he could feel the cunning satisfaction rise from them in waves, thick as incense. He’d played right into their hands. He’d given them a little bite of resistance to savor, and now they’d start in earnest.

"I wouldn't dare forget myself, Your Highness," Alastor replied, and the words came out as velvet, almost lazy. A lie nestled in a lie; he did not forget himself, it was himself he longed to forget. The sack of instincts and chemistry now running rampant in his veins, rewriting his every urge, every thought. He squared his shoulders, feeling the press of their attention like extra gravity. "You are correct. I am an anomaly," he said. "And my strength lies in remaining so."

A hush falls, a real one, not the staged silences of Hell’s courts, and for a moment, Alastor can feel the weight of the stone at his feet, the pulse of the city’s arteries far below, the infinitesimal shiver of his own blood inside his bones. He’s never hated his body more than in this moment, tangled as it is in chemistry and contradiction, and the thought that these two can see the entirety of him, every genetic betrayal, every seed of failure, makes his skin crawl.

“You will remain an anomaly,” Lilith says, as if reading not just the room but the cracks in his soul. “But an anomaly does not have to be at war with itself.” She circles him again, slow. Her heels barely whisper, yet each step is a new epoch. “We have seen omegas like you before, you know. Not many. Not in this age.”

He bristles. “I would prefer not to share in their company." He almost spits the last word, doesn't care how brittle it sounds. "Nor would I expect I resemble them much." He lets the words hang, heavy as molten lead, certain it’s pointless but unable to stop himself. “Whatever… precedents you imagine, they are not relevant here.”

He wonders, not for the first time, if there's precedent in Hell for an omega who refuses to submit. How many have tried, and what their fate might have been. Judging by the careful interest on the Queen's face, not many, or not many who lasted.

Lucifer twitches the corner of his mouth up, just enough to let a fang show. "You're correct, of course. Most of your ilk burn up, either swiftly or slow. You do not possess the temperament for burning quietly." The words drip with a kind of backhanded admiration, and Alastor feels a flicker of disgust at the compliment, at himself for wanting the approval.

"Unlike those others, though," Lilith murmurs, "you have carved a place here that denies every logic of caste."

Lilith's hand emerges from the trailing edge of her gown, sifting through the air as if conjuring silk. The motion draws Alastor’s attention with the precision of a hook sunk deep. She raises her palm, fingers outstretched, and he senses it immediately a subtle, but insistent, a pressure behind his breastbone, a jolt of recognition that something is happening to him, not merely in the room but in the intricate, miserable machinery of his own body.

She speaks, and each word is a precisely placed scalpel, “You seek to dominate biology with sheer will, but your body is not a radio. It will not respond to tuning, only to transformation. You want a solution?” Her tone is so unruffled, so final, it nearly drops the temperature by another degree. “We have one.”

Hope flutters in Alastor's chest, a fragile thing with paper wings, as Lilith's words promise an end to his predicament. The tension coiled in his shoulders eases slightly, his eternal smile softening at its edges with something almost like relief. Perhaps his suspicions were unfounded, his instincts overly cautious. If the Queen of Hell truly possesses knowledge that could free him from the biological prison of his designation, then this uncomfortable audience will have been worthwhile.

"I would be most grateful for your solution, Your Majesty," he says, inclining his head with a performer's perfect timing. The static around him settles into a gentle hum, like a radio tuned to a frequency of anticipation.

Lilith's eyes glitter with something ancient and calculating as she shares another glance with her husband. The corner of Lucifer's mouth twitches upward, a private amusement dancing across his features before he schools them back to regal interest.

Lilith stepped forward, her ram-like horns casting elegant shadows against the stone, her voice now smooth as pressed velvet.

“While I may or may not possess the means to eliminate your heats entirely,” she began, “I do possess a remedy that will resolve our needs—and yours.”

She stopped just before him, her voice dropping into something low and commanding.

“Become our mate.”

The words drop into the space between them like stones into still water, sending ripples of shock through Alastor's carefully maintained composure. His radio static spikes sharply, a burst of interference that echoes through the throne room. His body stiffens as though struck by lightning, muscles locking into sudden rigidity.

Before he can process a proper response, his legs betray him with a single step backward—a visceral, instinctive rejection that bypasses his usual calculated control. The moment the movement registers in his mind, he sees the shift in the royal couple's expressions. Lucifer's smile thins, the corners of his mouth tightening into something that still resembles joy but carries none of its warmth. Lilith's eyes narrow fractionally, a general observing a shift in the battlefield.

Cold realization washes over Alastor. That single, reflexive step has communicated more than any words could, a direct insult to the rulers of Hell, a rejection that cannot be misinterpreted. His mind races, calculations and consequences spinning through his thoughts like the dials of a safe being cracked.

The monarchs of Hell had made their move.

And Alastor had flinched.

"I—" he begins, his voice maintaining its chipper cadence through sheer force of will, "am flattered beyond words by such an unexpected honor." The lie tastes acrid on his tongue, but he delivers it with the smooth conviction of a lifelong performer. He bowed his head slightly in faux reverence, allowing his antlers to dip in deference.

"Truly, to be considered worthy of such an exalted position is,” He paused, fingers twitching slightly at his sides, “humbling." He grits his teeth to suppress his urge to snarl. "However, I must reiterate my preference for knowledge that would address my heats directly. I’m afraid I was not crafted for companionship, let alone bonds of this… magnitude.” His voice was light, almost musical, but the steel beneath it rang clear. “My nature is... solitary, Your Majesties. I have never sought companionship of any kind, much less the intimacy of a mating bond."

Lucifer steps forward, closing the distance Alastor had tried to establish. The King of Hell moves with the casual grace of absolute authority, each step a reminder that they stand in his domain, under his power.

"My dear Radio Demon," Lucifer says, his voice honeyed and sharp simultaneously, like a razor blade dipped in syrup, "perhaps you misunderstand the generosity of our offer." His eyes, bright and terrible, fix on Alastor's with hypnotic intensity. "We are not merely proposing to address your heats, we are offering you elevation beyond your current station. To stand beside us, to share in our power."

The air between them suddenly grows thick with scent—rich, heady, and overwhelming. Alpha pheromones, deliberately unleashed in a concentrated wave, designed to cloud an omega's judgment, to seduce and subdue. The scent carries notes of lightning-struck earth, ancient wine, and something uniquely hellish, a combination that should, by all natural laws, send any omega to their knees in submission. Designed to seduce, to override resistance, to tame.

Alastor’s body reacted, just not the way they expected. His nose wrinkled. His eyes narrowed. And for the first time, his smile momentarily twisting into a grimace before he can correct it. The smell assaults his senses like an unwelcome intrusion, invasive and presumptuous. Unlike most omegas, who find alpha pheromones enticing or even irresistible, Alastor has only ever experienced them as an offensive imposition, another attempt by others to control him, to influence his behavior through biology rather than reason.

This wasn’t seduction. It was chemical warfare. A mockery of consent dressed in biological chains.

His shadows flared, sharp as knives, their flickering forms cast long against the floor.

"I appreciate the... clarification," he manages, fighting the urge to cover his nose or step away again. "And the accompanying demonstration."

His voice was still smooth, but the edges were crystalline now, echoing with suppressed power. A fine transparent tremor of shadows ran through the floor beneath him, reacting to his rising pulse.

“However,” he added, gaze unwavering, “my answer remains the same.”

He inhaled slowly, then met both of their eyes.

“I decline.”

A stillness fell.

There was still the ever-present hum of ancient flame, the distant murmur of heat-fed stone, the low throb of something vast and alive in the walls, but a stillness of intent, of atmosphere. Like the moment before a beast lunges. Like the pause before the executioner’s axe falls.

Something dangerous flashes in Lucifer's eyes, a glimpse of the celestial being who once challenged God himself, the arrogance and fury that led to his fall. That flash of wrath didn’t erupt, it simply existed, vast and heavy, before sinking again beneath the surface like a leviathan diving back into the depths.

But the damage was done. Alastor’s pulse spiked. Despite the oppressive heat of the throne room, cold crept down his spine.

Danger. The word pulses in Alastor's mind like a warning beacon. Not the usual danger that permeates Hell, the constant threat of violence and betrayal that is simply part of existence in the afterlife but something far more personal and immediate. His instincts scream at him to run, to teleport away, to summon his shadows and fight. Prey response, his mind supplies with bitter self-recrimination. Omega response.

He takes another step back, unable to entirely suppress the urge to retreat from the menacing intent radiating from the King of Hell. His hand twitches, summoning his microphone cane back from wherever he had banished it earlier. The familiar weight of it materializes in his grip, a small comfort in the rapidly deteriorating situation.

The cane rises between them, a horizontal barrier that seems laughably inadequate against the power of Hell's rulers, yet Alastor holds it steady. He hates this, hates feeling cornered, hates the omega instincts surfacing despite decades of suppression, hates most of all the knowledge that he has miscalculated terribly in coming here.

His heel connects with something solid and warm not the cold marble of the floor, but the soft fabric of a gown. Alastor spins around with preternatural speed, his static aura flaring with surprise and alarm.

Lilith stands behind him, though she had been in front of him mere seconds ago. Her smile mirrors her husband's beautiful and terrible, promising pleasure and pain in equal measure.

She’d moved without sound, without shift in air or flicker of shadow. She had simply... appeared behind him. The scent of her, honeyed rot, dark magic, and sun-baked parchment, brushed against his senses, more invasive than any spell.

He was boxed in with his back now to the thrones he had approached with such careful dignity mere minutes ago. Not just between two bodies, but between centuries of power. He’d walked into this chamber with dignity and autonomy.  He now stood on the cusp of being stripped of both. They have maneuvered their prey exactly where they want him, and the calculation in their matching smiles suggests this outcome was never in doubt.

“Why would you?” Lucifer asked, head tilting slightly, voice almost gentle. “You came to us seeking freedom. From your biology. From your suffering. We offer that and more. Sanctuary. Prestige. Protection.”

Alastor’s eyes flashed—no longer with fear, but with indignation. He ground out one word:

“Cage.”

Lilith stepped closer behind him, her voice a smooth contrast to her husband's warmth.

“No,” she said. “A pedestal.”

The room breathed again—if such a place could breathe. The chandeliers above gave a lazy sway, their chains groaning. The golden veins in the stone beneath Alastor’s shoes pulsed faintly with heat and energy.

Still, he stood tall.

“I didn’t come here to be bought,” he said, voice low, coiled, venom-laced.

Lilith's lips curved in a smile that belonged to neither woman nor monster, but queen.

“Then lucky for you,” she purred, “we’re not offering to buy you.”

Lucifer took one final step forward. The air warped with it.

His proximity wasn’t heat, it was pressure. Gravity. Celestial weight pressing inward from all angles. His power was raw, and old, and meant to be obeyed.

“We’re keeping you.”

For a moment, no one breathed.

Then—

“I must decline,” Alastor said again, this time with cutting finality. Power radiates from him in crimson waves, a reminder that while he may be cornered, the Radio Demon is far from helpless. His reputation, built on blood and terror, was not earned through submission.

Lucifer's eyes flash with something between amusement and irritation, a dangerous combination from the Morningstar. He takes another deliberate step forward, forcing Alastor to press his cane more firmly between them. The microphone at its end emits a low, warning hum.

He was an omega.

But he was also Alastor.

And he had not been broken yet.

“You forget yourselves,” he said softly, eyes burning with cold fire. “I didn’t rise to power through mating rituals or alliances. I didn’t beg. I didn’t kneel.”

He bared his teeth, lips curling into a snarl—a show of threat.

“You want to make me yours? You’d better be prepared to bleed for it.”

"How entertaining," Lucifer says, his voice light but his eyes sharp as flint. "You continue to resist, even when you must sense the futility." He gestures expansively, the movement encompassing the entirety of his domain. "We are not simply powerful demons, dear Radio Demon. We are Hell itself."

With each word, the royal couple advances, a synchronized predacious movement that forces Alastor to retreat further, his back moving closer to the dais with the thrones. His cane remains horizontal between them, a fragile boundary that all three know can be broken with a thought from either royal. Yet they allow it to remain, as though humoring a child's attempt at defense.

Lucifer gestures broadly, encompassing the vast obsidian hall, the towering windows that opened into a burning sky, the throne of horns and black marble. “We are not mere rulers, Alastor. We are the law. We are the structure this world clings to. We are the architects of its order.”

Lilith’s approach was quieter, subtler yet no less predatory. She moved with the grace of something venomous, her gown trailing like smoke behind her.

Lilith stopped just short of the cane’s reach, her eyes sweeping over Alastor with cool calculation.

“I’m impressed,” she murmured her head tilted, blonde hair flowing like liquid gold around her shoulders. “Most omegas would be trembling by now. But you're still standing, even after that little wave of... scent,” she says, tapping one elegant finger against her chin

She turned slightly toward her husband, lips curving.

"Didn't you say you had modified his medication to help with that?"

The words grip Alastor tightly around his heart causing it to leap into his throat. His static aura stutters, a momentary disruption in his broadcast that betrays his shock more clearly than any change in his expression could. The implications cascade through his mind like falling dominoes, connecting pieces of a puzzle he hadn't known existed.

“What... did you say?”

The question escapes before he can filter it, his usual calculated responses abandoned in the face of this revelation. His voice remained even, but the strain beneath it was audible. Something low, dangerous, and rising.

“You came seeking a solution,” Lilith replied silkily, “for a problem you believed to be biological. You wanted us to fix what you thought was broken inside you.”

She stepped closer—just a hair. Close enough that the gold flecks in her crimson irises became visible.

“Let us save you the search.”

Her voice dropped into velvet-soft whisper.

“It was us.”

Alastor froze.

A thousand calculations surged through his mind in a heartbeat. The erratic effectiveness of his suppressants. The last heat nearly unendurable. The strange taste in the formula. The delays in shipments. The scent bleeding through. He had blamed inferior suppliers. Weak manufacturing. Time. Magic decay.

But no. No.

“Oh, did we forget to mention?” Lucifer said lightly, with a lazy wave of one hand as if apologizing for overlooking a party favor. His grin gleamed. “We’ve had our eyes on you for quite some time, Alastor.”

“A very long time,” Lilith agreed, her gaze gleaming. "You've been quite the fascinating subject of observation. So powerful, so controlled—" her eyes flick to his cane, still held defensively between them, "—usually."

"Your blockers," Lucifer continues, picking up his wife's thread with practiced ease, "have been receiving special attention from our personal pharmacist. We couldn't have you suffering withdrawal shock by removing them entirely. That would be cruel." His tone suggests this consideration was an act of mercy rather than manipulation. "So we've been gradually adjusting the formula. Helping your body remember what it is."

“You’ve been tampering with my medication?” Alastor growled. His hands wind tighter around his cane. “You interfered with my autonomy. My body.” His voice dropped, venom curling through each syllable. “You manipulated me.”

“No,” Lilith corrected gently, her voice like warm velvet. “We revealed your truth. Your instincts were never the problem. Suppression was.”

"Tampering is such an ugly word," Lilith replies, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "We prefer to think of it as... preparation. Easing you into your new role without causing unnecessary distress."

The sheer audacity of it! The violation of his autonomy, the months of deliberate manipulation, sends a surge of fury through Alastor that momentarily eclipses even his caution. His static flares, shadows gathering at his feet like living pools of darkness, his antlers growing fractionally longer as his power responds to his rage.

“You’ve always been extraordinary,” Lucifer said, eyes glowing with a fondness that sent a chill down Alastor’s spine. “You know that. It’s why we chose you.”

Alastor’s expression didn’t falter, his mask of civility remaining in place, but deep in his eyes, something cracked. Behind the glint of practiced charm was raw revulsion, seething fury, and beneath it, an ember of fear.

The audacity.

The scope of their violation crashed down on him like falling stone. Months, no, likely years of subtle sabotage, the slow dismantling of his defenses from within. The betrayal was so total, so intimate, it scorched.

His shadow surged in response, raising behind him arms stretched wide, it’s grin full of green teeth, an expression of cruel anger. Darkness crawled across the floor in living rivulets, writhing like coiled serpents. His antlers flared subtly, green symbols pulsing in and out of existence round him.

“My new role,” he repeated, his voice razor-sharp, his eyes becoming raido dials, his sclera going black. “Which I have explicitly declined.” His voice loud and booming in the large space.

But the Morningstars merely exchange amused glances, entirely unintimidated by his display. They continue their advance, forcing him to retreat another step.

"You misunderstand your position," Lucifer says, his voice deceptively gentle. "Your decline has been... noted. And overruled."

Another step back. The edge of the dais presses against Alastor's heels.

"We don't often extend such invitations," Lilith adds, her eyes never leaving his face. “In truth...” she paused, her eyes drinking in his tense form, “you are the first in millennia we’ve found worthy. A rare honor, Radio Demon."

His next step backward finds not floor but empty air as he reaches the elevation of the dais. Alastor stumbles slightly, his perfect poise disrupted by the unexpected change in level. The momentary imbalance is all they need. Lucifer moves with blinding speed, a flash of white and red that ends with his hand pressed against Alastor's chest, not forcefully, but with inexorable pressure.

The touch, light as it is, sends Alastor falling backward, his usually impeccable grace abandoned in the face of the King of Hell's power. He lands not on the hard stone of the dais, but on something soft and yielding—a seat that catches him perfectly, as though designed for his exact measurements.

His fingers clutch the armrests for balance, and as they do, his gaze drops to the intricate carvings etched into the dark wood. Antlers curl along the arms, intertwined with the arcane symbols that map his own body, rendered with meticulous care. Confusion flashes in his eyes as realization dawns.

He is not seated on one of the royal thrones but on a third, one that had not been there moments before, positioned precisely between the imposing seats of the King and Queen. Though less grand in scale, it bears the same regal craftsmanship and echoes his personal iconography, woven seamlessly into the royal design.

A throne made for him. Prepared for him. Waiting.

Alastor looks up to find Lucifer and Lilith standing before him, no longer advancing but gazing down with identical expressions of satisfaction. Their smiles match his own in breadth but carry none of the forced quality of his rictus grin. Their smiles are genuine, victorious, the expressions of predators who have finally cornered their chosen prey after a long and patient hunt.

“Welcome home, consort,” Lucifer declares, his voice thick with ownership and dark promise.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” Lilith adds softly, her fingers tracing the carved antlers on the armrest as though sealing the bond.

Alastor sits stiffly upon the throne fashioned for him without his knowledge—a physical testament to the trap woven long before his request for audience. The cruel truth settles over him like a heavy cloak: they never intended to cure his torment. They engineered its escalation. His rejection was meaningless from the start. His fate was decided long ago.

And now he is caught, ensnared between their thrones, a prisoner and prize alike, his own personal seat in this realm of shadows and contracts, awaiting his reluctant reign.

Chapter Text

The throne beneath Alastor cradles his form with horrifying perfection, each curve and angle designed to fit him as though measured from his sleeping body. His fingers dig into the armrests carved with his own symbols, the wood cool and unyielding beneath his touch. The static around him pulses erratically, mirroring the frantic rhythm of his thoughts as the realization settles into his bones—he has walked willingly into a trap designed specifically, meticulously for him.

Lucifer and Lilith tower over him, their matching smiles dripping with satisfaction. The throne room suddenly feels smaller, the air thicker, as though the very walls of Hell conspire to keep him contained within this moment of humiliation.

"You seem surprised," Lucifer remarks, leaning forward to tap one finger against the intricate carving of antlers on the armrest. "Did you truly believe we would be unprepared for your visit? That the rulers of Hell would not recognize an opportunity when presented with one so... perfect?"

Something in Alastor snaps—a thread of propriety pulled too tight finally breaking under the strain. His smile stretches wider, sharper, but the careful performance of civility falls away like a discarded mask. Etiquette and protocol be damned. The Radio Demon answers to no one.

Without warning, his form liquefies, physical substance giving way to writhing shadow. The throne that had embraced him now clutches at empty air as Alastor's essence pours away from it like spilled ink, racing across the marble floor in a desperate bid for freedom. The shadows move with unnatural speed toward the massive doors at the far end of the throne room, carrying with them the faint echo of radio static.

"Oh, how predictable," Lilith sighs, her voice following him across the expanse of the room. "They always run."

A crack of energy splits the air, white-hot and vengeful. Lightning, or something ancient and more terrible, strikes the shadow pool that is Alastor. The impact sends electric agony coursing through his formless being, forcing a scream that manifests as distorted feedback. His shadow form convulses, unable to maintain cohesion under the celestial assault.

Alastor materializes mid-air, his body jerking as though puppet strings have been violently yanked. He falls to the marble floor in an undignified heap, limbs twitching with residual energy. His clothes smoke slightly, the scent of ozone and burned fabric mingling with his usual scent of radio tubes and old blood. The pain claws through him, bright and immediate, but worse is the indignity—to be struck down so easily, as though swatting an insect.

Through watering eyes, he sees Lucifer approaching, hand still crackling with remnants of the power he wielded so casually. The fallen angel's smile has taken on a harder edge, amusement giving way to mild irritation.

Survival instinct overrides pain. Alastor pushes himself upright, his movements fluid despite the lingering tremors in his muscles. His eyes dart frantically, assessing escape routes with the desperate clarity of cornered prey.

The door. It's his only chance.

With preternatural speed, Alastor darts toward the massive entrance, his form blurring with the velocity of his movement. His hand closes around the ornate handle, cold metal against his palm—

Locked. Of course it's locked.

A sound like tearing silk alerts him to danger approaching from behind. Alastor throws himself sideways just as Lilith's claws rake through the space where he stood, leaving deep gouges in the ancient wood of the door. Her eyes glow with predatory excitement, her perfect posture abandoned in favor of a hunter's crouch. The Queen of Hell moves with fluid grace, her limbs seeming to elongate as she stalks toward him.

"You're only making this harder for yourself," she purrs, her voice honey-sweet and razor-sharp. "Though I must admit, the chase is... invigorating."

Alastor backs away, his gaze darting around the room, cataloging and discarding potential escape routes with desperate efficiency. His attention catches on the towering stained glass windows that line one wall of the throne room. Scenes of Hell's creation depicted in jewel-toned glass and beyond them, open air.

Without hesitation, he turns and sprints toward the nearest window, summoning his power as he runs. Black tentacles erupt from the floor around him, writhing appendages of his own making that surge forward at his mental command. They lash against the stained glass, splintering the ancient artistry into thousands of glittering shards that rain down like deadly confetti.

Wind rushes through the jagged opening, carrying with it the scent of brimstone and ash from the world outside. Alastor leaps, his body sailing toward freedom, his hands already reaching for the broken edges of the window frame—

Something sinuous and powerful wraps around his waist, yanking him backward with merciless strength. More tentacles coil around his arms and legs, hauling him back from the precipice of escape. These tentacles are different from his, paler, slicker, with a faint luminescence that pulses in time with Lilith's heartbeat.

The Queen's appendages fling him backward with casual cruelty. Alastor's body skids across the marble floor, leaving a trail of scattered glass shards in his wake before coming to rest at the foot of the dais he had so recently fled. Pain blooms across his back and shoulders, but it's nothing compared to the hollow ache of desperation that expands in his chest.

He looks up to see Lilith standing by the shattered window, her tentacles withdrawing back beneath the hem of her gown, her expression one of mild disappointment, as though he'd failed to perform a simple task correctly.

"Really now," Lucifer says, approaching with measured steps that echo through the vast chamber. His voice carries the weariness of a parent dealing with a particularly obstinate child. "You're being unnecessarily dramatic about all this. Must we restrain you properly? Chain you up like a common sinner?" He shakes his head, blonde hair catching the light from the broken window. "That would be so... undignified. For all of us."

Alastor pushes himself up, glass tinkling from his clothing as he rises. His smile ripples as his lips curl into a snarl around his ever sharp teeth. His static aura crackles with barely contained rage and the first tendrils of something he refuses to acknowledge as fear.

Alastor rises to his full height, straightening his tattered coat with a jerky motion that betrays the trembling fury coursing through him. His static aura crackles violently around him, no longer the gentle background hum of a well-tuned radio but the harsh, grating interference of a signal fighting to maintain clarity through a storm. The smile on his face stretches to painful proportions, teeth bared in what no one would mistake for joy.

"I decline," he says, each syllable precise and cutting, "your grotesque offer." His voice maintains its radio host cadence, though now it carries the distortion of a broadcast from the depths of rage. "Contrary to whatever delusions of grandeur you harbor, you cannot simply claim a demon because you desire them. I am not some trinket to be collected, not some trophy to adorn your royal menagerie."

Lucifer's expression darkens, the eternal smile thinning at its edges. "Mind your tongue, Radio Demon. You forget to whom you speak."

"Oh, I know precisely to whom I speak," Alastor retorts, his antlers growing slightly as his power responds to his emotions. "It takes a special kind of tyrant to lace medicine and call it mercy, or to build a throne and expect gratitude from the pinned. In my time, we called such behavior deranged." He gives a theatrical bow, mockingly formal. "Your Majesties."

Lilith's eyes narrow, her posture shifting subtly into something more predatory. "Such spirit," she murmurs, but the admiration in her voice only serves to fuel Alastor's indignation.

His gaze darts to the side, noticing for the first time a smaller door partially hidden behind one of the thrones. A service entrance, perhaps, or a private passage—it doesn't matter what lies beyond, only that it offers an alternative to the main doors.

Without warning, Alastor dashes across the throne room, his movements a blur of red and black. The royal couple reacts immediately, but he has the advantage of surprise and desperation. As he reaches the door, he doesn't waste time testing the handle. He summons a surge of power, directing it through his palm into the ancient wood. The door explodes from its hinges with a satisfying crack, splinters flying in all directions as the barrier between him and potential freedom disintegrates.

Beyond lies a hallway, dimly lit by floating orbs of hellfire suspended in ornate sconces. The corridor stretches away into shadow, its walls adorned with portraits of demons long forgotten, their painted eyes seeming to follow his desperate flight. The floor beneath his feet transitions from marble to plush crimson carpet that muffles his footsteps as he runs, the soft surface almost seeming to pull at his shoes as though reluctant to allow his escape.

Behind him, he hears the musical laugh of Lilith and the soft curse of Lucifer. Their footsteps echo his own, the sound growing neither closer nor more distant, a terrible indication that they pace him perfectly, allowing him to run but never to gain ground. They're toying with him, he realizes with a surge of humiliation that creates a crackling cascade of claustrophobic chills to crawl under his skin. The Radio Demon, reduced to entertainment for bored royalty.

He will not be their plaything. He will not submit. He pushes himself faster, his breath coming in controlled gasps as he navigates the twisting corridor. The hallway seems to stretch endlessly before him, occasionally branching into smaller passages that he ignores—better to maintain his course than risk becoming lost in the labyrinthine palace.

A glance over his shoulder reveals Lucifer and Lilith in pursuit, neither hurried nor concerned. The King of Hell's eyes glow with amusement, while his Queen's face bears an expression of predatory anticipation.

Panic, foreign and unwelcome, begins to claw at the edges of his mind. This is not how the Radio Demon operates, not with fear, not with desperate flight. He is calculation and control, terror and power. Yet here he runs, fleeing through the palace of Hell's rulers like a common sinner escaping judgment.

Ahead, the hallway widens into a small antechamber. Moonlight filters through another stained glass window at the far end, this one depicting Lucifer's fall from grace in shades of amber and crimson. The window is tall and narrow, barely wide enough for a body to pass through, but it offers the tantalizing promise of the world beyond.

No more finesse, no more strategy. Alastor makes his decision in an instant. He will simply hurl himself through the glass, accepting whatever cuts and injuries result from the impact. Better to bleed than to be captured, better to fall than to be caged.

He lowers his shoulder and accelerates toward the window, his body tensing for the impact of glass against flesh—

A figure materializes before him, emerging from nowhere with the sudden completeness of a radio switching on. Lilith stands directly in his path, her expression one of patient expectation, as though she'd been waiting for him all along.

Alastor collides with her at full speed, expecting to knock her backwards or at least disturb her perfect posture. Instead, it's like running into a wall of granite. The impact jolts through his body, sending him staggering backward with a disorienting sense of vertigo. Lilith doesn't move an inch, her slender form somehow immovable as a mountain.

Recovery is instant—it has to be. Alastor pivots sharply, preparing to dart in the opposite direction, away from the Queen and back the way he came. His eyes lock with Lucifer's approaching form, the King's casual stroll belying the predatory intent in his gaze.

The floor beneath Alastor’s feet rippled like disturbed water, the rich carpet splitting apart to reveal pale, bioluminescent tentacles unfurling from the abyss below. They surged upward in a frenzy, like monstrous vines clawing toward sunlight, and coiled around his ankles with bone-crushing strength. More followed, winding higher—around his calves, thighs, and waist—until he was rooted in place, his every instinct screaming at the unnatural touch.

"No!" The word tears from his throat, undignified in its naked desperation. His own shadows rise in defense, forming bladed edges that hack at Lilith's tentacles. Each strike severed a pale limb, but Lilith’s power was inexorable: for every tentacle that fell, they simply re-form, the Queen's power overwhelming his own with casual superiority.

Snarling, Alastor summoned his own tendrils, black as void, lashing from his back to wrench Lilith’s away. He tore one free, only for two more to seize the same limb. The Queen’s tentacles multiplied, meeting his with terrifying precision, binding his shadows in an ever-tightening web.

A burst of static roared through the chamber as he lashed out, his back-born tendrils flailing in a storm of black serpents. From the ground, more of his own tentacles erupted, striking and grappling with hers in chaotic fury. But the strain of controlling so many at once gnawed at him. His movements faltered, the strength in his back-born limbs faltering first, their grip loosening as his focus slipped.

Lilith advanced, her power pressing down like a physical weight. Her tentacles split and multiplied with uncanny dexterity, branching like skeletal fingers yet losing none of their crushing force. One by one, they subdued his limbs, curling around his own tendrils and pinning them in place with unyielding strength.

Alastor retracted the serpentine limbs from his back, drawing them back into himself to focus his energy on the writhing battle at his feet. For a fleeting moment, he carved out a sliver of space, jerking violently against his bindings. He even lunged forward, snapping his teeth at a pale tentacle near his face, his grin twisted into a feral snarl.

But it was useless. Every escape attempt only birthed more restraints. Lilith’s power swarmed him like a living ocean, and soon his body was locked in place, every limb and weaponized shadow pinned beneath her growing lattice of pale, gleaming coils.

Lucifer arrives, standing beside his wife with the satisfied air of a hunter whose prey has finally exhausted itself in futile flight. "Are you quite finished?" he asks, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his immaculate sleeve.

The tentacles tighten around Alastor, lifting him slightly so that his feet barely brush the carpet. His microphone cane materializes in his hand, a reflexive summoning of his favored weapon, but before he can wield it, a tentacle around his wrist, squeezes until his fingers involuntarily release their grip.

"Release me immediately, you self-important, pompous celestial reject!" Alastor snarls, his voice crackling with static interference as his composure finally shatters completely. "You deranged, entitled parasites! You cannot do this!"

Another tentacle coils around his other arm, pulling it wide so that he's splayed between them, vulnerable and exposed. Still more appendages wrap around his torso, constricting his ability to draw breath for further insults. He continues undeterred.

"I will destroy everything you've built," he promises through strained breathing, the words hissing between his clenched teeth, his smile now a grimace of defiance. "I will tear down your palace stone by stone. I will broadcast your humiliation to every corner of Hell. I demand that you release me this instant!"

Lilith tilts her head, regarding him with something like fondness. "Such creativity in his threats," she comments to Lucifer, as though Alastor were a particularly clever pet performing tricks. "I can see why you were so insistent we have him."

Lucifer's smile widens as he steps closer to their captive. "And to think, this is only the beginning of our eternity together."

Alastor thrashes against the pale constraints, his body twisting with serpentine grace despite the crushing pressure of Lilith's tentacles. His teeth snap at the nearest appendage, jaws closing with enough force to sever flesh, but the Queen's manifestations prove resilient beyond normal demonic matter. The tentacle between his teeth yields like rubber before reforming, unblemished and unharmed, while Alastor is left with the sickly-sweet taste of ancient power coating his tongue.

"Oh, he bites," Lilith observes with delighted amusement, her eyes widening slightly. "How wonderful. I do so enjoy a little sharpness in a mate."

With a fluid gesture of her hand, she reconfigures her tentacles, the pale appendages sliding over Alastor's form with invasive intimacy. They coil around his neck, firm enough to remind him of their presence but not tight enough to restrict his breathing. More tentacles wrap around his torso, binding his arms to his sides and continuing down to his hips, creating a seamless cocoon of restraint from shoulders to thighs.

"There," she says, satisfaction evident in her voice. "Much better. Now we can have a civilized conversation."

Alastor’s radio static roared to life, a violent crackle that reverberated through the chamber as green arcane glyphs flared and sparked around him. His broadcast frequency warped and distorted, a cacophony of rage laced with helplessness. The grin carved its way higher across his face, splitting at the edges into glowing green stitches, while the radio dials in his eyes spun in a frenzied blur.

His gaze flicked sharply between Lucifer and Lilith, unease coiling in his chest as their twin stares swept over his bound form with cold appraisal. A snarl tore from his throat as he kicked out, claws unsheathing, raking desperately for purchase against the pale coils pinning him. Yet every strike met unyielding flesh, Lilith’s tentacles constricting tighter, denying him even the smallest freedom of movement.

The hunger in their eyes is unmistakable, not the simple hunger of lust, though that element certainly exists, but something deeper and more terrifying. The hunger of collectors eyeing a prized acquisition, of rulers annexing valuable territory, of ancient beings who have found something novel after millennia of ennui.

"I will never be what you want," Alastor hisses. "I have no interest in mating, in pair bonds, in any of it. You waste your time and damage your dignity with this farce."

Lucifer steps closer, his head tilting to study Alastor with clinical interest. "You misunderstand what we want, dear Radio Demon. We want you, exactly as you are. Your power, your intellect, your resistance to conventional desires." His smile widens fractionally. "Your defiance is not a deterrent. It's part of the appeal."

The words strike Alastor with unexpected force, sending a cold realization through him. They don't want submission, at least, not the mindless surrender most alphas demand of omegas. They want him intact, his personality and power preserved, just redirected to their purposes. The thought is somehow more terrifying than the alternative.

Panic, raw and primal, surges through him. The emotion is so foreign, so contrary to his carefully maintained control, that it overwhelms his defenses. Before he can prevent it, a sound escapes him, high and thin, emanating from deep in his throat. The omega stress whine reverberates through the hallway, a sound he has never allowed himself to make before, not even alone during his worst heats.

The effect on the royal couple is immediate and unsettling. Their predatory stances soften, their expressions shifting from hunger to something that mimics concern with uncanny precision. They move to either side of him, their hands suddenly gentle as they stroke his hair, his shoulders, his face.

"Shh, it's alright," Lilith murmurs, her voice pitched to a soothing tone that sends unwelcome shivers down Alastor's spine. "You're safe now. No need for distress."

"We've prepared everything for your comfort," Lucifer adds, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from Alastor's forehead with disturbing tenderness. "The finest materials for your nest: Woven silks from Lust’s finest ateliers, pelts from beasts that roam Wrath’s frozen canyons, pillows stuffed with down from the rarest avian fiends. Even a few treasures from our own vaults—personal relics to make you feel… safe.”

Lilith nods, her endless blonde hair spilling over her shoulder to brush against Alastor's cheek. "And we've already arranged to have your radio tower relocated to the palace grounds. You'll have your own space, your own territory within ours. We understand the importance of maintaining your independence."

The whine dies in Alastor's throat, replaced by a growl of renewed anger. "You understand nothing," he spits, jerking his head away from their touch. "I don't want your silks or your furs. I don't want a nest in your palace. I want to be released immediately!"

"Still so resistant," Lilith sighs, but there's no real disappointment in her voice, only patience, as though she were dealing with a child's tantrum rather than the legitimate rage of a powerful demon. "Perhaps a different approach would help."

With another gesture, her tentacles reconfigure once more. They lift Alastor higher, then bend him backward at the waist, positioning him at an angle that places his face level with Lucifer's. The position is vulnerable and exposed, forcing him to look up into the King's glittering eyes.

"Thank you, my dear," Lucifer says to his wife, appreciation evident in his voice. "Always so thoughtful."

Alastor opens his mouth for another blistering tirade, but the words die on his tongue as Lucifer's hand reaches toward his head. With delicate precision, the fallen angel's fingers find the tufted ear at the side of Alastor's head, stroking the sensitive fur with maddening gentleness.

Simultaneously, Lilith's slender fingers find his other ear, mirroring her husband's actions with perfect synchronicity. The dual sensation sends an involuntary shudder through Alastor's body, a wave of unwelcome calm beginning to seep through his limbs despite his mental resistance.

"Stop that," he demands, but the words lack their previous venom, his voice betraying him by softening at the edges. The stroking of his ears, a gesture no one has dared attempt in the decades since his arrival in Hell, triggers responses he cannot control. His body recognizes the alphas’ touch as comfort even as his mind rejects it as invasion.

He kicks out in futile rage, his legs the only part of him still free to move. The action is ineffective but communicates his continued resistance, his refusal to surrender to the biological responses they trigger in him.

"How much you hate this," Lilith observes, her voice a silken whisper close to his ear. "And yet, see how your body knows what it needs? How it responds to proper care?" Her fingers continue their gentle ministrations, never ceasing despite his attempts to jerk away. "We will be so good to you, Alastor. Better than you can imagine."

"What our omega needs," Lucifer says, the possessive pronoun falling from his lips with casual ownership, "is rest. A proper nap in his new nest will help settle his mind. The first day in a new territory is always overwhelming, even for one as powerful as our Radio Demon."

Alastor opens his mouth to object to this infantilizing treatment, to remind them that he is the terror of the Eastern District, not some pet to be coddled and put down for naps, but Lilith's tentacles shift again before he can speak. They lift him higher, repositioning his body to a more natural posture while maintaining their unbreakable hold.

"Come along then," Lilith says, her tentacles carrying Alastor effortlessly as she turns to lead the way down the corridor. "Let's show our new consort to his quarters."

Lucifer falls into step beside them, his hand still absently stroking one of Alastor's ears as they walk, as though the gesture is already a habit rather than a newly discovered method of control. "You'll find we've thought of everything," he promises, his voice pleasant and conversational, as though they were escorting an honored guest rather than a captive. "Every comfort, every necessity, all arranged to your preferences. We've been studying you for quite some time, after all."

The tentacles carry Alastor down the hallway, following the royal couple deeper into the palace. His struggle continues, but with decreasing intensity as the continued stimulation of his ears sends waves of unwanted drowsiness through him. His mind remains sharp with fury and calculation, already planning his next escape attempt, but his body betrays him with each passing moment, responding to the alpha touches despite his conscious rejection.

Chapter Text

The palace corridors stretch before them like the gullet of some ancient beast, swallowing Alastor deeper into its ornate innards with each passing moment. Lilith's tentacles carry him with effortless grace, their pale luminescence casting ghostly patterns on the gilded walls that seem to watch his humiliation with painted eyes. The pressure around his limbs neither increases nor decreases, maintaining that perfect balance between restraint and comfort that speaks of calculated control rather than brute force.

Alastor twists against the restraints, his movements becoming more frantic as the drowsiness from the ear-stroking begins to fade. His static aura flares around him in jagged bursts, like lightning striking in a storm of his own making. The tentacles absorb each pulse of power without loosening their grip, his magic seeming to dissipate into their pale substance like water into sand.

"Let me GO!" he hisses, teeth bared. His antlers grow slightly with his anger, the points sharpening as they extend upward in a threatening display rendered pointless by his captivity. His words ricochet through the hallway, but the only answer he gets is a sympathetic click of Lucifer’s tongue and another humiliating head-pat.

Lilith ignores his demand, maintaining a brisk pace, her heels clicking a steady warning down the marble. The tentacles modulate their grip, pinning him tighter for the next several steps, as if in rebuke. Alastor feels every shudder of his frame translated through their wrap, each microscopic resistance neutralized, flattened, cataloged. As infuriating as it is, it’s almost clinical—efficient, impersonal, not the petty cruelty he’s come to expect from Hell’s petty tyrants.

He thrashes in the queen’s grip, every muscle coiling until his core aches. The tentacle around his waist tightens in reflex, drawing a hiss from him, but Lilith only laughs—a genuine, delighted sound that vibrates through the binding itself. The sound of his own blood rushes in his ears, drowning out even the undertones of infernal conversation happening between the two alphas as they maneuver him around a corner toward a spiral staircase lined in red velvet and gold. Lucifer’s hand is still tangled in his hair, slow strokes that set every nerve in his scalp on edge. The possessive repetition of it is maddening. He can’t decide if he wants to rip the hand away or lean into the faint ache of claws against his head.

He wants to bite her. The idea flashes through Alastor’s mind with a clarity and brightness that nearly chokes him—like static shrilling in his own skull. Not in defense, not even in dominance—just to break the rhythm, to force some kind of reaction that isn’t this purring, patronizing amusement.

But she is demon royalty, and he is… he’s in her grasp. Nothing good comes from biting the hand that cradles the back of your skull quite so easily.

They reach the base of the velvet staircase, and Lilith doesn’t even pause; her tentacles simply lift Alastor over the first step and deposit him on the landing like luggage. Lucifer follows, hand never leaving Alastor’s scalp, his thumb tracing small, infuriating circles at the crown while he murmurs something inaudible to his wife. The staircase curves in a slow, dizzying arc upward, glittering with sconces shaped like insect carapaces filled with burning, blue-white fire. Above them, a painted dome opens into a sky of whirling glass panels, the outside world a swirl of acid fog and furnace red.

Halfway up, the tentacles loosen just enough to allow Alastor’s feet to drag along the carpet. The sensation is perversely pleasant, each pile of the fabric catching at his boots and softening the jolt from every stair. He focuses on the feeling, tries to ignore the pull of hands and coils and the humiliation.

He reaches to the rail of the staircase when the tentacles allow it, digging his claws into the lacquered cherry wood hard enough to gouge splinters beneath the varnish. It's not a weapon; nothing is, here. But the simple fact of marking their world with his damage soothes something feral that aches in his chest.

He keeps count of each stair, a tally of humiliation. Seventy-two painted lips on the banister, seventy-three, there’s a chip in the gold leaf. The repetition is a lifeline—a thing he can control, can own, in a moment when every inch of his body is on display, catalogued by the Queen’s haptic scrutiny and the King’s insufferable caress. He wants to spit. He wants to scream, crack the domed glass with a surge of microwaved hatred, but every time he gathers the focus to channel something, the tentacle at his ribs gives a quick, percussive squeeze, knocking the air from his lungs and the magic from his hands.

It’s almost enough to lull him into a trance, the friction of velvet and the lull of bright, mathematical rhythm—step, coil, step, drag. But then Lucifer’s voice cuts back through, sharper now, holding a note of warning.

“Don’t be stubborn, Alastor. You’re not the first to despise the Throne’s instincts.” The King leans down, his mouth close and breath perfumed with frost and old rose. “But you will find there’s no use in hating a hunger you didn’t choose.”

Alastor wants to spit in the man’s face. He settles for a sickly-sweet smile instead, even as his body’s involuntary shiver betrays him at the word hunger. “I prefer my appetites unmediated, sire,” he says, through his teeth. “I don’t take kindly to diets forced upon me.”

The top of the stairs delivers them into a warren of halls, thick carpet and dead air swallowing the echoes of Alastor’s defiance, as though even sound dared not linger here. Paintings lined the walls—Hell’s bloody history rendered in gold frames—facing tall, flawless mirrors that reflected their march. In the glass, his reflection is a monstrous doll, pale and wild-eyed and caught mid-twist in Lilith’s embrace, antlers a furious candelabra above his skull.

The tentacles ease him down, depositing him with mock gentleness onto the plush velvet runner. Lucifer moves ahead to unlock the double doors before them, producing a key from the inner pocket of his jacket—a gesture so theatrical it almost reads as parody, except for the grave finality of the click.

Lucifer pushes the doors open with a casual flick of his wrist, revealing the royal bedroom beyond. The space that unfolds before Alastor's unwilling gaze is vast and opulent, large enough to host a gathering of Hell's most elite demons with room to spare. Vaulted ceilings arch overhead, painted with frescoes depicting the Fall in exquisite, terrible detail. Chandeliers crafted from the bones of ancient creatures hang suspended, their crystals casting prismatic light across the room.

Lilith’s tentacles unfurl but do not fully release; they merely rearrange themselves into a neat double helix around his upper arms and waist, preventing any sudden lunges for freedom as she guides him through the threshold.

The focal point of the chamber, impossible to ignore, is the bed. It dominates the space like an island in a sea of luxury, a massive expanse that could comfortably fit seven full-sized demons. The frame appears to be carved from a single piece of obsidian, polished to a mirror shine and inlaid with veins of gold that pulse with subtle light. Atop it, a mountain of pillows and blankets has been arranged with careful precision, forming what Alastor recognizes with growing horror as a nest.

Massive windows line one wall, leading to a balcony that overlooks the kingdom of Hell spreading out below like a dark garden. Lucifer moves toward these windows, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet. With deliberate movements, he closes each set of glass doors, the locks clicking into place with ominous finality.

"There," he says, turning back to face the room. "No distractions."

Lilith glides to the bed, her movements fluid and graceful. She seats herself on the edge of the massive structure, her hands moving to adjust the nest with practiced efficiency. Pillows are repositioned, blankets smoothed, the entire arrangement shifting under her touch to form a perfect hollow in its center—a space precisely sized for Alastor's slender form.

Alastor makes a show of scoffing at the nest, like it’s nothing more than a tragic theatrical prop. It is as much artifice and projection as anything he’s done in the last hour, but it’s easier to sneer at the gesture than acknowledge the way the sight of so many blankets, that array of textures and colors—even the faint, familiar stink of hoarded fabric—tugs at the understructure of his mind. He knows the trick by now. He inventories the blankets, the way the colors crash against one another, the pillowing of the center, the subtle indentations that show it’s already been primed for the body that will occupy it. Of course they would do their research. Of course they’d know how to construct a nest for an omega who’d never owned the word.

Alastor's ears flatten against his head, his disgust momentarily overwhelming his rage. "I must say," he manages, his voice maintaining its radio host cadence through sheer force of will, "your decorative choices are... distinctive. All the subtlety of a carnival barker with the budget of a megalomaniac. How charmingly gauche."

"He likes it," the King of Hell declares to his wife. "I told you the gold inlays were a good choice."

There’s a titter of genuine laughter from Lilith, and she bounces slightly where she sits, all luminous limbs and improbable delight. “Don’t think you’re fooling anyone, darling,” she croons, stretching out a hand to pat the blankets as if beckoning a recalcitrant pet. “You’re exactly as fussy as we predicted. You should see what the decorators went through to get the palette just right. Lucifer nearly executed a man over a misprinted dye lot.”

Lucifer approaches Alastor, circling behind where the tentacles hold him suspended. Without warning, his hand closes around Alastor's ankle, fingers wrapping around the sleek material of his shoe.

"What are you doing?" Alastor demands, his voice sharp with alarm. "Remove your hand this instant!"

"Preparing you for bed, of course," Lucifer replies, his tone suggesting this should be obvious. His fingers work at the laces of Alastor's shoe with deft precision. "While we have quite the collection of kinks between us, shoes in the bed is not among them."

Alastor kicks out violently, his free foot nearly connecting with Lucifer's perfectly coiffed hair. "I will not be getting into that bed! Stop touching me immediately!"

Lucifer dodges the kick with casual ease, his movement so fluid it appears he simply flows around the attack rather than evading it. He only laughs and catches Alastor’s shin with a practiced grip. The next moment, a second hand closes over Alastor’s ankle, squeezing just hard enough for the bones to scrape together. The King’s voice is a low, fond purr against the side of Alastor’s foot: “Temper, temper. You’ll scuff the floors.”

He ignores Alastor’s protest, deftly undoing the laces and slipping the oxford from his foot with a flick that brushes the arch of his instep and sends an uncomfortable tingle crawling up his leg. Alastor curls his toes in reflex, a traitorous shiver traveling through his body to the base of his skull. He tries to wrench his foot free, but Lucifer’s grip is absolute, immovable.

“Do try to relax,” Lucifer purrs, voice low and glimmering with menace. “It’s not as if you’re unused to comfort. Or are you telling me you sleep upright, like a hung fox?”

Alastor claps his lips shut, jaw grinding. He refuses to dignify the taunt. The act of resistance is small, brittle, but it’s his.

"Such lovely hooves," Lucifer comments as he succeeds in removing the first shoe, revealing Alastor's deer-like foot beneath. "I knew our Radio Demon would have the cutest little toes."

"Fuck off," Alastor spits, but the words sound hollow in his own ears, the venom undercut by the heat that flushes his skin as Lucifer’s touch ghosts over the delicate line of his ankle. He flexes his foot, meaning to rake the King’s hand with his heel. Lucifer anticipates the motion, intercepts it, and catches his other leg as deftly as a cat snatching a songbird. In seconds, both of Alastor’s feet are immobilized, one shoe off and the other gripped tight in the fallen angel’s hand.

The King hums an old song under his breath, something courtly and slow, as if the act of unshoeing an unwilling omega is an art form with its own sacred choreography.

He takes up the other ankle, this time pinning the calf across his thigh with a practiced, inevitable pressure. The tentacles at Alastor’s waist relax a fraction, just enough to let the leg extend naturally, and the sudden release of tension is almost more indecent than the binding had been. The loss of leverage, of even the illusion of leverage, feels like freefall in a vacuum. Alastor glares at the man’s perfect hands: the way they slide under the hem of his trousers, the way the nails scrape a line over the bone of his ankle, the way the

The King takes the second shoe with a fluid, almost predatory efficiency, never releasing his grip on Alastor’s leg. The pressure of Lucifer’s palm on his shin pins him in place, and Alastor registers, with a flush of mortification, that there is no way to reclaim his dignity in this moment. The oxford slips free, exposing the other deerlike hoof with a showman’s flourish. Lucifer peers at it, then, absurdly, runs a thumb along the edge, as if checking for burrs.

“Perfect symmetry,” Lucifer muses, more to himself than to anyone else, and tosses the shoes. They land with a pair of hollow thuds by the door, and the tentacles immediately cinch tighter around Alastor’s waist, pinning his knees together like a misbehaving child.

Lucifer stands, still holding Alastor’s legs as though he might attempt to sprint on hooves alone, and Alastor wonders fleetingly if he would. It would be better than this, the slow, ceremonial stripping of his defenses, the disassembly of every layer he used to maintain his distance from the world. He flexes his freed toes, the air stinging them with palace chill, and glares murder at the King of Hell. Lucifer smiles as if he’s caught the look, but says nothing, only lets his hands linger a breath too long before relinquishing their grip.

Lilith is already by the wardrobe, her tentacles spanning the length of the bedroom as she throws the doors open. She hums—not a song, but a vibration, a resonance in the air that seems to set the glass in the chandeliers trembling. Her hands work in a blur, flicking through hangers of garments that blaze with color and pattern, each more baroque and appalling than the last. Alastor’s mind catches, staggered by the sheer volume: suits in every shade of atrocity, dressing gowns lined with what looks like peacock down, jackets so heavy with embroidery they could double as armor. There’s a whole section of nightclothes—striped, polka-dotted, violently floral—like the closet of a deranged vaudeville ghost.

She selects something with a flourish—a two-piece set, 1930s cut, the shirt a deep red and black stripes, the pants offensively high-waisted, the whole ensemble piped in black.

The sight of them sends a chill of understanding through him. As Lilith approaches with the nightclothes, Alastor realizes their intent with sickening clarity. They mean to strip him, to touch him intimately while removing each piece of his clothing, to dress him like a doll in their chosen attire.

The thought of their hands on his bare skin, moving across his body, sends a shudder of revulsion through him. Another omega whine builds in his throat, threatening to escape before he swallows it back with fierce determination.

"There's no need for this," he says, his voice tight with controlled desperation. "If you would simply release me, I could use my magic to change instantly. Much more efficient, wouldn't you agree?"

Lilith approaches, the silk pajamas draped over one arm like a flag of conquest. When she reaches him, her hand rising to stroke his cheek with terrible gentleness. Her touch burns against his skin, unwanted and invasive. He can only glare up at her while she stands impossibly tall in her stiletto heels. She lifts his tie with two fingers, careful and unhurried, and lets it slither off his neck to the floor.

"While that would certainly be quicker," she murmurs, her voice soft and inexorable as falling snow, "it would not help you grow accustomed to your mates' touch." Her thumb brushes across his lower lip, pressing lightly against his sharp teeth. "And you will grow accustomed to it, my dear. We have all of eternity, after all."

Lucifer's hands move to the waistband of Alastor's pants, fingers brushing against the fabric with practiced precision. The touch, even through layers of clothing, sends waves of revulsion crawling across Alastor's skin. His smile stretches painfully wide so tight that he can feel his teeth creak, while his eyes dart between the royal couple with the desperate calculation of a trapped animal.

"Don't," Alastor hisses, the word escaping between clenched teeth. His static aura flares in erratic pulses, distorting the air around him like heat rising from asphalt. "I am perfectly capable of dressing myself."

Lilith glides closer, positioning herself in Alastor's line of sight as Lucifer continues his unwelcome task. Her eyes fix on Alastor's, a deliberate distraction like a magician drawing attention away from the true sleight of hand.

"Do you like the design we chose?" she asks, voice melodic and conversational, as though they were discussing fashion over tea rather than in the midst of this violation. She runs her fingers along the sleeve of the pajamas draped across her arm. "We had them specially made by a tailor who worked during your era. The fabric is silk—Hell-grown, of course, but processed using techniques from the 1930s."

"I’m not wearing that," Alastor says, voice flattening to a deadpan that’s almost a plea. "Burn it."

"Not a chance," Lilith chirps, and drapes the shirt across his torso with a flourish. "If you’re going to be dramatic you may as well look the part. And the cut is quite flattering.” Her smile widens slightly, revealing the barest hint of fang. "We thought you might appreciate the authenticity.”

Alastor feels Lucifer's fingers work at his belt buckle, the metal clinking softly as it comes undone. The sound cuts through Lilith's pleasant chatter like a gunshot, impossibly loud to his sensitive ears. Humiliation burns through him, hot and bitter as poison.

"How considerate," he replies, his voice maintaining steady through sheer force of will. "I do appreciate the attention to historical accuracy. The style is indeed reminiscent of what a gentleman might wear to bed in my day." His eyes narrow fractionally, static crackling around his words. "Though I must say, I find the delivery method somewhat lacking. In my era, gifts were typically presented, not forcibly applied."

The belt slides free with a soft hiss of leather against fabric. Lucifer's hands move to the button of his trousers, undoing it with calm efficiency that speaks of centuries of practice. The zipper follows, its metallic whisper setting Alastor's teeth on edge.

"Almost there," Lucifer murmurs, his voice carrying a note of anticipation that makes Alastor's stomach turn. "Lift your hooves for me, won't you?"

"I most certainly will not," Alastor snaps, but the tentacles holding him shift in response to some silent command from Lilith. They lift him slightly, allowing Lucifer to slide the trousers down his legs with disturbing ease. Cool air whispers against the newly exposed fur of his thighs, making him acutely aware of his vulnerability.

Lucifer carefully removes the pants, leaving Alastor in his underwear—the last barrier between his dignity and complete exposure. The King of Hell folds the trousers with meticulous care, as though performing a sacred ritual, before setting them aside on a nearby chair.

Lucifer’s gaze drops to the exposed fur on Alastor's legs. For a second, the King simply stares, his pupils dilating, and then he does something so repugnant, so inconceivable, it short-circuits every thought in Alastor’s head: he runs his hand up the fur, palm open, fingers dragging against the grain as if testing the nap of a luxury pelt.

Alastor’s body seizes with revulsion. Lucifer’s palm moves in the wrong direction, dragging the hair backwards, and the shock of it scalds up Alastor’s spine. He jerks, but the tentacles hold him firm. “Don’t touch me!” he shrieks, voice cracking into a register no radio broadcast has ever transmitted. It echoes off the cathedral ceiling, sharp enough to shatter glass.

But Lucifer ignores the plea, his face alight with scientific curiosity and something else—something older, some primal delight in sensation. He smooths the fur back down, the motion slow and unhurried.

Lucifer’s eyes are rapt. “Exquisite,” he breathes, as if the fur is a living artifact, some relic from the vanished world above. He runs the pads of his fingers up and down the grain, slow and methodical, as if cataloguing every follicle for a future dissertation.

“Get your hands OFF—” Alastor’s voice detonates, shattering the fake calm he’s clung to for the last hour. “I mean it, you degenerate creep!” he howls at the top of his lungs. His vision whites out around the edges; every nerve in his body is a wire strung too tight. For one wild second, he thinks he might simply combust from the humiliation, and for the first time, the possibility is almost appealing.

Lilith's hands descend upon Lucifer's, velvet-soft yet tipped with talons. Her touch breaks the trance that had captured him as he'd lost himself in admiring Alastor's fur. The instant Lilith's claws graze Lucifer’s wrists, the air in the chamber sharpens—ozone, singed silk, and the acid tang of ceremonial violence. Lucifer’s hands halt mid-motion, his fingers still splayed like a pianist caught in reverie. He turns, slow as tar, and his pupils pinwheel bright and narrow, the smile on his lips spreading in a thin, feral line.

For a moment, neither speaks. They radiate the low-frequency hum of old predators circling a carcass: all eye contact and razor-thin politesse, the ancient etiquette of two apex beasts balancing dominance on a knife-edge.

For a half second they’re statues, the tableau charged and frozen: Lucifer’s fingers sunk into the fur, Lilith’s claws at his wrist, and Alastor caught between them, vibrating with the aftershock of humiliation and the ghost of hands on his skin.

“Darling,” Lilith purrs. Her voice is feather-light, but there’s iron under the velvet—something unmistakably sovereign, and not for show. “You’ll work him into a lather before we even get to the main event. Don’t be greedy.”

Lucifer’s hand withdraws, snapping to his own side with a frictionless grace, a bow to the Queen that’s both gallant and faintly mocking. “As you wish.” The words are smooth, but there’s something throttled right beneath the surface, a quiver of withheld violence or delight. Alastor can’t tell which; he doesn’t care. All that matters is that, for a moment, no one is touching him.

Every inch of his body itches in the silence that follows. His antlers buzz with aftershock. The air feels thick enough to drink. He pulls a ragged breath through his teeth and lets it out slow, trying to shake the static that fuzzes at the edges of his hearing. There is a pulse there, a true pulse—a metronome of dread that keeps time with each humiliation.

“There will be plenty of time for grooming,” Lilith purrs, her smile radiant. “Let’s get our star dressed first.”

The tentacles around Alastor's body reconfigure once more, wrapping fully around his lower half like a second skin of pale, luminescent flesh. They hold him rigidly upright, feet barely touching the floor, his torso now exposed for their attention. The restraint is complete yet artful, allowing him the illusion of standing on his own while rendering him utterly helpless.

Rage boils through Alastor, hot and clarifying. With the momentary slack in the tentacles around his upper body, he lunges forward, clawed hand extended toward Lucifer's smiling face. His fingers stretch for the King's eye, sharp nails aimed with deadly precision.

Before his attack can connect, two tentacles snap around his wrists with bruising force. They yank his arms outward, extending them parallel to the floor in a cruel parody of an embrace. Another tentacle coils around his neck from behind, not tight enough to choke but firmly enough to restrict movement, the pressure a constant reminder of Lilith's control.

"Tsk, tsk," Lucifer chides, seemingly unperturbed by the attempted assault. "And here I thought we were having a good time." He steps closer, fingers moving to the buttons of Alastor's overcoat. "Let's continue, shall we?"

The red fabric parts beneath Lucifer's touch, revealing the vest beneath. Button by button, the King of Hell dismantles Alastor's carefully constructed appearance, each layer peeled away like skin from a fruit. The vest joins the overcoat, and then Lucifer's fingers move to the dress shirt, the final barrier protecting Alastor's torso.

"You dress with such care," Lucifer observes, working each button free with deliberate slowness. "So many layers between you and the world. One might think you were hiding something."

Alastor's radio static intensifies, crackling like distant gunfire. "Or perhaps I simply appreciate the elegance of proper attire. A concept clearly lost on one who dresses like a circus ringmaster."

Lucifer merely laughs, the sound bright and genuine, as though Alastor has paid him a compliment rather than delivered an insult. The final button yields to his touch, and the shirt falls open, exposing Alastor's chest and abdomen to the cool air of the bedroom.

Lucifer's hands glide upward, pushing the material off Alastor's shoulders, his touch lingering longer than necessary. The contact sends shivers of disgust crawling down Alastor's spine, each finger leaving trails of unwanted sensation on his fur.

The moment the shirt comes free, Lilith’s hand dives past the edges of silk and fur, cold and clinical against his chest. She presses, fingers splayed, as if expecting to find muscle and give, and instead her palm sinks into the hollow between his ribs. The tips of her talons bite the shape of his breastbone, then slide sideways, mapping every vertebrae and the pronounced ladder of his ribs below.

She’s silent now, no laughter, no teasing commentary. Her hand lingers, then glides down his side and around to his back, caressing along the sharp lines of his scapula and up the ridged column of his spine. The tentacles at his waist hedge in closer, as if to keep him from bolting while she measures him like a butcher appraising an underfed animal.

A single, sharp intake of breath from Lilith. The sound is impossible—surely she must practice it in private, that sound of a mother catching her child in some fragile state, the gasp engineered to skewer the heart and spine alike. She glides forward, her tentacles retracting until only two remain at Alastor's waist and two gripping his wrists, the rest curling in tight spirals at her back. One hand reaches out and cups his chin, turning his face to hers with a touch that is all the more terrifying for being gentle.

"Oh my darling,” she says, and for a moment there’s nothing but the thrum of his pulse and the pressure of her hand spanning the width of his chest. “What have you been eating?”

The words land not as mockery, but as something more corrosive: real, undraped concern. Alastor’s mind stutters around the question, tripwires of shame and anger crossing in a flash. He hisses through his teeth and tries to wrench his face away, but her hand is immovable as a shackle. The spatula-cold pressure of Lilith’s palm registers in detail—calluses, the faint grit of powder, the unyielding arch of bone that could snap his jaw if she wanted. He wants to spit at her, to snarl that he eats fine, he’s always eaten fine, but the words collapse under their own weight.

She drags a hand over his torso, fingers pressing until each rib registers, one by one, fingertips running down the fur along his ribs with clinical precision. Her expression shifts, something like concern flickering across her perfect features before hardening into stern disapproval.

"This is unacceptable," she declares, her voice carrying a note of genuine displeasure. "As our omega, you will be properly cared for, Alastor. No omega under our protection should be such skin and bones."

Lucifer pauses in his task, head tilting with curiosity. "What do you mean, my dear?"

Lilith's fingers press gently against Alastor's side, demonstrating her point. "I can feel every rib, Lucifer. Every single one." Her eyes meet Alastor's, something dangerous flickering in their depths. "When was the last time you ate a proper meal, Radio Demon?"

Alastor's eyes narrow fractionally, but his smile stretches wider, a radio dial tuned to false cheer as he meets her gaze with manufactured pleasantness. "My dietary habits are none of your concern," he replies, voice sharp despite his vulnerable position. "I eat when necessary."

"When necessary," Lilith repeats, the words carried on a sigh that speaks volumes of her disapproval. Her hand moves from his ribs to cup his face, thumb stroking across his cheekbone with possessive gentleness. "That simply won't do. Our consort needs meat on his bones, strength for his duties."

"Indeed," Lucifer agrees, his expression mirroring his wife's concern. "We'll need to adjust the kitchen schedules. More frequent meals, perhaps. Richer fare." His eyes travel over Alastor's form with new attention, cataloging perceived deficiencies with the clinical gaze of an owner assessing property.

"I am not a child to be fattened up," Alastor growls, static crackling around each word. "Nor am I a prized pet to be groomed to your specifications."

"No," Lilith agrees, her smile softening into something more dangerous for its apparent sincerity. "You are our omega, our consort, our third. And you will be cared for properly, whether you believe you require it or not." Her fingers trail down his neck to rest against his collarbone, the touch light but inescapable. "Your care is now our responsibility, Alastor. A responsibility we take very seriously."

Her words settle over him like chains, each syllable another link binding him to this unwanted position. The possessiveness in her voice, the absolute certainty that his body is now their domain to maintain—it sends fury and something darker, more primal, coiling through him. Not fear, he tells himself. The Radio Demon does not fear. But awareness, yes. Awareness that these beings view his autonomy as a quaint concept to be indulged or restricted at their whim.

Lucifer's hand joins his wife's, resting against Alastor's other side, his touch completing the circuit of ownership. "He could certainly use some additional weight," he confirms, fingers brushing against ribs that indeed stand more prominent than they should. "We'll remedy that straightaway."

Chapter Text

Lucifer's fingers freeze against Alastor's exposed ribs, the casual exploration halting with sudden rigidity. The King's eyes widen, pupils contracting to pinpricks of crimson against the golden backdrop of his irises. The smile tightens at the corners, an infinitesimal change that speaks volumes in the language of predators. Something awakens in Lucifer's expression, a dormant hunger stirring beneath the veneer of playful cruelty, as his nostrils flare with a sharp, involuntary inhale.

The tentacles holding Alastor pulse once, squeezing slightly in response to some unconscious signal from Lilith, but Lucifer remains motionless, his hands still pressed against Alastor's fur where the slender cage of ribs betrays malnourishment. The fallen angel's head tilts, bird-like and predatory, as though listening to a distant frequency only he can hear.

Alastor notices the shift immediately, recognition crawling up his spine like ice water. His smile stretches wider by reflex, a paper-thin defense against the dawning realization in Lucifer's eyes. Of all the humiliations to endure, of all the secrets to be laid bare—this one cuts closest to bone. The scent bonding, worn thin by deliberate neglect, has betrayed him at last.

He had known this risk when he chose not to reapply the bonding scent before coming to the palace. The traces of those other alphas would be faint, nearly imperceptible to most demons—but not to beings like these. Never to ancient, primal creatures with senses honed over millennia. A tactical error now paid in full.

"These will be so lovely on you," Lilith continues, apparently oblivious to her husband's sudden stillness. Her fingers trail along the red silk of the pajamas draped across her arm, the fabric catching the light like spilled blood. "The tailor insisted on hand-stitched seams—said machine work would be an insult to such fine material." Her thumb brushes over a black button, polished to a mirror shine. "I think you'll find them quite comfortable for your morning broadcasts. We've converted one of the east towers into a studio for your work."

She looks up from the garment, her smile serene and terrible, unaware of the tension coiled like a spring between her husband and their captive. "After all, we have no intention of disrupting your creative endeavors. Your talents are part of what makes you so... desirable."

"Desirable" hangs between them like nectar laced with arsenic as Lucifer slowly leans towards Alastor. With deliberate intent, he presses his nose into the fur at Alastor's shoulder, inhaling deeply where neck meets collarbone. The invasive intimacy of it sends violent revulsion coursing through Alastor's body, his muscles tensing beneath the binding tentacles until they tremble with the effort of restraint.

Lucifer's breath is hot against his skin, burning like acid as he draws in Alastor's scent with predatory focus. There is no mistaking his purpose—he searches for the foreign signatures, the alien alpha markers that cling to Alastor's fur beneath layers of magic and careful grooming.

"Get off me," Alastor growls, abandoning polite pretense in favor of raw hostility. His body writhes against the tentacles, a desperate bid for space that accomplishes nothing but tighter constraint. The appendages respond to his struggle by constricting further, holding him more firmly for Lucifer's inspection. "I said BACK OFF!"

His voice distorts on the final words, layers of static and barely-contained power crackling through the command. In another context, to another being, it might have worked—the force of his will bending reality to his demands as it has countless times before. But here, against this opponent, it slides off like rain from oiled feathers.

Lucifer withdraws slowly, raising his head from Alastor's fur with deliberate, threatening grace. His expression has transformed—the playful cruelty replaced by something ancient and terrible. His eyes burn, no longer merely red but incandescent, as though the fires of his fall from grace have rekindled behind his pupils. The smile twists into a snarl, lips peeling back to reveal teeth too numerous, too sharp for his seemingly delicate face.

The growl that emerges from Lucifer's throat isn't merely sound—it's power given voice, rumbling through the room with enough force to rattle the crystals in the chandeliers overhead. It carries the weight of divine fury corrupted by eons of darkness, the jealous rage of a being who collects and possesses with absolute conviction. The air between them thickens, growing heavy with pheromones that reek of territorial alpha fury.

Lilith pauses mid-sentence about the pajamas, her attention finally caught by her husband's display. Her head tilts slightly, curiosity replacing her serene expression as she registers the shift in atmosphere. The tentacles around Alastor tighten in response to her changing mood, securing him more firmly as she assesses the situation.

"What is it, darling?" she asks, voice deceptively light despite the predatory alertness that now sharpens her gaze. "You look positively murderous." The observation carries no fear, only intrigue—as though her husband's rage is a fascinating diversion rather than cause for concern.

Alastor and Lucifer remain locked in silent confrontation, alpha fury meeting omega defiance with neither willing to break the stare. Behind his smile, Alastor calculates frantically, each option worse than the last. He can't lie—they'll smell it. He can't escape—they've proven that. He can't fight—not here, not bound, not against both of them.

For perhaps the first time since his death, the Radio Demon finds himself without a satisfactory script. The performance falters, the static of his aura wavering like a signal losing strength. In Lucifer's burning gaze, Alastor sees the reflection of his own newly exposed vulnerability, and the knowledge sits like ashes on his tongue—bitter, choking, inescapable.

"Who is it?" Lucifer's demand cuts through the air like a blade, each word precise and venomous. The King's face remains inches from Alastor's, close enough that his breath, smelling faintly of sugar, washes over the Radio Demon's fur. The red glow of his eyes casts bloody shadows across his features, turning his snarl into something primeval and terrifying. "Who dares mark what is ours?"

Alastor's static crackles in response, his aura flaring defensively despite the tentacles binding his limbs. His teeth clenched behind the rictus grin. The tension between them builds like pressure in a sealed chamber, threatening to shatter the very air.

Lilith steps closer, her perfect brow furrowing in rare confusion. The tentacles holding Alastor shift slightly, adjusting their grip as she moves to stand beside her husband. "What are you talking about, darling?" Her voice carries genuine curiosity, a predator sensing prey but not yet seeing it.

Lucifer doesn't look at her, his burning gaze remaining locked on Alastor's face as though he could extract the information through sheer force of will. When he speaks, his voice has dropped an octave, resonating with power that makes the glass in the windows hum sympathetically.

"Our omega," he says, the possessive pronoun dripping with venom, "smells of alpha. Not one, but three distinct signatures." His nostrils flare again, taking in another confirming breath. "Faint, yes. Deliberately weakened, certainly. But unmistakable to anyone with senses as keen as mine."

His hand shoots out, grabbing Alastor's chin with bruising force, tilting his head to expose more of his neck. "Tell me, Radio Demon, who are these interlopers who've dared to scent what belongs to us?"

Lilith's eyes widen fractionally, the only visible sign of her surprise. Her gaze sweeps over Alastor with new intensity, reassessing. The tentacles tighten almost imperceptibly, their pale luminescence pulsing with the quickened rhythm of her interest.

"Not interested in romantic relationships, you said?" Lucifer's laugh is sharp and cruel, glass shattering on marble. "I'm calling bullshit, deer. Three alphas? That's not disinterest—that's a collection." His grip tightens, claws pricking tiny crescents into Alastor's skin. "Or perhaps they've collected you?"

Something snaps in Alastor. The careful veneer of civility fractures under the weight of Lucifer's accusations. His eyes transform, red irises bleeding to black until his gaze becomes twin voids, depthless and terrible. Static roars around him, no longer the gentle background noise of a tuned radio but the howling chaos of a signal lost to cosmic interference.

"You know NOTHING of what you speak," Alastor snarls, his voice layered with distortion, the words emerging through crackling static like transmissions from the void. His antlers grow longer, sharper, the points extending upward in a display of dominance despite his restraint. "NOTHING of my life or my choices."

The shadows around him writhe with renewed vigor, fighting against the binding light of Lilith's tentacles. The temperature in the room drops several degrees, frost crystallizing along the edges of the ornate mirror on the wall. Despite his bindings, despite his vulnerability, power radiates from him in palpable waves. A reminder that the Radio Demon earned his fearsome reputation through more than mere reputation.

Lucifer's eyes narrow, unimpressed by the display. His grip shifts from Alastor's chin to his throat, fingers pressing against the pulse point where life beats frantic beneath fur and skin. "Did you fuck them?" The question emerges as a hiss, intimate and vicious. "Did you spread your legs for these alphas who dared to mark you without our permission?"

The fallen angel leans closer, his breath scorching against Alastor's cheek. "Where are they now, these presumptuous souls who thought to claim Hell's newest consort? I would very much like to meet them... personally."

The threat spoken low yet, unsubtle and absolute. Not mere jealousy, though that certainly burns in Lucifer's eyes, but something darker, more feral. The promise of retribution on a scale only the ruler of Hell could deliver.

Alastor bares his teeth in a smile that has abandoned all pretense of charm. "That," he says, each word clipped and precise despite the static that envelopes them, "is none of your fucking business."

His antlers grow another inch, shadows coalescing around them like a crown of darkness. "My relationships, or lack thereof, are not subject to your approval or inquiry. I did not consent to be your consort. I did not consent to be your mate. And I certainly did not consent to this interrogation."

"You don't get to claim ignorance of consent after tampering with my medication," he continues, voice rising with each word until the static nearly overwhelms the syllables. "After orchestrating my biological crisis, after manipulating me into seeking your aid. After ABDUCTING me when I declined your so-called offer!"

Lucifer's face contorts with fury, the last vestiges of his cultured persona slipping to reveal the ancient power beneath. His own aura flares in response to Alastor's, golden light cutting through shadow like blades through silk. The room trembles with the force of their opposed wills, plaster dust raining gently from the ornate ceiling.

"I am Lucifer Morningstar," he growls, each word weighted with cosmic authority, "King of Hell, Fallen Star of the Morning, Lord of the Eternal Flame. I do not require your consent to claim what is rightfully mine."

With a surge of movement, he closes the remaining distance between them until they are nose to nose, the golden glow of his aura and the static darkness of Alastor's merging in a corona of opposing powers. Their smiles mirror each other, both bared teeth rather than joy, a primitive display of aggression thinly veiled by the remnants of civility.

"And you," Lucifer continues, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "with your borrowed power and your mortal soul, your patchwork magic and your radio parlor tricks. You were mine the moment you set foot in my domain."

Before Alastor can retort, cool fingers grasp his chin from the side, yanking his face away from Lucifer's burning gaze. Lilith's strength is impossible to resist, especially bound as he is by her tentacles. His head turns sharply, eyes meeting the Queen's gaze with unwilling directness.

Where Lucifer burns, Lilith freezes. Her expression holds none of her husband's obvious rage, and that makes it infinitely more terrifying. Her eyes are cold and calculating, her smile thin and precise as a surgeon's blade. There is no mercy in that gaze, no weakness—only ancient, implacable will.

Alastor's body betrays him with a single, involuntary quiver.

Alastor stares into Lilith's eyes—ancient wells of power and knowledge that reflect nothing back but his own trapped form. Her pupils, vertical slits of darkness against crimson pools, dilate slightly as she studies him. Her grip on his chin is unyielding despite appearing delicate, her fingers cool against his fur yet burning with an inner heat that speaks of celestial fire banked but never extinguished. The room grows still around them, as though Hell itself holds its breath in anticipation of her judgment.

"Are you bonded?" The question falls from her lips with the quiet precision of an executioner's blade. No emotion colors the words—they are clinical, detached, the inquiry of a being cataloguing properties rather than feelings.

Before them, Lucifer paces like a caged beast, his footsteps heavy with barely restrained violence. A growl rumbles from his chest at Lilith's question, the sound carrying notes too deep for mortal ears to fully perceive, the resonance of mountains crumbling, of stars collapsing into darkness.

Alastor's mind races, calculations spinning through his consciousness with frantic speed. The truth seems simple enough, no, he is not bonded, but the implications of that truth spiral outward in dangerous fractals. Admission means vulnerability. Denial invites discovery. Half-truth offers temporary shelter but inevitable exposure.

The options click through his thoughts like the tumblers of a lock, each possibility weighed and measured against potential consequences. The silence stretches thin between them as he deliberates, weighing words with the precision of a man who understands their power.

Too long.

Lilith's fingers tighten against his jaw, the pressure increasing from firm to painful. Her claws prick his skin, five points of exquisite threat that do not quite break the surface. "I asked you a question, Consort," she reminds him, her voice maintaining that terrible calm. "It would be unwise to test my patience further."

"I've been claimed," Alastor finally answers, each word carefully selected and arranged like pieces on a chessboard. His smile never falters, but something in his eyes shifts, a calculation, a concession, a move in a game he hasn't conceded. "The scents you detect are evidence of that fact."

Lilith's laugh is soft and utterly without humor, the sound of silk sliding over steel. "That is not what I asked you, Radio Demon." Her thumb strokes along his jawline, the touch almost tender despite the unyielding grip. "I asked if you are bonded. A very specific question requiring a very specific answer."

Her gaze shifts to his neck, examining the visible fur with clinical precision. "A bond requires a mark. A bite delivered during heat that binds alpha and omega through blood and magic." Her free hand rises to brush against his throat, fingers parting the red fur in search of telltale scar tissue. "Not mere scenting, not rutting, not even claim marks made outside proper cycles."

Alastor growls low in his throat at the invasive touch, the sound distorted by layers of static that rise and fall like radio interference. His body strains against Lilith's tentacles, the pale appendages tightening in warning at his resistance.

"There's no mark here," Lilith observes, her fingers continuing their exploration along the length of his neck, pushing aside fur to examine the skin beneath. "At least, none visible at first glance."

She turns to Lucifer, who has paused in his pacing to watch her examination with burning intensity. "We should be thorough," she suggests, her voice carrying the casual cruelty of one discussing an object rather than a person. "He could be hiding a bond mark anywhere beneath this lovely fur. Traditional placement is the junction of neck and shoulder, but..." Her smile widens fractionally. "Omegas with unusual anatomy sometimes bear their marks in more... creative locations."

Alastor tenses, muscles going rigid beneath the restraining tentacles. The implications of a full-body search send cold dread pooling in his stomach, heavy as lead. With desperate urgency, he tries to shake his head despite Lilith's grip, the movement aborted but the intent clear.

"Do we have a secret to share, Radio Demon?" Lilith asks, turning back to him with renewed interest. Her thumb presses against his lower lip, the gesture mockingly intimate. "Is there a bonding mark hidden somewhere in this lovely red fur?"

Alastor meets her gaze with defiance, though the terror clawing at his insides threatens to betray him at any moment. "No," he says, the word emerging with surprising steadiness. "I have been scented. I have been claimed. I have not been bitten. I am not bonded."

The relief that washes over Lucifer's features is palpable, his shoulders dropping from their tense height as he exhales a long, measured breath. The furious red glow of his eyes dims slightly, returning to their usual gleaming crimson. He runs a hand through his blonde hair, disheveling the perfect coif for the first time since Alastor entered the palace.

"Scent bonding," he mutters, the words carrying equal measures of disgust and relief. "Just temporary marking." His expression shifts toward something almost playful, though the danger never fully recedes from his gaze. "I wouldn't have thought our Radio Demon capable of handling three alphas at once. Rather ambitious, wouldn't you say, my dear?"

The crude insinuation sends fresh anger surging through Alastor, his static aura flaring with indignant fury. "You know nothing," he hisses, teeth clenched behind his smile. "You build assumptions on fragments and call them truth."

His voice drops lower, layered with distortion that makes the words seem to emerge from different places in the room simultaneously. "These scents mean nothing of what you imagine. They are pragmatic, not romantic. Functional, not intimate."

It's not entirely a lie, the scent bonds had indeed been practical in nature, keeping other alphas at bay, establishing territorial boundaries in the districts he controlled. What he doesn't say, what he buries beneath layers of practiced disdain, is how grounding those scents had been. How the alpha markers had kept him centered during meetings, had eased the constant pressure of unwanted advances, had given him a shield against the biological vulnerabilities he despises.

The comfort they provided was never part of the arrangement. It was merely... an unexpected benefit. One he would never admit aloud, especially not to these creatures who seek to own him.

Lilith's hand trails from his chin down the length of his throat, fingers lingering against his pulse point where his heartbeat betrays the calm he feigns. Her touch is proprietorial, assessing, the gesture of someone appraising valuable merchandise.

"Regardless of their purpose," she says, her voice soft but unyielding, "these foreign scents must be removed before we can proceed." Her crimson gaze meets Lucifer's over Alastor's shoulder. "Our consort cannot carry the marks of lesser alphas. It would be... inappropriate."

Her fingers continue their downward path, tracing the hollow of his collarbone with deliberate slowness. "We cannot continue until every trace of these interlopers is washed away." The words fall like stones into still water, their implications rippling outward with terrible clarity.

Alastor's smile remains fixed, but something cold and heavy settles in his stomach. The scents that had provided him silent protection, invisible barriers against unwanted attention—soon they will be gone, replaced by markers he never consented to wear.

The tentacles around Alastor's body surge into motion without warning, their grip tightening to the point of bruising as Lilith and Lucifer move in terrible synchronicity toward an archway at the far end of the bedroom. Alastor's hooves drag across the plush carpet, leaving twin furrows in the deep pile as his captors haul him bodily across the room. His resistance is immediate and violent, limbs thrashing against the pale constraints, static rising to a deafening screech that makes the crystal in the chandeliers vibrate at sympathetic frequencies.

"Release me this INSTANT!" Alastor's voice layers with demonic distortion, the command crackling through the air like lightning. His antlers grow sharper, longer, scraping against the doorframe as they drag him through. "You have NO RIGHT!"

Lucifer merely laughs, the sound bright and terrible in its genuine amusement. "We have every right, my dear Radio Demon. The right of rulers. The right of alphas." His hand presses against the small of Alastor's back, guiding Lilith's tentacles with casual dominance. "And soon, the right of mates."

The bathroom that opens before them is a monument to obscene luxury, a temple built to worship excess and indulgence. The bathroom is immense, gleaming, a cavern of white phosphor tile and black marble, every surface reflecting either dark or burning-bright. The floor is heated, scalding under bare hooves, and the air shimmers with the tang of ozone and the more intimate musk of pheromone-soaked cloth. The ceiling is so high it swims with vapors, and there is an actual waterfall at the far end of the chamber, spilling down a wall that glows with shifting light.

There are no windows, only mirrors and the pale outline of a door on the opposite side. The bathtub, if such a mundane word can describe the monstrosity dominating the center of the room, is large enough to accommodate a dozen demons comfortably. This centerpiece is an inhumanly large sunken bath, fed by gilded pipes shaped like the necks of swans. Steam rises in thick clouds, carrying with it bitter herbal scents—rosemary, mint, and something more medicinal, a note that reminds Alastor of hospitals and funerals. Gold fixtures shaped like serpents coil around its edges, their ruby eyes watching with cold, gemstone intensity.

The humidity hits him first—an olfactory assault so dense it gels the air, laden with resin and rose and the piercing metallic tang of wine. Beneath, a thin thread of bleach, a texture of clean so aggressive that it buzzes in his sinuses. There is a faint overtone of animal musk, so diluted as to be discernible only to a body forcibly attuned to such things.

Alastor takes in the opulence with a single sweeping glance, his priority not appreciation but escape. His struggles intensify as the tentacles carry him further into the room, his body thrashing with serpentine grace despite the restraints. Static roars around him, the sound building to a crescendo that makes the mirrors on the walls vibrate in their frames.

"LET GO!" he howls, abandoning his usual measured tone entirely. His power flares around him, shadows stretching and twisting beneath the flickering lights. One mirror cracks under the pressure of his unleashed rage, a spiderweb of fractures spreading across its surface like a physical manifestation of his splintering control.

Lilith's tentacles pulse once in warning before they abruptly withdraw, dumping Alastor unceremoniously onto the cold marble floor. The sudden release catches him off guard, momentum carrying him forward in an undignified sprawl of limbs and disheveled clothing. The shock of impact reverberates through his bones, momentarily stunning him.

Opportunity flares like a beacon. Without hesitation, Alastor scrambles to his feet, lurching toward the bathroom door with desperate speed. His hooves skid slightly on the polished stone, finding purchase just in time to propel him forward in a sprint that blurs his form around the edges.

Freedom beckons, just yards away—the doorway leading back to the bedroom and perhaps, eventually, escape from this nightmare of possession and violation.

Lucifer materializes before him with that same impossible quickness, one hand shooting out to seize the back of Alastor's partially unbuttoned shirt. The fabric pulls taut against Alastor's throat, momentarily choking him before the sound of tearing cloth fills the air. Buttons scatter across the marble like fallen stars, tiny crystalline sounds accompanying their bouncing trajectory.

Alastor twists violently, shoulders wrenching forward, using Lucifer's grip against him. The shirt tears further, the fabric already loosened by their earlier undressing. With a final wrench of his torso, Alastor pulls free, the shirt sliding off his shoulders to remain clutched in Lucifer's grasp like an empty husk.

Freedom teases him again—three steps, two—but Lilith moves with blinding speed, her form materializing between Alastor and the exit. Her hands capture his wrists in a grip that belies her delicate appearance, fingers closing like steel manacles around his bones. The strength in her grasp is absolute, cosmic, the power of a being who helped shape Hell itself channeled into the simple act of restraint.

"Such energy," she comments, her voice betraying nothing but mild interest despite the struggle. "One might think you were actually afraid of a little bath."

Alastor snarls, lips peeling back from teeth that seem sharper now, more numerous in his rage. His tail lashes behind him, the tuft of fur at its end bristling with agitation. "Unhand me, you pretentious harpy!"

Behind him, Lucifer's hands close around the waistband of his undergarments, the last remaining shield preserving his dignity. With a single sharp tug, the fabric tears away, leaving Alastor naked and vulnerable between them, fur bristling with indignation and fear he refuses to acknowledge.

"There we go," Lucifer purrs, discarding the torn fabric with casual disregard. "Much better."

Before Alastor can respond, before he can summon shadow or tentacle or any of the myriad powers at his disposal, they move as one. Lilith's grip on his wrists tightens painfully while Lucifer's arms wrap around his legs from behind, lifting him bodily from the floor. They carry him the few steps to the massive tub, now mysteriously filled with steaming water that smells of strange herbs and chemicals.

"No—don't you DARE—" Alastor begins, but the rest of his protest is lost as they swing him once, twice, and release him mid-arc.

The world tilts sickeningly, gravity reclaiming him in the brief moment of flight. Then comes the shock of immersion, water closing over his head in a rush of heat and pressure. Silence envelopes him for a heartbeat as he sinks beneath the surface, the liquid muffling the static of his aura into eerie underwater distortion.

Instinct drives him upward, limbs kicking against the weight of the water until his head breaks the surface with a gasping splash. He gulps air greedily, coughing out droplets that cling to his fur in glistening beads. Immediately he lunges toward the far side of the tub, as distant from his captors as possible, claws scrabbling for purchase on the smooth stone edge.

His fingers close around the rim, gripping with desperate strength as he pulls himself upward, water streaming from his soaked fur in rivulets. Escape is all that matters now—dignity abandoned in favor of survival, pride sacrificed on the altar of freedom.

A shadow falls across him, blocking the light. Lucifer stands at the edge of the tub directly before him, his imposing figure transformed by the removal of his formal attire. The King's ornate coat and hat are gone, leaving him in his shirt and trousers. His sleeves roll upward with deliberate slowness, exposing forearms corded with muscle that ripple beneath skin too perfect to be mortal.

The smile on Lucifer's face has returned to its usual charming cruelty, the earlier rage banked but not extinguished. He looks down at Alastor with the patience of a predator who knows its prey cannot escape—amused, almost fond, but utterly merciless.

"Going somewhere?" he asks, voice dripping with false concern. "But we've only just begun."

Lilith approaches the edge of the massive tub with predatory grace, her movements fluid and unhurried as water lapping at a shore. In her hands, she cradles two sleek bottles, their glass surfaces catching the light with opalescent gleams. The script across their surfaces declares "No Scent" in elegant cursive, the brand unmistakable to anyone familiar with omega products, specialized cleansers designed for one purpose only: the complete eradication of alpha pheromones from an omega's skin and fur.

Alastor's eyes lock onto the bottles, recognition flaring bright and terrible. His ears flatten against his head, a primal response he cannot suppress despite his desperate clinging to dignity. The Radio Demon knows that product well—has seen its advertisements plastered across billboards in the omega districts, heard the cheery jingles on sponsored radio segments. "No Scent: When Yesterday's Mistake Shouldn't Be Today's Problem!"

Except these weren't mistakes. They were choices—his choices—one of the few aspects of his cursed biology he had deliberately cultivated rather than suppressed. The scent bonding had served him well, keeping lesser alphas at bay, marking territory without the permanence of a bite. And on a level so deep he scarcely acknowledges it even to himself, those scents had been... grounding. Comforting, even.

Alastor's struggles renew with frantic energy, water sloshing violently over the tub's edge as he thrashes. One hand still grips the rim of the tub, but Lucifer's presence blocks his escape. His free hand slashes through the water, sending a wave of it directly into the King's face in a desperate bid for distraction.

"Get away from me!" Alastor snarls, his voice distorting with layers of radio feedback. "I refuse to be cleansed like some filthy animal!" His claws scrabble against the smooth stone, seeking purchase, seeking freedom.

Lucifer barely blinks as water drips down his features. With calm deliberation, he captures Alastor's wrist in a grip that threatens to grind bone against bone. "Still fighting? How charming." His other hand shoots forward, fingers tangling in Alastor's soaked hair, yanking his head back with cruel efficiency.

Alastor's response is pure instinct—teeth snapping forward with vicious speed, aiming for the vulnerable flesh of Lucifer's forearm. For a heartbeat, he tastes victory along with the copper tang of blood as his fangs graze the King's skin. The momentary triumph evaporates as Lucifer's grip tightens painfully, forcing his head backward until his neck strains against the unnatural angle.

"Are these alphas truly so important to you?" Lilith asks, her voice silken with false concern. She places the bottles at the tub's edge, the glass clinking softly against stone. "Such loyalty to those who've merely... rubbed against you."

"This has nothing to do with them," he spits, static crackling around each syllable. "And everything to do with you giving me NO CHOICE." His eyes narrow to crimson slits, boring into Lilith's with defiance that borders on madness. A bitter laugh escapes him, the sound more akin to broken glass than humor. "Tell me, Your Majesties, does your idea of partnership always involve such complete disregard for consent? Or am I receiving special treatment?"

The question draws no response beyond a tightening of Lucifer's grip and a slight narrowing of Lilith's eyes. "You may struggle, darling, but we do this for your own benefit," Lilith murmurs, the words floating above the ruckus of splashing water.

Alastor whips the surface of the bath into a froth with his thrashing. The static in his chest climbs to a shriek, clawing at his veins, splintering down to his fingertips, leaving every hair bristling. He digs his claws into the marble rim hard enough to send hairline cracks spiderwebbing through the stone. The only thing more desperate than his grip is the gagging, involuntary panic flooding his lungs every time the scent of those bottles reaches him.

The scent hits Alastor immediately—sharp chemical undertones beneath a neutral base, the smell of pheromone dissolution and memory erasure. He watches Lilith uncap one, the motion casual, almost lazy—no urgency, just the confidence of a cat dangling a dying mouse.

He isn’t a dying mouse. He won’t be reduced to one.

“Don’t touch me,” he snaps again, voice warble rising to a cutting edge, “I’ll bite off your hand next time.” He bares his teeth.

The cloth descends toward his fur, Lilith's expression one of focused determination rather than cruelty. "No!" The word tears from Alastor's throat, raw and desperate. His struggles intensify, water crashing over the tub's edge in waves that soak the marble floor. "DON'T—"

His protest dissolves into wordless sound as the cloth makes contact with his shoulder, scrubbing with firm circular motions that force the cleanser deep into his fur. Lilith's other hand pours shampoo directly onto his head, fingers working the solution into his hair with methodical precision.

Lucifer joins the assault, another cloth materializing in his hand as he works on Alastor's other side. Together they scrub every inch they can reach, their movements systematic and thorough, as though conducting a ritual purification rather than a bath.

Alastor's screams echo off the marble walls, his voice cracking with static and fury. His body twists against their ministrations, but their grips remain unbreakable, their determination unshakable.

They reposition him like a doll, lifting one leg and then the other above the waterline to ensure no part of him escapes their attention. The indignity burns worse than pain ever could. During one such maneuver, Alastor clutches the edge of the tub desperately, his upper body straining to keep his head above water as they lift his lower half. Soap runs in rivulets down his legs, carrying away the last traces of the alpha scents that had offered him protection.

"Tell me," Lucifer demands, his voice deceptively casual as he works the cloth over Alastor's calf, "did these alphas fuck you?" The crude question hangs in the steamy air, weighted with possession and threat.

Alastor's patience fractures entirely. "Fuck off," he snarls, abandoning the last pretense of civility. Water streams from his sodden hair into his eyes, blurring his vision but not diminishing the hatred that burns there. "Your obsession with my sexual history is becoming tedious."

Something dangerous flashes across Lucifer's face—not merely anger, but calculation. He exchanges a glance with Lilith, silent communication passing between them in the fractional lift of an eyebrow, the subtle curl of a lip. Without warning, they reposition Alastor again, this time with brutal efficiency.

Lilith moves to the head of the tub, her tentacles re-emerging to wrap around Alastor's wrists, pinning them to the stone edge with immovable force. The position forces him to lean forward, back arched, chest heaving with exertion and rage. Lucifer positions himself behind, one hand gripping Alastor's tail at the base, pulling upward until the Radio Demon is forced onto his knees, back straight, exposed and vulnerable.

The panic that surges through Alastor is primal and overwhelming. He looks over his shoulder, eyes wide, to see Lucifer squeezing a generous portion of the No Scent body wash onto just two fingers. The King's expression is neutral, almost clinical, but his eyes burn with something darker—possession, hunger, retribution.

"What are you doing?" Alastor demands, his voice higher than usual, the static crackling with new urgency. His body strains forward, trying to pull away from whatever Lucifer intends, but the grip on his tail prevents any escape.

Lucifer's free hand spreads across one cheek of Alastor's rear, the touch proprietary and invasive. His gaze lifts to meet Alastor's over the curve of the deer demon's shoulder, a smile spreading across his face that contains no warmth, only terrible promise.

"I believe I asked you a question," he says, voice soft with menace. "And since you seem reluctant to provide a clear answer..." His soaped fingers move closer to the cleft of Alastor's backside, the intent unmistakable. "I will have to assume these alphas took certain... liberties. In which case, we need to be thorough in our cleansing. Inside and out."

One finger presses against Alastor's entrance, not penetrating but applying enough pressure to make the threat explicit. Alastor lurches forward with renewed desperation, a sound escaping him that might, from any other being, be called a whimper.

"This isn't necessary!" he protests, radio feedback distorting the words. His claws dig into the stone of the tub's edge, leaving deep gouges in the polished surface. "You're making assumptions without—"

"Last chance, Radio Demon," Lucifer interrupts, the pressure of his fingertip increasing fractionally. "Did your alpha friends fuck you? Yes or no?"

Something inside Alastor breaks—not his will, not his defiance, but the last barrier holding back his desperation. The omega whine builds in his throat again, emerging despite his frantic attempts to suppress it. His head drops forward, water streaming from his antlers in rivulets that might disguise the humiliating tears of rage burning at the corners of his eyes.

"No," he whispers, the word nearly lost beneath the static. Then, louder, with the last shreds of his dignity wrapped around him like armor: "No, they did not."

The pressure against his entrance withdraws immediately. Lucifer pats his rear with casual familiarity, as though they've just completed a pleasant business transaction. "There, that wasn't so difficult, was it? Much easier than the alternative."

Lucifer’s hands release him, pushing Alastor’s hips down into the scalding water with a dismissive finality. His body flashes cold with relief, then flushes with a shame so hot it almost makes him dizzy. He sags forward on the rim of the tub, horns knocking gently against the stone, holding himself up with splayed, shaking hands. Every inch of him prickles, skin puckered and raw where they’ve scrubbed the scent from his fur.

Every cell in his body screams for some kind of forward momentum—one more lunge, a desperate kick, anything but this enforced stasis. But even his static, shrieking at the edge of audibility, cannot erase the pressure of Lucifer’s palm against his back, or the lingering sting of soapy violation at his tail. The bathwater slaps and resettles around his knees, now brine instead of shield, and the humidity curdles tight around his face. The silence is a live wire.

“Are we done here?” His voice comes out hoarse, more ozone than phonograph, more gritted iron than slick broadcast. He can taste brass on the back of his tongue. “Or will you be inspecting my sinuses for alpha residue as well?”

He doesn't expect the laugh. Not from Lilith. He braces for a lecture, a finicky snarl, another clamp of the tentacles. Instead, the Queen's mouth parts delicately and she releases a sound that’s very nearly human—rich, warm, arching through the bath’s echo chamber with a resonance that splits the tension like a crowbar. Not mocking, not even cold: a delighted, genuine laugh, as if he’s told a joke only the two of them can understand.

It resonates through Alastor—not just as laughter, but as a seismic shift in the room’s energy, a crack in the ritual of dominance and humiliation. The sound pries into him, hooks a string of old memory, and for a fractured instant he remembers kitchens and radio booths and the way sometimes, once, it was possible to be surprised. The laugh finishes, softening at the edges. The Queen straightens, her composure reasserted, and she wipes a delicate tear from her eye as if mortals’ jokes could move her to tears.

“Yes, darling. We’re done.” Lilith’s voice is rich as syrup, and perfectly matter-of-fact.

Chapter Text

The water swirls around Alastor's limbs, cooling rapidly against his fur as Lilith's declaration echoes off the marble walls. His moment of relief that the scrubbing has ended crumbles beneath the realization that what comes next might be worse. He watches the royal couple reach their hands toward him in perfect synchronicity, like puppeteers preparing to animate their prized marionette.

"Up you go," Lucifer says, his voice light with false cheer. "Can't have our consort catching a chill."

Four hands slide beneath Alastor's arms, the touch burning against his wet fur despite the tepid bath water. He attempts to shrug them off, but his limbs feel leaden, his strength sapped by the humiliation and struggle. They lift him from the tub with insulting ease, water cascading from his body in sheets that splatter against the marble floor. The sound seems obscenely loud in the tiled bathroom, each droplet punctuating his degradation.

"I am perfectly capable of exiting a tub on my own," Alastor mutters, his static crackling weakly around the words. His ears flatten against his skull as his bare hooves meet the cold stone floor. The moment the royals release their grip, his legs betray him—trembling once before buckling entirely, sending him to his knees with a humiliating thud that echoes his internal collapse.

He kneels, skin prickling, antlers dripping, soaked red fur clinging to every angle of his shivering form. The scent of the omega scrub still stings in his nose, acrid and sterile, overlaid with the sickly-sweet musk of predator satisfaction. The steam rising from the bath veils the world in a shimmer, twisting the outline of the royal couple as they stand above him, pristine and untouched. They watch him tremble, neither cruel nor kind, just clinical. Alastor’s humiliation etches the moment into memory, one more wax cylinder in his endless, unskippable archive.

Fine. On his knees, then. What did dignity ever buy him anyway?

His hands flatten to the tiles, claws splaying as if he might crawl the rest of the way out under his own power. The water slicks a path from his soaked chest down to his thighs, running in rivulets through the red fur and pooling beneath him with nowhere to go. He ignores the steady drip, the way his tail sticks clumsily to his thigh, the heat of shame that burns under his skin despite the chill. He gets one foot under him, then the other, and with an effort that almost makes him laugh—almost—he stands only to collapse back down.

He tries again. The stone bites. He rises, slips, drops to a squat and finally settles for a kind of tactically dignified crouch. He can’t will the shaking out of his knees, can’t will away the burning behind his eyes or the humiliating slosh of water leaking from his tail onto the floor. The cold sinks in, shaking loose a minute, uncontrolled shudder. If they think this will soften him, they’ll be disappointed. If they think this will break him, they are idiots. He drags in a breath and coughs chlorine and ozone.

He stays down. The cold seeps into his knees, through the thinnest places in his fur, a shiver marching up his spine in tempo with the metronome beat of bathwater plinking from his antlers onto marble. He fixes his gaze on the tiles just ahead, their perfectly squared geometry a comfort: at least something in this chamber follows rules. He expects laughter, a taunt, a boot to the ribs—hell, he might even deserve one for the spectacle he’s made—so when Lucifer crouches to his level, for a moment all Alastor catches is the way the King’s tailored pants bunch at the knees, the white of his shirt star-bright in the vapor gloom.

“Come now,” the King says, softly, almost as an aside, “pride is a fine thing, but if it could be digested I might have spared myself a millennium of fasting.”

And of course the towels are already there, so thick and white and overbearing they may as well be woolen straitjackets. Lucifer swings one around his shoulders from behind, and Alastor jerks instinctively at the contact, only for the towel to cinch tighter and pin his arms against his ribs around his spine. Lucifer’s arm clamps him from behind, the King’s wrist locking across his chest as if he’d ever been anything but prey in these halls. The towel wraps tighter and Lucifer physically lifts him upright, plasters the saturated fur to his body like a spell, then starts to rub—vigorously—at his dripping shoulders.

It’s not even the force of it, or the way his collarbone grinds against Lucifer’s knuckles. It’s the way the man hums. A little waltz, a nothing song, as if this is the most satisfying work he’s ever performed. As if drying off an unwilling omega is a sacred ritual. The towel skritches over Alastor’s neck, down his back, and up his chest in great, looping swaths. The friction scalds his skin. The static in his hair stands on end, the fur rising in wild spikes as Lucifer scours him with the brisk, impersonal competence of someone handling an expensive show dog.

Lilith glides forward, her stride slicing through the humid air with the certainty of someone who’s never once been denied a thing. She kneels beside Alastor—doesn’t lower herself, not really, but drops elegantly, the fabric of her dress fanning around her like oil spill on water. Another towel materializes in her hand, softer even than the first, and she presses it to his face without warning, blotting at the water streaming down his muzzle and into his eyes. The scent of her skin is everywhere, ozone and rose and something sharp beneath, buried under layers of courtly perfume.

She is gentler than Lucifer, but only by degree. The towel sweeps over his cheeks, dabbing at the moisture on his ears, folding the velvet between her fingers and meticulously scrubbing the base where the black tips meet his skull. He jerks at the contact, but she follows the movement, hands cupping his jaw as if she means to hold him there, jaw steady as a vice until he has no choice but endure the exam. The towel is warm from her hand. It chafes his raw nerves, but also—he hates this, he hates himself—some deep quadrant of his mind registers comfort, a clean static, the noise of wool against skin, and wants to sink into it. That part of his mind gets a savage kick.

Lilith’s hands are everywhere, or seem to be: towel across his brow, down his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, then in the quick flick she uses to clear water from his ears with the practiced snap of a dog groomer. She digs at the base of the antlers, careful and methodical, then thumbs the water from inside the cup of his ear, not caring for the undignified whimper that rips from his throat. Then, for good measure, she wipes down each antler, palm open, as if she’s buffing a trophy.

Her thumb wipes a drop from the corner of his eye, careful not to touch the sclera. "You know," she says, "in the old days, omegas would have been honored to be bathed by a king." Her tone is almost wistful, as if mourning some lost era of etiquette she herself murdered. He glares up at her, the only weapon left in his arsenal.

"How fortunate," Alastor says, lips peeling back just enough to reveal the jagged edge of his smile, yellow teeth gleaming against crimson gums. His voice crackles with static at the edges. "The old days are dead, darling, and I've always preferred to dance on graves rather than worship at them. Your 'honor' is wasted on me."

Lucifer seizes Alastor beneath the arms and hauls him upright with insulting ease, as if he weighs nothing at all. Alastor's knees crack in protest as they're forced to bear his weight again, pins and needles flooding his numb legs with the sudden rush of blood. Despite himself, relief flickers through him at no longer being sprawled on the cold tile.

Lilith makes a soft sound in her throat, something between a hum and a purr, and wipes a smear of condensed steam from the bridge of his nose. Her other hand moves lower, towel dragging a path down the front of his neck, collarbones, across the shallow furrows of his chest. Lucifer’s grip keeps him upright as she works, a private scaffolding, and Alastor hates the thought of being held up by anything, especially by him. He tries to twist away but the towel follows, relentless, working water from his ribs, his abdomen, his sides.

Lucifer kneels behind him, towel still clamped in his massive hands, and without ceremony yanks it down Alastor’s spine to his tailbone with the force of a man polishing silver for God’s own dinner party. Lucifer’s towel moves next to Alastor’s tail, the motion brisk, businesslike, as if drying off the hindquarters of a particularly difficult show-horse. The King makes a show of buffing the base of the tail with exaggerated care, knuckles digging in, towel gathering up every drop of water and every shred of dignity Alastor has left. The tail, uncooperative, flicks hard, the wet tuft smacking Lucifer across the cheek with a satisfying thwack. Alastor would relish the contact—if only it didn’t give the bastard such obvious delight.

Lucifer laughs, low in his chest, and redoubles his efforts. The towel wraps his tail like a noose, wrung down to the tip, then back up, then again, the action bordering on punitive. He circles the root with a twist before moving downward, drying every inch with methodical zeal. He’s humming again, the same intolerable waltz, which winds Alastor’s tail into a helix. "You do realize," the King says, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the towel, "that in other eras, an omega would have paid handsomely for such a service. You have no appreciation for tradition."

A sickening crack echoes through the bathroom as Alastor's head rotates a full one-hundred-eighty degrees, his neck vertebrae grinding against each other like millstones. He bares his teeth down at Lucifer, static prickling along his jaw. "In other eras, you'd have been guillotined for the presumption," he snarls. Lucifer smiles up at Alastor not fazed by the comment.

“You take far too much pleasure in this,” Alastor growls, his body writhing in a futile attempt to escape, only to find himself immobilized by four royal hands that might as well be iron shackles.

“Of course we do,” Lucifer says. “We’ve waited decades for this moment. I have every intention of savoring it.” The towel transfers to Alastor’s hips, his thighs, the rough draw of terry looping and burning, and Alastor—perhaps from sheer spite—plants his hooves and refuses to flinch. The towel squeezes down to his knees, then shins, then his delicate, ridiculous ankles. By the time Lucifer is finished, Alastor is dry, fluffed, and no less angry.

Suddenly Alastor feels Lilith’s towel drop to his hips.

He jerks, startled, and the towel slips but is immediately caught, pressed back against the jut of his hipbone like a compress on a wound. His skin goes cold where fabric meets flesh; the fur there is thinner, and he can feel every individual fiber of the towel as Lilith begins methodically scrubbing the water out of the red pelt above his thigh, the hand under it pressing in with drunken intimacy.

He realizes, with a gut-flip, that the towel is now mere centimeters from his groin. From skin—no, from vulnerability. The memory of her fingers at his jaw, the way she’d held his face for inspection, jumps to the present: her knuckles brush the tender inside of his hip with the casual ownership of a butcher weighing a cut of veal. No ceremony, no warning, just the incremental invasion of a space he can’t defend.

He bares his teeth, a warning, but Lilith ignores it as thoroughly as she ignores every social contract she’s ever broken. She drags the towel up the inside of his thigh, thumb braced along the femoral vein, and if he were mortal he’d bleed out in seconds from the force of it. The implication is clear: she could. She won’t. That’s the torture.

Behind him, the wet slap of Lucifer's discarded towel hitting the marble floor echoes through the bathroom. Lilith kneels gracefully before him, her towel already moving in swift, circular motions up his legs. Her hands track methodically from ankle to calf to knee, the plush fabric absorbing water from his fur with supernatural efficiency. The intimacy of her position, kneeling before him yet holding all the power, makes his skin crawl with revulsion.

"My, my," she murmurs, eyes flicking upward to meet his gaze as her hands move higher, the towel skating perilously close to regions he desperately wishes to keep private. "You're quite tense, Radio Demon.”

Irritation climbs through Alastor’s chest, a hot, raw pulse, as her hand migrates higher. The towel grazes his groin, not gentle but brisk, and he flinches despite himself. He fights the urge to clamp his knees together, knowing it will only amuse her further. He sets his jaw, refusing to grant the satisfaction of a reaction. She wipes away the last bead of water, knuckles brushing so close to his cock it’s almost a dare. He can feel both of their stares fixed on his face, searching for a crack. He keeps his eyes on the far wall, jaw twitching, and lets his smile widen until his cheeks ache.

Lilith gives a final, proprietary squeeze of his hip and stands, insufferably graceful even now. "There, all clean," she says. Her hand is loose

"Much better," Lucifer declares. "Now, shall we adjourn to the bedroom? It's time to get you properly dressed."

The words fall like stones into the pit of Alastor's stomach. He is suddenly, acutely aware of his nakedness, his fur still damp in places, his body exposed to their appraising stares. The bedroom promises another round of humiliations, more touches, more violations of his autonomy.

Instinct drives him forward before thought can intervene. His hand darts out, snatching Lilith’s towel from her hands. With quick, desperate movements, he wraps it around his waist, clutching the fabric at his hip as though it might shield him from more than just their gaze.

"There's no need for this false modesty," Lilith says, her voice musical with amusement. "We’ve already seen everything, darling. False modesty at this point is rather... quaint." At her side, fingers splayed, as if she expects him to hand it back. He doesn’t. He clutches the towel, fixing her with a baleful glare over the top of it, daring her to make a scene.

“Nonsense,” he says, voice just a hair short of a snarl. “At the very least, one expects privacy when crossing the hall.” The towel is thick, twice the size of his frame, but the way he knots it around his hips is practiced, precise. He even manages, in the process, to keep a barrier between himself and Lucifer’s shifting gaze—not that it helps. The towel does nothing to hide the cooling heat in his face, or the trembling in his hands as he tucks the end beneath the fold. He regrets nothing. If they want to undress him again, they’ll have to fight for it.

Lucifer steps forward, his shadow stretching across the marble floor. "The trouble with you modern omegas," he says with practiced nonchalance, "is that you've forgotten how to yield." His gaze travels deliberately down Alastor's torso, lingering on the sharp outline of ribs visible beneath damp fur. "Small wonder you're wasting away."

Alastor’s stomach does a sickening lurch, the kind that signals incoming disaster. His arms cross tightly over the towel, white knuckles clenching double-thick terrycloth, holding it in place as Lucifer’s eyes reduce the space between them.

“My Omega ancestors would have remembered the difference between yielding and… charity,” Alastor says. His voice has sand in it, phlegmy and exhausted. “But please, fantasize all you like about a golden age of groveling.”

Lucifer sighs, the sound exaggerated and theatrical. "Stubborn to the last. Come along, Radio Demon. To the bedroom with you. We have those lovely pajamas waiting, remember?"

He reaches toward the towel, fingers curling as if to pluck it away like an unwanted accessory. Alastor's grip tightens, knuckles whitening beneath red fur as he clutches the fabric. His smile stretches wider, baring teeth in a grimace of defiance poorly disguised as pleasantry.

"I'll keep it, thank you," he says, the static rising around his words like a shield. "Until I'm dressed."

Lucifer's fingers hover in the air between them, the moment balanced on a knife's edge of potential violence. Behind him, Lilith watches with the patient curiosity of a scientist observing an unexpected reaction in a controlled experiment.

"I prefer to be covered," Alastor replies, his voice steady despite the tension thrumming through him. The towel feels like armor, flimsy and inadequate, but armor nonetheless.

Lilith's head tilts slightly, her perfect features arranging themselves into an expression of amused curiosity. The look reminds Alastor of a scientist observing an unexpected reaction in a specimen—interest without empathy, fascination without warmth. Her eyes flicker to the towel clutched at his hip, then back to his face, as though connecting pieces of a puzzle only she can see.

"Is the towel really that important to you?" she asks, her voice soft with false concern.

Alastor's grip tightens on the damp fabric. The question feels like a trap, its simplicity masking deeper currents. To admit the importance of this small shield is to reveal vulnerability; to deny it would invite them to take it away. He chooses honesty, calculated and sharp.

"Yes," he says, the word clipped and final. "I prefer not to be paraded around naked like some trophy pet." His smile doesn't waver, but static crackles around the edges of his words, betraying the strain beneath his composed exterior. "Call it an old-fashioned sensibility from my mortal days. Where I'm from, gentlemen kept themselves covered outside the bath."

The towel represents more than modesty—it's a boundary, a tiny assertion of will in a situation where his autonomy has been systematically stripped away. A pathetic rebellion, perhaps, but his nonetheless.

Lilith studies him for a moment longer, her expression unreadable. Then, surprisingly, she nods, as though coming to a decision that pleases her. "Very well," she concedes, her tone indulgent. "I can understand that."

Relief flickers briefly through Alastor before suspicion douses it. Nothing has been given freely in this palace; every apparent concession has revealed itself as another layer of trap.

"But not those towels," she continues, gesturing to the damp fabric around his waist. "They're wet, and I won't have water tracked through our bedchamber." Her hand extends toward a tall cabinet. "Let me get you something more suitable."

Lucifer watches this exchange with half-lidded eyes, his smile curling at the edges with an anticipation that sends warning signals cascading through Alastor's nerves. The King says nothing, but his silence feels pointed, the restraint of someone enjoying a show in its early acts.

Lilith opens the cabinet, revealing stacks of towels in various sizes, all uniformly white and impossibly plush. She selects one that seems unnecessarily large, a vast expanse of fabric that unfurls from her hands like a small blanket. The material gleams with subtle enchantment, radiating gentle heat that Alastor can feel even from several feet away.

"This should do nicely," she purrs, holding it out toward him. "Come, release that wet rag and take this instead. It's much nicer, I assure you."

Alastor hesitates, weighing his options. The offered towel is indeed superior—larger, warmer, drier—but accepting means relinquishing his current covering, however briefly. A moment of vulnerability in exchange for better protection. His eyes narrow fractionally, calculating risk against reward.

"I can manage the exchange myself," he says carefully, extending one hand while keeping the other firmly on his current towel.

Lilith's smile widens a fraction. "Of course you can," she agrees, but doesn't move the towel into his reach. "But first you must stand up properly. I can hardly dress you while you're hunched against the wall like a frightened fawn."

The comparison stings, precisely as intended. Alastor straightens instinctively, pride temporarily overriding caution. His spine aligns, shoulders squaring as he draws himself to his full height. He is the Radio Demon, feared throughout Hell, not some cowering creature to be mocked.

This moment of dignity becomes his undoing.

Lilith moves with supernatural speed, her form blurring as she closes the distance between them. The large towel snaps open in her hands like the wings of some great bird, enveloping him before he can react. What should have been a simple draping becomes an act of capture as she wraps the fabric around him with practiced efficiency, binding his arms to his sides.

"What—" Alastor begins, but the word chokes off as Lilith spins him once, twice, the towel tightening with each revolution until he's cocooned from shoulders to knees. The wet towel he'd been clutching falls forgotten to the floor, rendered irrelevant by this more comprehensive imprisonment.

The static around him surges, crackling with renewed fury as he struggles against the constricting fabric. His arms strain against the bindings, but Lilith has wound the towel with infernal precision—tight enough to restrain, yet not so tight as to hurt. The material seems to resist his efforts, clinging to his damp fur with unnatural adhesion.

"There we are," Lilith says, satisfaction dripping from each syllable. "All bundled up and ready for bed."

Before Alastor can form a suitable retort, the ground disappears beneath him. Lilith's arms slide beneath his legs and back, lifting him with casual strength that makes mockery of his own power. He finds himself cradled against her chest like an oversized infant, his weight seemingly nothing to her ancient strength.

"Put me DOWN!" he demands, voice distorting with layers of radio interference. His body twists within the confines of the towel, but the movement only serves to nestle him more securely in her arms. "This is absolutely UNNECESSARY!"

"Oh, but it is," Lilith counters, her voice lilting with amusement. "You've demonstrated such resistance to the simplest tasks. This is merely... efficiency." She adjusts her hold, one hand supporting his back while the other curves beneath his knees, the position both secure and deeply humiliating.

Lucifer opens the bathroom door with a flourish, bowing slightly as his wife passes through with her struggling burden. "After you, my dear," he says, his smile gleaming with malicious delight. "Our consort seems quite comfortable in your arms."

"I am NOT your consort!" Alastor snarls, renewing his efforts to free himself from both the towel and Lilith's grip. The fabric seems to tighten in response to his struggles, as though alive and intent on containing him. "And I am certainly not COMFORTABLE!"

His hooves kick uselessly against air, unable to find purchase or leverage. Each movement seems to strengthen the towel's hold, the enchanted fabric adapting to his struggles with infuriating intelligence. Shadows flicker around him, responding to his rage but unable to form coherent shapes while his focus is divided between escape and maintaining dignity.

Lilith carries him through the opulent bedroom, her stride unhurried and regal. Her scent surrounds him, ancient and sweet, like flowers blooming over a grave. This mockery of tenderness, this perversion of care—it burns worse than any physical pain they might inflict.

The bedroom stretches before them, dominated by that massive bed with its mountain of luxurious fabrics arranged into the nest he'd noted earlier. Alastor's struggles intensify at the sight, panic flaring bright and hot beneath his ribs. The static of his aura crackles violently, distorting the air around them like heat rising from desert sand.

Lilith's steps are measured, deliberate, each one bringing him closer to that waiting nest. Her heartbeat remains steady against his shoulder, the rhythm ancient and unhurried. She carries him not as a captor transporting a prisoner, but as something more intimate, more possessive—a being who believes she holds something that already belongs to her.

Lilith halts before the massive bed, standing at the edge of the carefully constructed nest that awaits its unwilling occupant. The downy fabrics curve inward like the palm of a massive hand, ready to cradle, to envelop, to claim. Alastor feels his stomach twist at the sight, revulsion crawling up his spine like cold fingers. Even wrapped tightly in the towel, even held immobile in Lilith's arms, he manages to arch his body away from the nest, straining against both fabric and flesh to create distance between himself and this physical manifestation of his captivity.

The nest's construction is meticulous, he notes with simmering horror. Pillows form a perfect circle, their arrangement creating a hollow precisely sized for his body. Blankets of varying textures—silk, velvet, something that looks unnervingly like fur—layer the interior, building a soft prison disguised as comfort. Somewhere deep in his hindbrain, in places he refuses to acknowledge, something primitive responds to the sight with unwanted interest. He crushes the feeling immediately, burying it beneath layers of disgust and defiance.

"What are you doing?" he demands, voice sharp with alarm as Lilith shifts her grip, adjusting him in her arms as though preparing to deposit him into that waiting hollow. His body twists more violently against the confining towel, muscles straining to create some leverage, any leverage, against her inescapable hold. "Don't you dare put me in that—that thing."

Lilith's sigh feathers across his ear, intimate and unwelcome. "This 'thing,' as you so eloquently describe it, is a nest built specifically for your comfort." Her tone carries the patient condescension one might use with a difficult child. "It contains materials selected for your particular... sensitivities."

"I don't care if it's stuffed with gold and angel feathers," Alastor snaps, static crackling around each word. "I'm not getting in it."

"Hmm." Lilith's hum vibrates against his side where he's pressed against her. "It seems our Radio Demon continues his campaign of difficulty." She looks across the room to where Lucifer leans against a gilded armoire, his expression caught between amusement and impatience. "What do you think, darling? Shall we indulge this petulance or move forward?"

"I vote we move forward," Lucifer drawls, pushing away from the armoire with fluid grace. "The night grows late, and our consort has had quite the eventful day."

The casual discussion of his fate, conducted over his head as though he were an object rather than a person, sends fresh rage coursing through Alastor. His eyes narrow to crimson slits, teeth bared behind his strained smile. "I am right here," he hisses, "and I will not be treated like some doll to be dressed and positioned at your whim."

Alastor’s eyes dart from the nest to Lilith’s hands still braced under his knees, then to Lucifer, who is now settling himself on the edge of the bed as if he’s about to watch a stage show. Alastor’s tail lashes beneath the towel, anger channeled into motion, but his body is utterly trapped, his antlers caged against her shoulder.

“Let me go,” he says, voice scalpel-thin. “Or so help me—”

“Or what?” Lilith interrupts, one elegant brow arched so high it might detach from her skull. “You’ll squirm at us?” She shifts her grip, one hand sliding to cup his thigh through the towel, fingers flexing into the muscle so tightly that if Alastor were mortal, he thinks, it would surely bruise. “You’re lucky we’re even bothering with pajamas. Most unruly consorts simply go to bed as they are. Naked.”

He freezes. For one splintered second, the humiliation eclipses even the static in his veins. They wouldn’t. Not even these two would dare—would they? His mind sprints through the possibilities, all of them ending at the same cliff. In the split-second before Lilith makes good on her threat, he finds his mouth, pulls it together into the shape of a sneer.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Alastor says, voice crackling like interference between stations. His smile stretches wider, sharper, a defense mechanism that fails to mask the panic in his eyes.

"I refuse to sleep naked in your bed," Alastor snarls, renewing his struggles against the constricting towel. The fabric holds firm, magical fibers unyielding against even his considerable strength. His antlers flare slightly, lengthening with his anger, but even this manifestation of power feels hollow when he remains so thoroughly contained. "I would rather sleep on the floor."

"That won't be happening," Lucifer interjects, stepping closer to run a proprietary hand over the edge of the nest. "Our omega sleeps here, where we can ensure his comfort and safety." His gaze shifts to Alastor, red eyes gleaming with something between hunger and amusement. "Though I must say, I wouldn't mind seeing you au naturel for our first night together."

Bile rises in Alastor's throat at the implication, the acid taste of helpless fury burning the back of his tongue. The static around him intensifies, cutting through the air with the harsh discord of a dozen radios tuned to dead channels. It's pointless noise, he knows—a show of resistance that accomplishes nothing but revealing the depth of his distress.

"However," Lilith continues, as though Alastor's visible rage is merely a minor interruption, "I am not unreasonable. If you can manage to behave yourself long enough for us to dress you in your lovely new pajamas, then you won't have to sleep naked." She studies his face, reading the conflict there with predatory precision. "It's entirely your choice, Radio Demon. Cooperation or exposure. Which will it be?"

The false choice sits before him like poison in a gilded cup. Both options represent surrender, differing only in the degree of humiliation they entail. To cooperate means allowing them to dress him like a child's doll, submitting to their hands on his body, their control over even this most basic aspect of his existence. To refuse means spending the night naked and vulnerable, stripped of even the minimal protection clothing would provide.

His mind races, searching for a third option, some loophole or escape that eludes him. But wrapped in enchanted fabric, held in arms stronger than steel, what choice does he truly have? The bedroom door remains closed, his body exhausted from the physical and emotional battles of the day.

Pride wars with practicality in his chest, neither willing to yield. The Radio Demon does not submit, does not bend, does not allow others to dictate his fate. Yet here he is, caught in a trap so complete that even breathing feels like a concession to his captors' will.

"Well?" Lilith prompts, her patience visibly thinning. "I haven't got all night, darling. Naked or dressed. Your choice."

"Fine," he finally says, the word emerging like ground glass from his throat. "The pajamas." A snarl rises to Alastor's lips, trembles there for a heartbeat, then recedes behind the mask of his smile.

Lilith's smile widens with genuine pleasure, as though his grudging acquiescence is a victory worth savoring. "Wise decision," she purrs, adjusting her hold on him once more. "Lucifer, darling, fetch those lovely pajamas we selected. It seems our consort is finally ready to be reasonable."

As Lucifer moves to retrieve the garments, Alastor fixes his gaze on the ceiling, refusing to watch the preparations for his further humiliation. The ornate fresco above depicts fallen angels in various stages of transformation, their celestial beauty warping into demonic glory. He focuses on one figure in particular—a being caught mid-fall, face twisted with rage even as wings burn away to ash.

In that painted fury, in that frozen moment of catastrophic change, Alastor finds a reflection of his own circumstances. Falling, yes. Trapped, certainly. But not yet transformed, not yet remade in his captors' image. His eyes narrow, resolve hardening beneath the veneer of cooperation. They may dress his body, they may cage his form, but his will remains his own—a blade to be sharpened in secret, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Lilith sits on the edge of the nest, setting Alastor down before her like a specimen to be unwrapped. She leans in, and with a single, decisive tug, she undoes his towel cocoon. The fabric slithers from his body in a wet spiral, leaving him abruptly, spectacularly exposed. There is no warning, no mercy—the moment the towel is gone, reality snaps back to full brightness. Cold air needles his skin, his fur prickling in a million mortified directions. The heat in his face reaches his ears, igniting his antler tips with sharp, stinging embarrassment. His hands hover, useless, then fold in front of him, an instinct as ancient as shame.

Across the room, Lucifer retrieves the pajamas from their lacquered shrine atop an antique sideboard. He crosses the room, the pajamas draped over his arm, stripes swinging like a metronome with every step. He stops at the side of the nest and flicks the pants out, letting them parade through the air in a lazy arc before landing them across the blankets near Lilith.

Lucifer says while unfolding the pajama top with a snap of crisp fabric, "Arms out, please."

Alastor extends his arms with rigid reluctance, allowing them to slide the sleeves up each limb. The silk whispers against his fur, cool and smooth, the quality undeniable despite the circumstances. Lucifer moves behind him to adjust the garment across his shoulders while Lilith begins fastening the buttons from below.

Their touch lingers longer than necessary, fingers brushing against his chest and back with deliberate slowness. Each contact sends shivers of revulsion crawling across his skin, the sensation of their hands moving across his body almost unbearable in its intimacy. They are not rough or painful, which somehow makes it worse—the gentleness of their touch a mockery of care, a performance of tenderness that disguises the absolute control they exercise.

Lilith's fingers brush against his collarbone as she fastens the top button, her touch lingering at the hollow of his throat. "The color suits you," she observes, her voice a silken purr that sends unpleasant heat crawling up his neck. "It brings out the red in your eyes."

The next indignity is the boxers. Lilith produces them from behind her back with a flourish—a matched set, striped to the pajamas and edged in black piping. She holds them up by the waistband, brandishing the opening at him as if daring him to object. The fabric glimmers. Silk, of course; even the undergarments are more luxurious than anything he’d ever owned living or dead.

“Step in,” she says, a command disguised as invitation.

His balance is still off, and the slickness of his fur makes the fabric almost impossible to grip. He attempts to slide a hoof through the leg hole; the boxer leg collapses, refusing to cooperate, and the silk twists into a rope. His tail, traitor to the last, sticks to his thigh and refuses to thread through the back slit. He tries again, more frantically. The fabric catches on the damp at his hip, bunching andbunches until it refuses to go higher than mid-thigh. A sick, helpless noise almost escapes him and he clamps his lips shut, shoving at the silk with both hands, hating the sensation, the slide and catch, the implication of struggle. Lucifer crouches at his side and with embarrassing efficiency, tugs the boxers into place, smoothing the fabric over Alastor’s hips as though applying the finishing polish to a statue.

He expects a lecture, a condescending quip. Instead, Lucifer only tucks the waistband with a satisfied little puff of breath and leans back, hands poised artistically in the air as if admiring his work. The King’s gaze lingers a second too long on the line of Alastor’s hip, and Alastor shudders without meaning to, static rippling over his back in a white fuzz of humiliation.

Lucifer retrieves the pajama bottoms, kneeling to help Alastor step into them with a deference that feels like another form of humiliation. His hands guide Alastor's hooved feet through the openings, sliding the fabric up his legs with unnecessary attention to the contours of his calves and thighs. The King's fingers brush against the sensitive fur behind his knees, sending an involuntary shudder through Alastor's frame.

"Almost done," Lucifer murmurs, rising to secure the waistband around Alastor's hips. "You're doing very well."

The patronizing praise sends a surge of fury through Alastor. His lip curls back, sharp teeth bared in momentary loss of control. The urge to bite down on the hands that touch him with such presumptuous familiarity becomes nearly overwhelming. He catches himself just in time, teeth sinking into his own lower lip instead, the coppery taste of his blood a small price to pay for maintaining what little control he has left.

Lilith notices, of course. Her eyes fix on the bead of blood welling at his lip, something hungry flickering in their depths before she schools her expression back to maternal concern.

"No need for that, dear heart," she says, reaching up to brush her thumb across his injured lip. The gesture smears his blood, leaving a crimson streak that matches the color of his eyes. "You'll hurt yourself."

Alastor jerks his head away from her touch, static crackling around him in agitated bursts. "I prefer my own pain to your false comfort," he replies, each word sharp and precise despite the smile that remains fixed on his face.

Lilith merely laughs, the sound musical and entirely too knowing. She steps back to admire their handiwork, head tilting as she studies him in the new attire.

"He looks absolutely adorable," she declares to Lucifer, her voice warm with satisfaction. "The vintage style suits him perfectly."

"Indeed," Lucifer agrees, circling Alastor with the appraising eye of a collector examining a prized acquisition. "Like he stepped right out of his era. Our little radio star, all ready for bed."

Alastor's static flares at the diminutive, his shadow darkening against the floor despite the bright lights of the bedroom. "How fortunate that my involuntary captivity provides such entertainment for you both," he says, voice dripping with venomous sweetness. "Perhaps next you'll dress me in a sailor suit and have me recite nursery rhymes for your amusement. I'm certain that would be equally 'adorable.'"

The sarcasm falls flat against their unperturbed smiles. Lucifer merely chuckles, reaching out to straighten the pajama collar with proprietary familiarity.

"Now, now," he chides, his voice light but his eyes sharp. "There's no need for bitterness. You look splendid, and you'll feel much more comfortable sleeping in proper nightwear." His hand lingers at Alastor's neck, thumb brushing against his pulse point in a gesture that feels uncomfortably like ownership. "After all, we want our new consort to be well-rested. Tomorrow promises to be quite eventful."

The casual mention of sleep sends a fresh wave of dread through Alastor. The enormous bed looms in his peripheral vision, its elaborate nest of pillows and blankets a waiting trap more terrifying than any physical restraint they've employed thus far.

"Time for bed, sweetheart," Lilith announces, her voice soft as falling ash yet unyielding as ancient stone. She extends one elegant hand toward Alastor, the gesture somehow both invitation and command. Lucifer mirrors her movement on his other side, the royal couple forming a corridor of flesh that leads inexorably toward the massive bed with its waiting nest. The air between them grows thick with expectation, heavy with the weight of their combined will pressing against Alastor's resistance like water against a failing dam.

Alastor's gaze fixes on the bed, its massive expanse suddenly seeming to grow larger, more threatening with each passing second. The carefully arranged nest at its center yawns like the maw of some ancient beast waiting to swallow him whole. He imagines himself lying there, trapped between their bodies, their scents surrounding him, their hands free to touch him at will through the endless hours of darkness. The thought sends ice flooding through his veins, freezing him in place momentarily before fear transmutes to desperate energy.

The royal couple step toward him, their hands reaching for his arms with the casual certainty of those who have never been denied. Before their fingers can close around him, Alastor lurches backward, static crackling around him in violent bursts. His smile stretches impossibly wide.

"I think not," he says, voice sharp despite its radio host cadence. "I find myself rather opposed to the idea of sharing a bed with my kidnappers. Call me old-fashioned."

His eyes dart frantically around the room, cataloging potential escape routes with the desperate efficiency of trapped prey. The balcony doors—locked. The main entrance—too far, and likely secured as well. The bathroom perhaps? Or the closet? Might either contain a window, a vent, any opening through which he could slip away?

Before he can decide on a direction, Lilith and Lucifer move. Their hands close around his arms, grips gentle but implacable as they begin dragging him toward the bed. The contrast between their pleasant expressions and the inexorable force they apply makes the situation all the more nightmarish.

"Now, now," Lucifer chides, his voice warm with amusement that never reaches his eyes. "There's no need for such dramatics. Every consort must sleep somewhere, and where better than beside their mates?"

"I am not your consort," Alastor snarls. His hooves dig into the plush carpet, seeking purchase against the smooth floor beneath. The fibers tear under the pressure of his desperate resistance, leaving gouges in the expensive material. "And I will never be your mate!"

Lilith sighs, the sound carrying fond exasperation rather than genuine irritation. "Such spirit," she murmurs to Lucifer over Alastor's head. "He's going to be wonderful once he settles in."

With a casual display of strength that sends fresh terror coursing through Alastor, they lift him completely off the floor. His hooves kick uselessly in the air, finding nothing but emptiness as they carry him the final steps toward the bed. Panic, raw and primal, surges through him like electricity. His carefully constructed persona of the untouchable Radio Demon crumbles in the face of this intimate violation of his autonomy.

A growl builds in his throat, rumbling upward from some deep, ancient part of himself he rarely acknowledges. It spills from his mouth in a sound no human throat could produce—a crackling, static-laced snarl that carries the promise of violence. His antlers grow longer, sharper, the points stretching toward the ceiling as his power responds to his distress.

The royal couple halt at the edge of the bed, Alastor suspended between them like an offering to some terrible god. Lucifer's smile thins slightly, the only indication that the growl has made any impression on him at all.

"A simple question, Radio Demon," he says, his voice carrying the faintest edge beneath its pleasant surface. "Will you crawl into the nest yourself, or do we need to assist you further?"

Alastor's answer comes in the form of action rather than words. Tentacles erupt from his shadow, writhing manifestations of his power that surge upward with violent intent. They push against the floor with explosive force, propelling him backward out of the royal couple's grip. The sudden movement catches them momentarily off guard, allowing him to break free with a desperate lunge.

He lands several feet away, his form hunched and feral. His eyes have gone completely black, radio dials spinning in their depths like the tuning of some eldritch broadcast. Blood runs down his chin from his bitten lip, staining the pristine collar of his new pajamas. His smile has transformed into something terrible and jagged, stretching beyond the confines of his face in a display that would send most demons fleeing in terror.

"You can go fuck yourselves," he hisses, voice distorted by static and rage, "because I will get nowhere near that bed. Not tonight, not ever." His tentacles writhe around him, a crimson corona of manifested hatred. "I am not some pet to be caged and cuddled at your whim."

"Assistance it is, then," Lucifer says, his voice calm and matter-of-fact. The contrast between his pleasant tone and the violence of the situation sends chills crawling down Alastor's spine.

With a final, desperate surge of adrenaline, Alastor lunges for the door. His hooves barely touch the floor as he sprints across the room, movement blurred with preternatural speed. Freedom lies just beyond that ornate barrier—not escape from the palace, perhaps, but at least from this intimate horror of forced proximity.

He never reaches it.

Lucifer materializes before him in a burst of white smoke, his form solid and immovable as a mountain. Simultaneously, Lilith's tentacles erupt from the floor beneath Alastor's feet, pale appendages wrapping around his legs and torso with crushing strength. They lift him, spin him, and slam him back toward the bed with casual brutality.

Alastor's body connects with the mattress, the impact driving the air from his lungs in a whoosh of static. Before he can recover, the royal couple are upon him, their weight pinning him against the nest they've so carefully prepared. Lucifer holds his arms while Lilith's tentacles bind his legs, their bodies caging him with terrifying efficiency.

"I will tear this bed apart," Alastor promises, each word punctuated by harsh static. His body twists beneath their restraint, fighting with every ounce of strength he possesses. "I will rip your precious nest to pieces before I submit to this farce."

"You're welcome to try," Lilith purrs. "But I think you'll find our furnishings are rather more resilient than they appear." Her tentacles tighten around his thrashing limbs, applying precise pressure to limit his movement without causing pain. "Much like ourselves."

Lucifer's weight shifts, his body repositioning to maintain control while reducing direct contact, a small mercy Alastor cannot bring himself to appreciate in his panic. "Fighting will only exhaust you," the King of Hell observes, his voice matter-of-fact rather than taunting. "And you've had quite the trying day already. Why not rest? There will be plenty of time for resistance tomorrow."

"I don't need rest," Alastor snarls, his voice cracking with the force of his rage. "I need you to release me this instant!" His power pulses around him in crimson waves, shadows gathering at the edges of the bed like sentient pools of darkness. Yet each surge of energy seems weaker than the last, his reserves depleting after the day's repeated exertions and failures.

Lilith's hand strokes his hair, the touch simultaneously gentle and deeply invasive. "Such a stubborn little deer," she murmurs, her voice pitched to a soothing tone that only intensifies his fury. "But even the Radio Demon must sleep eventually. And when you wake, we'll still be here. And the next night, and the next."

Her words drive home the terrible reality of his situation with more force than any physical restraint. This is not a temporary captivity, not a single night to be endured before escape. They intend to keep him here indefinitely, to wear down his resistance night after night until he accepts his place between them.

The thought sends a fresh wave of desperate energy through him. He bucks against their hold, teeth snapping at any part of them within reach. His antlers have grown to their full, terrifying length, sharp points tearing at the pillows and sheets around him.

"I will never accept this," he promises, each word a blade dipped in venom. "I will fight you every moment of every day for eternity. Whatever you think you've captured, whatever you believe you can tame—you are mistaken. The Radio Demon kneels to no one, serves no one, belongs to no one."

Lucifer's laugh is soft and terribly genuine, carrying neither cruelty nor mockery but something almost like admiration. "We would expect nothing less," he says, adjusting his grip to avoid Alastor's snapping teeth. "A consort with no spirit would be terribly boring, don't you think, my love?"

"Indeed," Lilith agrees, her smile visible even in Alastor's peripheral vision. "And we have so much time to enjoy that spirit. All of eternity, in fact."

Chapter Text

Time stretched into a war of wills, minutes bleeding into hours as Alastor's struggles gradually transformed from violent thrashing to calculated stillness. His smile twitched, sharp edges of teeth gleaming in the dim light of the bedroom as his chest rose and fell with controlled breaths. The static around him had settled to a low, persistent hum, not submission, never that, but the measured patience of a predator conserving strength for the perfect moment to strike. His eyes remained fixed on the ornate ceiling above, refusing to acknowledge the weight of the bodies that still pinned him to the mattress like living shackles.

Lucifer shifted his weight slightly, the pressure against Alastor's wrists easing fractionally as he exchanged a glance with Lilith. Her tentacles remained coiled around the Radio Demon's legs, but their grip had loosened from crushing to merely restraining. The quiet that had fallen over the three of them hung heavy with unspoken calculations, the royal couple measuring Alastor's apparent surrender against their knowledge of his nature, Alastor cataloging every millimeter of freedom their cautious relaxation afforded him.

"There now," Lucifer murmured, his voice carrying that same patronizing warmth that made Alastor's fur bristle beneath the silk pajamas. "Much better. Perhaps we can all get some rest now that the theatrics have subsided."

Alastor said nothing, his smile stretching a fraction wider as his eyes continued their stubborn examination of the ceiling frescoes. The silence was his only weapon now, a thin blade of defiance against their unwanted intimacy.

Lilith's hand brushed across his forehead, smoothing back a strand of hair that had fallen across his eyes during the struggle. The touch sent revulsion crawling across his scalp, but he remained perfectly still, not even blinking to acknowledge the invasion.

"We'll leave you to settle in," she said, her voice a melodic purr that promised false kindness. "The first night is always an adjustment."

Her tentacles began to withdraw, slithering away from his legs like pale serpents retreating at their mistress's command. Simultaneously, Lucifer released his wrists, the sudden absence of pressure leaving Alastor's arms tingling with returning circulation. The royal couple moved, their weight lifting from the mattress as they prepared to rise from the bed.

The instant the last restraint fell away, Alastor launched himself upward. The movement was a blur of red pajamas and extended antlers as he lunged toward the edge of the bed. Freedom beckoned just inches away, at least from this nest of forced intimacy.

His hooves had barely touched the edge of the mattress when Lucifer's hand closed around his wrist, yanking him backward with casual strength. Simultaneously, Lilith's tentacles erupted from beneath the sheets, wrapping around his chest and legs in a crushing embrace that forced the air from his lungs in a static-filled gasp.

"Not so fast, dear heart," Lilith chided, drawing him back into the center of the nest. "We haven't even said goodnight yet."

Alastor's static flared violently, the sound of radio interference filling the room like angry hornets. "Release me," he demanded, each word bitten off with precise fury. "I have no interest in your perverse sleeping arrangements."

The cycle repeated itself, moments of apparent calm followed by desperate bids for freedom, each attempt met with the same implacable restraint. Minutes bled into hours, the eternal night of Hell stretching onward as neither side showed any sign of yielding. Alastor's energy waned, each escape attempt growing marginally slower, though his determination never faltered. The royal couple's patience seemed equally inexhaustible, their expressions showing neither fatigue nor irritation as they thwarted his every move.

During the latest lull in their silent battle, Lucifer propped himself on one elbow beside Alastor, studying the Radio Demon's face with genuine curiosity. "Are you not tired?" he asked, the question carrying none of the mockery Alastor expected. "Wouldn't you prefer to sleep rather than continue this endless cycle?"

Alastor's lip curled in disdain. "I prefer freedom to captivity, strangely enough."

"We could compromise," Lucifer offered, gesturing toward the far edges of the massive bed. "For your first night, Lilith and I could sleep at either end, leaving you the middle to yourself. Would that help?"

A harsh laugh escaped Alastor, crackling with static. "I don't need sleep."

"Yes, yes I understand that you don’t want to-" Lucifer began, his tone taking on that instructive quality that made Alastor's teeth grind together behind his smile.

"No," Alastor interrupted, his voice sharp as a blade. "You misunderstand. I don't sleep. Ever. Not since arriving in Hell."

The royal couple exchanged glances over his prone form, their expressions shifting to something Alastor recognized with mounting rage as concern. Genuine concern, as though his sleeping habits were somehow their business, as though he were a problem to be solved rather than a captive to be released.

"You haven't slept in..." Lilith's voice trailed off as she calculated. "Nearly a century?"

"I've never seen the need after dying," Alastor replied, his tone deliberately casual despite the intimate confession being forced from him. "Resting while conscious provides my body with the same benefits sleep once did. This way, no one can approach me while I'm vulnerable."

Lucifer's brow furrowed, something almost like sympathy flickering across his features before it was smoothed away beneath his eternal smile. "That would explain some of your behavior."

"What behavior?" Alastor demanded, suspicion crawling through him like ice.

"Omegas require proper care," Lilith explained, her voice taking on that same clinical tone she had used when commenting on his weight. "Adequate rest, nutrition, hydration—all these factors contribute to healthier heat cycles and, eventually, successful breeding."

The word "breeding" sent a wave of disgust through Alastor so powerful he nearly gagged. "I don't give a damn about healthier heats or pups," he spat, the static around him pulsing with his revulsion.

"You should," Lucifer countered, his voice firm despite its gentle cadence. "With proper self-care, your heats wouldn't be so debilitating. The pain and discomfort would lessen significantly."

"The pain and discomfort would disappear entirely if you hadn't tampered with my medication," Alastor retorted, fury bubbling beneath each word. "You can take your 'care' and fuck off with it. I don't want your concern. I don't want your protection. I don't want your bed or your touch or your forced intimacy." His smile stretched painfully wide, revealing too many teeth. "What I want is my freedom, which you seem determined to deny me."

The static around him crackled with renewed energy, his momentary exhaustion forgotten in the face of their presumptuous concern. Whatever vulnerabilities they had extracted from him, his lack of sleep, his too-thin frame, were weapons now, ammunition they would use to justify their continued violation of his autonomy. The realization settled like lead in his stomach, heavy with the knowledge that each piece of himself he revealed only tightened their grip around him.

"You will begin sleeping with us," Lucifer announced, the words falling into the space between them like stones tossed into still water. His voice carried neither cruelty nor compromise, only the absolute certainty of one who has never known true refusal. "Proper sleep, a full eight hours with REM cycles. Your body requires it, regardless of what habits you've cultivated." His fingers drummed against the silk sheets, each tap releasing tiny puffs of apple-scented air that mingled with the static crackling around Alastor's rigid form.

The declaration sent ice crawling through Alastor's veins, freezing him more effectively than any physical restraint. Sleep—that most vulnerable of states, consciousness slipping away, defenses lowered, body helpless. His mind conjured images that made his stomach turn: waking to find wandering hands upon his body, opening his eyes to see their faces hovering above his own, or worse, not waking at all as they took whatever liberties they desired with his unconscious form.

His eyes widened, radio dials spinning faster with barely contained panic. The static around him flared in violent bursts that made the chandeliers above them sway gently, crystals tinkling like distant wind chimes.

"Absolutely not," he hissed, each word precise despite the fear clawing at his throat. "I will not render myself unconscious in the presence of two alphas who have demonstrated, repeatedly and with impressive thoroughness, their complete disregard for my consent and autonomy." His smile stretched wider, a barrier as vital as his refusal. "What guarantee would I have that you wouldn't—" The words caught in his throat, too horrific to voice aloud.

Lucifer's expression shifted, something like genuine offense flickering across his features. "We would never—"

"You would never what?" Alastor interrupted, static crackling around each syllable. "Force yourselves upon me? Forgive my skepticism, but your track record of respecting my boundaries is somewhat lacking. You've already taken my freedom, my clothing, and my dignity. Why should I believe you'd draw the line at taking advantage of my unconscious state?"

Lilith's hand settled on Lucifer's arm, a gentle pressure that silenced whatever response had been forming on his lips. Her eyes never left Alastor's face, studying him with the calm assessment of a predator noting every weakness in potential prey.

"My dear," she said to Lucifer, though her gaze remained fixed on Alastor, "I believe I have a solution."

Without warning, the tentacles around Alastor shifted. Before he could react, Lucifer's hand closed around both his wrists, pinning them to his chest in a grip that felt deceptively gentle yet held the strength of mountains. Simultaneously, Lilith moved behind him, her slender fingers sliding beneath his head to cradle his skull with terrible intimacy.

"What are you doing?" Alastor demanded, his voice steady despite the panic surging through him like electricity. "Release me immediately!"

The tentacles repositioned him, lifting his upper body into a half-sitting position that left him partially reclined against Lilith's lap. Her fingers threaded through his hair, the touch sending unwelcome shivers down his spine. He tried to jerk away, but Lucifer's grip on his wrists tightened in warning, holding him firmly in place.

"Look at me, Alastor," Lilith commanded, her voice carrying a strange resonance that seemed to vibrate through his bones.

Against his will, his eyes met hers. Something flickered in their crimson depths, a power older than Hell itself. The pupils expanded and contracted in hypnotic rhythm, like the breathing of some ancient creature. Alastor's mind screamed warnings, but his body betrayed him, gaze locked with hers as surely as if she had physically grasped his face.

"You are a strong demon, aren't you, Alastor?" Lilith's voice poured into him like warm oil, slick and heavy. It didn’t reach him through the air like sound normally should, it echoed strangely in his ears, distorted and slow, as though she were speaking underwater or from the other end of a long, stone corridor. Every syllable pulsed through his skull, bouncing inside it like ripples in a glass jar.

Alastor’s head dipped in a small, involuntary nod. He hadn’t meant to move, hadn’t chosen to move. The realization chilled him, sharp and cold. A thick pressure began to settle behind his eyes, like wet cotton being slowly packed into the hollow of his skull. His brow creased as he tried to summon clarity, to focus through the blooming fog, but his thoughts slipped from his grasp like fish through oil-slicked fingers.

"It must be so hard," she continued, her voice narrowing around him, threading through his ribs and up the column of his spine, "to hold that strength in place day after day. To never let it falter. Especially here, where so many sinners would love to see you break."

Alastor made a sound, half snarl, half groan, as he tensed against Lucifer’s grip. He twisted his torso, a flicker of defiance lashing out in his core, but the hold on his wrists remained firm. Unyielding. The tension only made the disorientation worse. His balance was gone, and his thoughts—his own thoughts—felt like they were being edited in real time, overwritten by hers.

The pressure in his skull swelled. His temples throbbed with a dull, rhythmic beat, like distant drums echoing from some sunless place. His eyelids began to droop against his will, as though they’d been weighted down with stones. Each blink took longer to reverse, and the pull of gravity grew crueler with every second.

"So many expectations," Lilith murmured. Her fingers, light and practiced, traced slow circles into his scalp, each movement eroding another layer of resistance. "The Radio Demon must always be in control. Always unpredictable. Always dangerous. Never allowed to rest. Never safe enough to simply be."

Her words curled through his consciousness like smoke, curling into places even he didn’t know were vulnerable. She wasn’t just speaking to him, she was speaking him, mapping his weaknesses, reciting truths he refused to acknowledge even in his own head.

"You fight so hard, Alastor," she said gently, the edges of her voice fraying into a breathy whisper. "But you must be tired. Aren’t you tired?"

Something cracked in his mind, a hairline fracture that let in the full weight of her influence. A desperate voice inside him screamed that this was manipulation, an intrusion, an ancient angelic art twisted to a darker purpose. But the thought dissolved as soon as it formed, swallowed by the ever-thickening fog blanketing his awareness.

"I don't..." he slurred, his tongue suddenly clumsy, as if it had outgrown his mouth. "I don't need... sleep." His body jolted in one last burst of resistance, a panicked hoof kicking uselessly against empty air. "Not... tired."

"But you are," Lilith whispered, and now her voice was inside him. Not in his ears, not anymore, but nestled behind his thoughts, as though she'd found a crack in his mind and slipped in like a thief. "You're exhausted, darling. You’ve carried this mask for so long it’s starting to crack. I can hear it, even when you can't. You're not fooling anyone. Least of all yourself."

Her hands were still in his hair, still coaxing, still gentle, but their gentleness was suffocating. A mother’s lullaby turned sinister. A predator grooming its prey.

"Let go," she crooned. "No more vigilance. No more teeth bared in every room. No more staring at the walls, afraid to blink. Let your mind rest. Let someone else hold you for once."

The room tilted. Or maybe he did. It was impossible to tell. The ceiling stretched upward, distant and curved like the sky. Colors smeared at the edges of his vision, warping the chandeliers into starbursts. His limbs were no longer responding to his commands, they felt foreign, sluggish, too far away to control.

His static flared again, but it was faint, more whisper than scream now, a frayed thread unraveling from a dying broadcast.

"...No," he muttered. It sounded like it came from someone else. He wasn’t sure his lips had even moved. "Won’t... sleep... can’t... make me..."

The darkness rose inside him like a flood, thick and inexorable, ignoring his last stand with the same casual cruelty as time itself. Each heartbeat was slower than the last, dragging with it the last shreds of defiance. He tried to reach for his power again, but it was like grasping smoke. His antlers, which had flared earlier in panic, began to recede, curling inward with each flicker of surrender. The crackle of static that usually danced around his form faded to a ghostly whisper.

His eyelids fluttered, once, twice, each blink lasting longer than the one before. The effort to lift them again became insurmountable, like lifting stones with threadbare strings. A heavy, impenetrable warmth was coiling through his limbs, sinking him deeper into Lilith’s lap. His body felt foreign, weighted, no longer his.

One last flicker of static, weak, sputtering, hissed through the air. It carried no real power, but it was defiant in its existence, a signal sent out in the hope it might be remembered. A protest. A promise. A warning.

And then, silence.

Alastor’s body sagged, the last remnants of tension draining from his form like blood from a mortal wound. His head lolled gently to the side, cheek pressing against the velvet of Lilith’s robe. His arms, released by Lucifer’s careful hands, dropped limply to his sides. The rigid mask he always wore, his razor-edged smile, the gleam in his eye, the constant undercurrent of threat, had all softened into something hauntingly serene. Peaceful, even.

His chest rose and fell in slow, even breaths. Deeper than a trance. True, unguarded sleep. The kind no one had ever seen from the infamous Radio Demon. The kind even he had forgotten how to experience.

Lucifer and Lilith said nothing for a time. The silence was reverent, electric with satisfaction and awe. The room, once filled with static and tension, had gone utterly still, just the faint sound of breathing, and the occasional soft, almost childlike snore, broken only by the odd burst of radio static fluttering from his slack lips like half-formed words in a dream.

"It worked," Lucifer said at last, his voice low with disbelief and admiration. "I wasn’t sure it would. He’s... stronger than I anticipated."

Lilith nodded slowly, fingers never leaving his scalp as she combed through his hair with the devotion of a priestess tending a sacred altar. "Even the strongest will break," she murmured. "But not with force. Only exhaustion. That’s the truth of it, his resistance wasn’t arrogance. It was survival." Her voice dipped into something gentler, more intimate. “But survival has made him brittle. He needed this, whether he knew it or not.”

They eased him down into the nest with ritualistic care, arranging him as though he were fragile glass. Lilith tucked a silk pillow beneath his head, and Lucifer gently unfolded his legs from their tense curl, straightening them with an eerie sort of grace. A blanket, soft as spun dreams, was drawn up over him and settled across his chest like the closing of a curtain on a long and agonizing performance.

“Look at him,” Lilith whispered, brushing her thumb across his temple. “So sweet in sleep. Almost… innocent.”

Lucifer’s expression softened into a private smile, one tinged with possessive pride. He studied Alastor’s face, still smiling but softer, and marveled at how young he looked with it. “His refusal to rest… for nearly a century,” he said thoughtfully, “no wonder his heats were so volatile. He’s been burning at both ends for far too long.”

He brushed a strand of hair from Alastor’s brow, a ghost of affection in the gesture, careful not to stir him. “We’ll address the rest in time. The malnutrition. The overstimulation. The constant masking. We’ll teach him what a body needs, whether he likes it or not.”

“One step at a time, my love,” Lilith murmured, though her expression mirrored his own. A smile of victory, yes, but also of something deeper. Claiming. “We have eternity, after all. Time is on our side.”

She leaned in, pressing a kiss to his forehead, light, almost motherly in its softness, though the possessiveness behind it was anything but maternal. Had Alastor been awake, he would’ve snarled. Bitten. Cursed. But in sleep, he remained still. Trusting, not by choice, but by necessity.

“Let him have this night,” she said, stroking his cheek with a lover’s touch. “Tomorrow, I suspect, he’ll wake teeth-first. But tonight… he’s ours.”

Lucifer chuckled faintly, settling beside them. “Let him sleep, then. The real battle begins when he wakes.”

The sleeping demon between them gave no indication of hearing their words, lost in the first true slumber he had experienced since his death. The static around him had settled to a gentle, ambient hum, like a radio tuned to a frequency of perfect silence.

Chapter Text

Cyan light spirals through his consciousness like watercolor on wet paper accompanied by the phantom touch of fingers he cannot place. A voice calls to him across a vast distance. Shadowy figures sway at the edges of his vision, one drawing nearer until one shadow approaches, resolving into a familiar silhouette—his mother. Her words reach him as tender whispers, filled with warmth yet frustratingly indistinct, hovering just beyond comprehension.

The voice of his mother fades like radio static losing reception, her gentle words dissolving into the haze between dreaming and waking. Alastor's consciousness claws its way reluctantly toward the surface, dragging itself through layers of unnatural slumber that cling to him like tar. Something is wrong, the scent is wrong, the textures against his fur are wrong, the very air pressing against his skin carries wrongness in every molecule. His body feels impossibly heavy, limbs weighted with residual magic that confirms what he already suspects, his sleep was not entirely natural.

His eyelids peel open with agonizing slowness, gummed together with the sticky residue of prolonged unconsciousness. The ceiling that greets him is unfamiliar, painted with scenes of angelic warfare that seem to move when viewed through sleep-blurred vision. Golden light filters through massive windows, casting the room in a deceptively warm glow that does nothing to dispel the cold dread pooling in his stomach.

The nest. He's still in the nest.

Memory returns in a violent rush, shattering the momentary confusion of waking. The previous day's events cascade through his mind with merciless clarity—his audience with the royal couple, their unwanted proposition, his failed escape attempts, the humiliation of being forcibly dressed and restrained in this very bed. His body tenses immediately, anticipating the weight of their bodies pinning him down, but finds only softness beneath him.

Alone. He appears to be alone, at least for the moment.

Relief lasts only seconds before the assault on his senses begins in earnest. The scent of alpha—no, alphas, plural—saturates everything around him. Their combined aroma permeates the sheets, the pillows, the very air he breathes, invading his nostrils with each inhale. Lucifer's scent carries notes of apples, brimstone, and something celestial that defies description, while Lilith's contribution is darker, richer, like ancient soil watered with blood. Together, they create a potent mixture that makes his nose wrinkle in disgust, his upper lip curling involuntarily.

Alastor attempts to push himself upright, a groan escaping him as unfamiliar looseness in his limbs betrays his efforts. His arms tremble, muscles responding with sluggish reluctance to his commands. He slips once, his elbow sinking into the too-soft mattress, before managing to lever himself into a sitting position. The sensation is foreign and deeply unsettling—the Radio Demon does not experience physical weakness, does not wake with the leaden limbs of deep sleep. Even in his human life, he had been a light sleeper, alert and ready at the slightest disturbance.

This boneless languor speaks of intervention, of power beyond his own imposing a state upon him that he would never willingly allow. The thought sends fresh anger coursing through him, temporarily burning away some of the residual grogginess.

Frustration mounts as he lifts a hand to rub at his eyes, trying to clear the persistent fog of sleep that clouds his vision. His fingers come away tacky with the crust of dried tears—had he cried in his sleep? The possibility is so mortifying that he immediately dismisses it. More likely the result of prolonged unconsciousness, his body's natural response to eyes remaining closed for an unnaturally long period.

As awareness of his physical state sharpens, Alastor becomes cognizant of an unpleasant dampness against his cheek. His hand moves automatically to investigate, fingers encountering a cold, wet patch on the side of his face. The realization hits him.

Drool. He, the Radio Demon, terror of the Eastern District, has been drooling in his sleep like an infant.

Humiliation burns through him, hot and acid as bile rising in his throat. His eternal smile tightens to the point of pain, teeth clenched behind the rigid mask of his expression. This degradation goes beyond the mere fact of his captivity—it strikes at the very core of his carefully constructed image, the immaculate presentation he has maintained without fail since his arrival in Hell.

As if the discovery of drool weren't mortifying enough, he becomes aware of an uncomfortable tightness on one side of his head. His exploring fingers encounter a tangled mass where his usually sleek hair should be. The crimson strands have knotted themselves into a wild configuration during the night, standing out from his head in a manner he can only imagine looks ridiculous. One of his tufted ears appears to be folded backward, caught in the mess of his hair like an animal trapped in brambles.

The Radio Demon, feared throughout Hell for his power and poise, reduced to this—rumpled, drooling, his hair a disaster, wearing pajamas chosen by his captors, nestled in bedding saturated with their scent. The indignity is so complete, so carefully engineered, that it can only be deliberate. They have orchestrated every element of his situation to strip away his dignity, to reduce him to something small and pathetic in his own eyes.

His fingers twitch with the impulse to snap, to summon his magic and restore himself to his usual immaculate state. Just as he's about to execute the gesture, the massive doors to the bedroom swing open with theatrical force, the sound reverberating through the chamber like a thunderclap.

Lucifer bursts into the room first, pushing a large dolly cart laden with covered dishes and gleaming silver. Lilith follows, her movements more measured but no less purposeful, her endless blonde hair flowing behind her like a royal cape. The cart's wheels squeak slightly against the floor, an incongruously mundane sound in the opulent surroundings.

"Good MORNING!" Lucifer's voice booms with excessive cheer, his volume calibrated to ensure that any lingering sleep would be instantly banished. His smile seems wider than ever, eyes sparkling with an enthusiasm that looks as manufactured as it is unwelcome. "Rise and shine, our sleeping beauty!"

The royal couple pause in perfect synchronicity as they take in Alastor's disheveled appearance. Their expressions shift in identical ways—first surprise, then something softening in their features, a glow spreading across their faces that makes Alastor's skin crawl with revulsion.

"Oh my," Lilith breathes, one hand rising to her heart in a gesture of affected delight. "Look at him, Lucifer. Have you ever seen anything so adorable?"

"Absolutely precious," Lucifer agrees, his voice dropping to a stage whisper that carries perfectly across the room. "Bedhead and all. I told you he'd be delightful in the mornings."

Alastor's static aura crackles around him, responding to the surge of mortification and rage that courses through his body. Being perceived in this state—vulnerable, disheveled, less than perfect—is a violation more intimate than any physical restraint they've yet imposed.

With a sharp snap of his fingers that cuts through the air like a blade, Alastor summons his power. Magic ripples across his form in a crimson wave, erasing the evidence of his vulnerability with ruthless efficiency. The drool vanishes from his cheek, the crust around his eyes dissolves to nothing, and the tangled mess of his hair smooths itself back into its usual sleek style. His tufted ears perk upright once more, no longer trapped in the undignified tangle. His smile, already present by reflex, tightens into something more controlled, more deliberate—a shield against the intimate invasion of their gaze.

Lilith's expression falls, disappointment flashing across her perfect features before settling into something more calculating. "Aww," she sighs, the sound simultaneously wistful and threatening. "I was looking forward to combing that beautiful hair of yours." Her eyes narrow slightly, head tilting as she studies his now-immaculate appearance. "But there will be time for that later, won't there?"

The promise—or threat—of 'later' hangs in the air between them, loaded with implications that make Alastor's skin prickle beneath his fur. He says nothing, maintaining his rigid smile as Lucifer wheels the cart closer to the bed.

"I hope you're hungry!" Lucifer announces, his cheerful tone carrying an edge that suggests Alastor had better be hungry, regardless of his actual appetite. The King of Hell's hands dance over the covered dishes on the cart, fingers tapping against silver lids with childlike excitement. "Nothing starts the day better than a hearty breakfast, wouldn't you agree?"

Before Alastor can formulate a suitably cutting response, the royal couple begins transferring trays from the cart to the bed. They move with synchronized efficiency, placing covered dishes around him in an elaborate semicircle that transforms the already ostentatious bed into something resembling a banquet table. Silver domes gleam in the morning light filtering through the massive windows, their polished surfaces reflecting distorted images of Alastor's increasingly rigid posture.

"What exactly do you think you're doing?" Alastor asks his voice crackling at its edges. He draws his legs closer to his body, creating distance between himself and the nearest tray. "This is repulsive. Beds are for sleeping, not dining."

Lucifer pauses mid-placement of a particularly large tray, his smile widening fractionally. "Surprise!" he exclaims, gesturing grandly at the assembled dishes. "Breakfast in bed! A tradition for newly mated couples in many cultures." He sets the tray down with a flourish, the contents beneath the dome shifting with a soft clink of china.

"A tradition we particularly enjoy," Lilith adds, her voice carrying a silken quality that does nothing to mask the steel beneath. She arranges the final tray with meticulous precision, her movements graceful yet somehow predatory.

Alastor's lip curls with undisguised revulsion. "Breakfast in bed is disgusting," he states, each word precise and cutting. "Crumbs in the sheets, spills on the blankets—only animals eat where they sleep." His ears flatten against his head, betraying his disgust despite his efforts to maintain composure.

"Such concerns," Lucifer chuckles, removing his pristine white jacket and draping it carefully over a nearby chair. The motion reveals a crisp red waistcoat beneath, the color matching Alastor's hair with unsettling precision. "Don't worry about the mess."

Before Alastor can react, Lilith glides around to the opposite side of the bed. With fluid grace, she slips onto the mattress, her weight barely disturbing the elaborate arrangement of dishes. The mattress dips slightly beneath her, forcing Alastor to shift to maintain his distance.

"The staff will change the sheets later," she assures him, her voice a purr that sends unpleasant shivers down his spine. She adjusts her position, settling closer than propriety would dictate, her thigh nearly touching his despite his efforts to maintain space between them.

Simultaneously, Lucifer climbs onto the bed from the other side, boxing Alastor between them with casual precision that speaks of premeditation. The trap closes around him without a single threatening word or gesture—just their bodies, positioned to limit his movement without seeming to restrain him.

With theatrical flourishes, they begin removing the silver domes from the dishes, revealing a spread that would be impressive if it weren't so invasively intimate. Steam rises from freshly cooked offerings, carrying aromas that blend and compete in the close air of the bedroom. Sweet scents of maple syrup, caramelized sugar, and cinnamon swirl with the savory notes of bacon, eggs, and rich buttery pastries.

Stacks of golden pancakes tower on one plate, glistening with melting butter and amber syrup. Another dish holds a mountain of scrambled eggs, flecked with herbs and spices. Crisp bacon curls on a silver platter, while delicate pastries filled with fruit preserves rest on fine china. Crystal glasses stand ready beside pitchers of orange juice, water, and what appears to be blood-red wine, condensation beading on their surfaces.

"I'm not hungry," Alastor declares, his voice sharp with defiance. The statement is partially true—his appetite, never robust to begin with, has been thoroughly suppressed by the circumstances of his captivity. More importantly, the declaration represents one of the few refusals still available to him, a small rebellion against their orchestrated scenario.

Lucifer exchanges a glance with Lilith, something unspoken passing between them that makes Alastor's fur stand on end. "Nonsense," the King of Hell replies, dismissing Alastor's statement with casual authority. "You barely ate yesterday, and your frame is already far too thin."

"A growing boy needs his breakfast," Lilith adds, her maternal tone a mockery that makes Alastor's static crackle with indignation.

They begin selecting items from the various dishes, assembling portions with careful deliberation. Lucifer gravitates toward the sweeter offerings, piling pancakes, pastries, and fruit onto a fine bone china plate trimmed with gold. His fingers move with nimble precision, arranging the food with artistic care.

Lilith, meanwhile, selects from the savory dishes—eggs, bacon, thin slices of rare meat that glisten with juices, crusty bread spread with herb butter. Her choices are arranged with equal attention to detail, the plate becoming a carefully composed still life of breakfast delicacies.

Alastor watches their preparations with growing unease, his eyes darting between their hands and the diminishing space between them. His gaze searches the bed, the trays, the cart—counting plates with sudden, sinking understanding.

Two plates. They are preparing two plates.

Not three.

No plate for him, despite the abundance of food surrounding them on all sides. The realization sends a cold wave of comprehension washing over him, followed by the heat of renewed indignation. His smile stretches wider, sharper, the edges of it almost painful as understanding dawns with terrible clarity.

They don't intend for him to feed himself at all.

Lucifer slices into the stack of golden pancakes with precise movements, the silver fork gleaming as it pierces through layers of buttery softness. Amber syrup cascades down the sides like slow-motion lava, pooling on the plate in a sticky halo. With practiced elegance, he lifts a perfectly proportioned bite, balancing it on the tines of the fork while his other hand slides beneath to catch any errant droplets. The offering moves toward Alastor's face with deliberate slowness, crossing the invisible boundary of personal space with casual disregard for his obvious tension. Lucifer's smile widens, anticipation gleaming in his eyes as the syrup-laden morsel hovers mere inches from Alastor's permanently fixed grin.

Alastor stares at the approaching food with undisguised revulsion, as though Lucifer were offering him something putrid rather than perfectly prepared pancakes. His eyes narrow to crimson slits. The smile on his face twists into something more akin to a sneer, teeth bared in a grimace that only superficially resembles joy.

"I believe I mentioned," he says, voice clipped, "that I have no appetite." He leans away from the fork, putting precious inches between himself and the unwanted offering, his posture rigid with indignation.

Lilith's hand lands on his shoulder, her grip gentle but unyielding. Her perfectly manicured nails press lightly against his pajama-clad skin, five points of pressure that serve as a silent warning. "Alastor," she says, her voice taking on the measured tone of a mother addressing a misbehaving child, "when your mate offers you food, the appropriate response is gratitude, not rejection."

The static around Alastor crackles with suppressed rage at her condescending tone. "How fortunate that I am not, in fact, your mate," he replies, each word precise and cutting. "Thus freeing me from such tedious social obligations." His gaze shifts to her hand on his shoulder, then back to her face, challenging her to remove the unwelcome touch.

"You will eat the food offered to you," Lilith continues, ignoring his defiance as though it were merely amusing rather than genuine. "It was prepared with care, specifically for you." Her voice drops slightly, gaining an edge that could cut glass. "Our omega will not waste our efforts."

The possessive pronoun lands like a physical blow, sending fresh waves of indignation coursing through Alastor. His static aura flares, shadows gathering at the edges of the bed like sentient pools of darkness responding to his rage. "I am not yours," he hisses, momentarily dropping the radio affectation as raw emotion bleeds through. "And I will not be hand-fed like some invalid or pet."

Pale, luminescent tentacles materialize without warning, emerging from behind Lilith to coil around Alastor's torso. They slither across his form with invasive familiarity, wrapping from shoulder to waist in a fluid, serpentine motion that both restrains and mocks him with its gentle pressure. The Queen's manifestations hold him firmly upright, limiting his ability to pull away without applying enough force to cause pain.

A growl builds in Alastor's throat, rumbling upward from some primal place that transcends his usual calculated persona. His antlers grow slightly with his anger, sharp points elongating toward the ornate canopy above the bed. Rational thought briefly surrenders to instinct as fury overwhelms his careful self-control.

With a sudden, violent movement, he lifts his leg, hoof aiming for the nearest tray of food. The intention is clear—to kick the carefully arranged breakfast across the luxurious bedding, to splatter their precious offering across the sheets and floor, to reject not just a bite but the entire premise of their forced intimacy.

Lilith moves with supernatural speed, her hand shooting out to capture his ankle mid-strike. Her slender fingers close around him with crushing strength, halting his rebellious kick mere inches from its target. In one fluid motion, she slams his leg back down against the mattress, the impact sending small tremors through the bedding despite the plushness of the surface.

Before he can react, she's in his face, moving with the silent, terrifying grace of something ancient and predatory. Her endless blonde hair cascades around them, a golden waterfall, creating an intimate space that excludes even Lucifer from their confrontation. Her eyes bore into his, crimson meeting crimson in a clash of wills that sends electric currents of tension crackling through the air between them.

"Listen carefully, Radio Demon," she says, her voice a velvet-wrapped blade that cuts deeper for its softness. "If you kick this food, food we have prepared with consideration for your needs, from this bed..." She pauses, allowing the threat to build in the silence before continuing. "I will force you to lick every bit of sauce from these sheets."

Her hand tightens on his ankle, the pressure precisely calibrated to communicate the seriousness of her words without causing actual damage. "Every drop of syrup, every smear of butter, every spot of jam—you will clean it with your tongue until the fabric is spotless."

Her free hand moves to grip his chin, forcing his face up to maintain eye contact as she leans closer still. "And when you've finished with the sheets, you'll move to the carpet. Each crumb, each morsel that falls to the floor—you will consume it all, picking it from the very fibers if necessary." Her breath ghosts across his face, sweet and terrible. "Until it is all gone. Every. Last. Bite."

The threat hangs between them, its impact magnified by the absolute certainty in her voice. This is not hyperbole or empty intimidation, it's a promise, delivered with the calm assurance of one who has existed since the dawn of sin and has perfected the art of creative punishment.

"Do you understand me?" she asks, each word enunciated with crystalline clarity.

Alastor's mind races, calculating the cost of continued defiance against the humiliation of compliance. The visual she has painted, of him on hands and knees, licking food from fabric like an animal, sends revulsion crawling through him like insects beneath his skin. His smile tightens at the corners, the only outward sign of the struggle raging within him.

After a moment that stretches like eternity, he gives a single, curt nod of acknowledgment. Not surrender, never surrender, but strategic retreat, a necessary concession to avoid a greater indignity. Lilith holds his gaze for several seconds longer, ensuring the message has been properly received, before releasing his chin and leaning back to her original position.

Lucifer, who has observed the exchange with uncharacteristic patience, tilts his head to one side. The pancake-laden fork, which he has held steady throughout the entire confrontation, returns to its position before Alastor's mouth.

"Now then," the King of Hell says, his voice carrying the brightness of one who chooses to ignore unpleasantness, "shall we try again? These are quite delicious, I assure you."

Alastor's grin twists into something grotesque, his head cocking at an unnatural angle like a broken marionette. “Such generosity! Alas, my tastes run a touch more…savory, I’m afraid. But your enthusiasm is truly a treat, Your Majesty.” It's not a refusal to eat, he's acknowledged the futility of that position, but a rejection of this specific offering, a small assertion of preference in a situation where he has precious few choices left.

Lucifer's expression falls into an exaggerated pout, his lower lip protruding in a display of disappointment that would be comical in any other context. "That's too bad," he sighs, withdrawing the fork with reluctance. His eyes narrow slightly as he studies Alastor's rigid profile. "But I suppose it's something we'll have to remedy over time."

He places the fork back on his own plate, fingers tapping thoughtfully against the fine china. "You'll get used to enjoying sweets, my dear Radio Demon. I'll make certain of it." His smile returns, bright and terrible in its certainty. "Pancakes are my favorite breakfast, you see. And I do so love sharing my favorite things with those I care about."

The implication lands precisely as intended, this is not merely about breakfast, but about remaking Alastor according to their preferences, reshaping him bit by bit until he conforms to their vision of what their omega should be. Starting with something as simple as his palate, working inward toward more fundamental aspects of his being.

“It would be a far greater pleasure to see your joy unspoiled, rather than choke down sweetness and feign delight,” Alastor says with fake concern. He finishes exaggerating, “I’d never wish to insult your favorite fare with a grimace, my king.”

Alastor hears the faintest tap against porcelain. He turns to see Lilith staring down at him. His gaze sliding toward Lilith and the plate balanced on her lap. The savory array on her dish calls to him with far more appeal than Lucifer's syrup-drenched offerings, delicate slices of rare meat still glistening with blood, eggs scrambled with herbs and spices, crisp bacon curled at the edges from perfect cooking. His stomach betrays him with a quiet growl, too soft for human ears but perfectly audible to the demons surrounding him. Hunger, it seems, has decided to make an appearance despite his best efforts to deny it, another biological weakness manifesting at precisely the wrong moment.

Lilith's eyes narrow, crimson irises gleaming with dangerous intelligence as she studies him. The tentacles around his torso tighten fractionally, a silent communication of her displeasure. "You were offered food from your alpha," she says, her voice carrying the chill of ancient winters. "And he is being very patient with you right now." One elegant finger traces the edge of her plate, circling the items he so clearly desires. "You should be a good mate and take what is offered to you."

https://www. /chirimoyass02/796319229901209600/hi-everyone-heres-a-little-art-based-on-the?source=share

Art by the amazing @chirimoyass02

The moment hangs, fork poised, tentacles tightening, Lucifer’s expectant smile a razor slicing through the sticky air. Alastor could bite. He could let the syrupy assault happen and spit it back on the King’s immaculate lapel. He could refuse again, and be forced to lick the bedsheets clean in the most exquisitely demeaning fashion Hell could devise.

Or he could play the game. No, he could play it better. If he is a pawn in their game, let him be the kind of pawn that gouges the hand that places him on the board.

“Forgive me, Your Majesties,” he says, layering the title in equal parts syrupy sarcasm and wounded dignity, “but it would be a crime against breakfast to start with dessert.” He lets his smile soften, the edges drooping into something almost sheepish. “If it would please Your Majesties,” he says, and he even manages to sound faintly abashed, “might I have a moment to recalibrate my palate? It’s been a while since I’ve indulged in, ah, domestic fare.” He leans back slightly, head tilted at a calculated angle, the posture of a performer making the best of limited stagecraft despite his bound arms. Without his hands free to press dramatically against his chest, he relies on this subtle positioning alone to convey theatrical vulnerability. The gesture carries all the practiced charm of vaudeville's finest, a wordless apology designed to disarm. “Perhaps a savory amuse-bouche to whet the appetite?”

Lilith’s lips curve in a knowing way, like a cat about to interrogate a particularly piquant canary. “A savory amuse-bouche, is it?” she repeats, as if the phrase pleases her immensely. She lifts a single brow, the movement so refined it must have been rehearsed over centuries. “How continental.”

Lucifer laughs, but the sound is less mirth than the clink of a champagne glass being shattered for emphasis. “There’s your answer, darling,” he tells his wife, but never takes his eyes off Alastor. “Our little star does indeed have a palate for the dramatic.”

“A palate for drama,” Lilith agrees. "How delicately you phrase your needs, darling." Lilith's voice drips contempt, but she sets her plate down with a theatrical sigh of indulgence. "I suppose it is unfair to expect a demon of your, ah, palate, to adjust all at once. Wouldn't you agree, love?" She cocks her head toward Lucifer, who regards Alastor with the satisfied air of a cat watching a mouse beg for cheese.

"Quite so," Lucifer purrs. Lucifer plucks a sliver of bacon from Lilith's plate, twirling it between two fingers as if selecting a particularly rare cigar. "Our little Radio Demon wants something savory," he intones, his voice dipping low and intimate, his gaze never leaving Alastor's face. "How scandalous. An omega who prefers meat to sugar. That must be a first in recorded history."

Lucifer eyes slide over the bacon in his hand and his eyes light up for a moment. “Ah, that’s right, isn’t it?” The King indulges in a slow, deliberate purr, as if savoring his own revelation. “You were quite the little gourmand on the mortal coil. Still are, I suppose. All that business with charcuterie—how did the papers put it? The insatiable hunger for rare meats?” He wags the bacon mockingly. “I always thought the cannibal rumor was a bit overblown, but perhaps that’s just a matter of perspective.” He pops the bacon into his mouth, chewing slowly, lips curling in a way that makes the simple act both obscene and patronizing.

Alastor’s glare sharpens. He’s been called many things, monster, sadist, aberration, but the implication that his preference for flesh is a perversion, even among the damned, is a new and inventive insult. He can feel the heat rising through the fine fur of his cheeks, the flush made worse by the memory of how, he’d once torn a rival’s throat open and licked the blood from his own claws with such abandon. What was the point of being a monster, after all, if not to bite back?

He straightens his back, fixating on Lilith’s face, making a deliberate show of ignoring Lucifer’s taunt. “Well, someone ought to maintain a sense of refinement,” Alastor remarks, pitching his voice so that the sarcasm turns honeyed. “It’s a relief to find at least one palate in the household that isn’t dulled by a century of burnt sugar and apple rinds.” He directs a quick, covert glance at the Queen, eyes wide in a pantomime of commiseration. “I’d thought perhaps my standards were too high, but clearly the domestic menu here is… subject to the whims of the king.” He lets that word curdle in the air, pointed and sharp as a bread knife.

He shifts on the mattress, tension leaving his muscles as suddenly as if a switch had been flipped. His smile softens, posture loosening into a performative relaxation. He’s never been averse to a little theater, if it gets him out of the worst humiliation. “Well, my dear Queen,” Alastor says, pitching his voice in a confidential hush, “I must admit, my tastes do run darker than most. Perhaps it’s the French in me, what a cliché, non?” He lets the lilt hang, inviting her complicity. “But I do appreciate a table set with a proper charcuterie.”

Lilith’s smile sharpens at the corners, smart and hungry. Without breaking eye contact, she reaches for a slice of rare meat, folds it gently, and holds it aloft between thumb and forefinger. The meat is deep red, marbled with delicate veins of fat, clearly cut from a source both exquisite and wicked. She lets the slice dangle, letting it glisten in the morning light before bringing it to her lips. It disappears in a single, practiced gesture. She chews slowly, her gaze never leaving his, her tongue flicking out to capture a bead of juice at the corner of her mouth.

Alastor’s mouth waters despite himself. The act is purely chemical, a trick of scent and muscle, entirely beneath the notice of his higher mind. He can almost taste the iron, the salt, the life still clinging to the slice of meat even as it vanishes behind Lilith’s perfect teeth. The sight should repulse him. Instead, it draws a line of longing down his throat, all the way to the pit of his stomach, like a plumb bob seeking the lowest, most humiliating point.

He angles his head, arranging his face into what he hopes is the picture of mild, world-weary appreciation. “Impeccable selection,” he offers, inflecting the phrase with just enough sincerity to make it ambiguous. “You do have exquisite taste, my Queen. One can always tell when the host is a true connoisseur.”

Lilith dabs at the corner of her mouth with a cloth napkin, her movements unhurried. “I do adore a kindred spirit,” she purrs, voice thick with velvet and old rot. “How rare it is, to find someone who truly understands the pleasure of… savoring.” She lifts another slice of meat from her plate, but instead of offering it to Alastor, she folds it over her own tongue, smiling with closed lips as she chews.

Alastor watches the movement, the flex of her jaw, and feels a low growl start to coil in his chest. He lets it vibrate there, an electrical hum barely perceptible to anyone outside the cage of his ribs. This is a test, she is testing him, dangling the thing he wants, then indulging herself instead. It is petty, and it is perfect. He can respect such cruelty.

He leans in. Just a fraction. Just enough that the scent of the rare meat, coppery, faintly electric, nothing like those insipid pastries, fills his head, fogs out the syrup still hanging in the air. His smile shrinks three sizes, reducing itself to something sly and secret. “If the Queen would permit,” he says, voice low, “perhaps we might share a taste? A little morning diplomacy.” He lets the suggestion hang with a delicacy that, were he not so acutely aware of the tentacles still cinched at his ribs, might almost read as flirtation.

“I confess, I feel a certain kinship with you, my Queen. Neither of us are overly fond of playing by another’s rules. Surely a Queen renowned for her discerning taste and refusal to bow to convention would understand the plight of a poor omega with unorthodox cravings. I’d wager you yourself prefer the earthy pleasures to the sickly sweet, do you not, Your Majesty?”

Lilith’s gaze sharpens, heat glimmering in the red depths as if she’s drawn power from his plea. “How uncharacteristically diplomatic of you, Alastor,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. Lilith’s smile grows slow and deliberate, her eyes never leaving Alastor’s. She plucks a blood-bright morsel from her plate, a razor-thin slice glistening at the edge with its own juice.

Lilith’s gaze lingers on him. The slice of meat poised between her fingers glistens, the deep red darkening at the edges where it’s just begun to dry. She runs her tongue along her teeth, slow as a cat regarding a cornered mouse, then presses a thumb against the meat, collecting a slick bead of juice. She holds Alastor’s eyes as she draws her thumb to his mouth, smearing the blood-dark stain across his lower lip in a single, deliberate stroke. It is not gentle, but it is not violent. She means for him to feel the drag of her skin against his, the weight of intent behind the touch.

She leans forward, so close the ends of her hair brush Alastor’s jaw, the blood-slicked thumb still pressed to his lip. For one vertiginous instant, he thinks she means to kiss him, to force his mouth open and claim the taste of him along with the taste of her own amuse-bouche. But she stops just shy, leaving the suggestion of contact suspended between them, a distortion in the air like a radio wave tuned just off frequency.

He can smell her breath, the faint rot beneath the perfume, the iron tang of the rare meat, the aftertaste of something floral and venomous. The radio static behind his teeth threatens to surge, but he holds it in, holds everything in, because if there is one thing Alastor knows, it is the art of endurance. He meets her stare head-on, expression locked in that immaculate smile, the muscle at his jaw ticking hard enough to ache.

Lilith’s thumb lingers on Alastor’s lip, the texture of her skin leaving a friction that sticks there even after she removes her hand. “You’re not the only one who prefers their pleasures dark, darling,” she murmurs, the words so close they seem to vibrate in his mouth rather than in his ears. “I find it refreshing, actually—an omega with appetites more interesting than the usual simpering for sweets and safety.”

Her eyes hood, her lashes sweeping down as she studies the contrast of her blood-red stain against the paler red of his own lips, and her smile deepens, genuinely pleased now in a way that edges into something nearly triumphant. “You and I will get along beautifully,” she says, low and slow, like a promise. “It’s been centuries since I had a mate who understood the finer points of flavor. The texture of a good heart. The way hunger is the oldest currency of all.”

He lets the blood stain linger on his lip, lets the Queen see it, lets her see him noticing it. He’s not sure if he should wipe it away or lick it clean. Either would be a concession, either would be a small surrender, and even now—especially now—he wants every act to be his own. He splits the difference: sticks out his tongue and touches it to the smear, savoring the taste with a baroque slowness, eyes never leaving Lilith’s. The tang is electric, a jolt of iron and salt and something that prickles at his teeth.

He draws out his response, rolling the flavor on his tongue. “I suppose that’s why neither of us ever lasted long under a king’s thumb,” he says, soft enough to make her lean in, sharp enough to cut. “Some creatures are made to rule, others to serve. And then there’s the awkward few who prefer to eat the crown rather than polish it.”

The Queen’s amusement cuts off, the air between them snapped taut as a violin string. Her smile remains, but whatever heat had bloomed in her gaze turns, in a blink, to something cold and absolute. The shift is so abrupt it nearly unbalances him, one moment she’s the cat relishing her play, and the next she’s the hand that wrings the bird’s neck.

Alastor realizes, too late, that he has misplayed.

The mattress dips as Lilith shifts her posture. The movement is small, a ripple beneath the sheets, but the effect is that of a tectonic plate sliding into place: a new landscape, a new gravity. Her tentacles, which had loosened to a mere suggestion of threat, cinch in an inch at Alastor’s ribs, squeezing until he feels the bones flex. Her voice, when it comes, is so soft it doesn’t so much cut as seep: “That was quite the fanged little flirt, darling,” Lilith murmurs.

She smiles again, wider, colder, every bit the queen who has seen a thousand upstart courtiers try to bite the crown and choke. Her hand covers his, pinning it neatly to the bedspread with a force that, while gentle on the surface, promises bone-deep consequences if he struggles.

“I can see,” she purrs, voice pitched so only he can hear, “why my husband was so eager to bring you home.” Her gaze slits, pupils going vertical. “But I don’t care to be mocked at my own table. Not even by a guest with such sharp teeth.”

The tentacles at his ribs squeeze sharply, not punishing but warning, drawing a tight breath from his lungs. Her face is right up to his, chin almost brushing his, lips so close the taste of last words seems less symbolic and more literal. The coldness in her gaze isn’t anger, exactly, but something older, absolute, the pitiless calculus of a queen who has never lost a war.

“You think cleverness is enough?” Lilith’s hand returns to his chin, fingers curving beneath to force his head up, exposing the vulnerable column of his throat. “You think you outlast rulers by nipping at their fingers? By clever little games?” Her smile returns, smaller, more dangerous. “If you wish to survive, you must know when biting back only sharpens the knife to your own throat.”

If they insist on casting him in the role of omega, perhaps he can use their expectations against them.

The thought alone makes him hate himself, a self-loathing that burns hotter than his rage at them. To deliberately perform the stereotype, to play into the very designations he has spent decades rejecting, it cuts against everything he values about himself. Yet survival requires adaptation, and dignity serves no purpose if he starves himself into weakness.

Alastor’s tongue flicks out to chase the blood-bright residue from his lower lip. The taste lingers, coppery and immediate, and he hesitates, letting it pool at the tip of his tongue a moment before swallowing. He maintains eye contact, letting the moment stretch, then folds his defiance behind a practiced, almost bashful, averting of his eyes. He drops his gaze, lashes lowering as if in a show of submission, and lets the next words emerge in a voice that is softer, pitched lower, as if the sharpness of the previous exchange has truly wounded.

“Forgive me, my Queen, I—” He pauses, as if gathering courage. The act is calculated, but he lets his shoulders hunch a fraction, lets his body read as small, contained, chastened. “I apologize for my insolence.”

The words hover, unsteady on his tongue, but Alastor softens his posture, letting his gaze linger just above Lilith’s shoulder, a calculated display of remorse, the kind he’s seen work a hundred times in the old world, always on men who craved a show of compliance. Even now, the absurdity is not lost on him: the predator feigning prey for the pleasure of tyrants.

“It’s been…a long time,” he murmurs, voice pitched to a confessional hush. “I’m not used to so much attention. Forgive me if my instincts are…less refined than Your Majesties might expect of a consort.” He lets the word consort linger in the air between them, his voice catching slightly on the final syllable. “I’ve never had to negotiate the—” he gestures, a jerk of his chin indicating the food, the bed, the suffocating field of their combined scents, “—dynamics. I hardly know what’s expected of me.”

“I… did not mean to offend.” The words come out softer than intended, a porous, bruised thing. “It’s only that—” Another pause, as if fighting an urge to withhold. “It’s only that sweets unsettle my stomach in the morning. Always have. My appetite is… difficult, and I wanted to avoid embarrassing myself before you and His Majesty.”

He senses the shift in her, the minute recalibration of pressure in the tentacles cinched at his ribs. Lilith’s grip is still tight, but it becomes less of a threat and more a point of leverage, pulling him closer, demanding his full attention.

“I fear a delicate constitution is one of my many failings,” he continues, his voice adopting the hollow, embarrassed cadence of confession. “My… prior keepers never took kindly to it.” He invites her to make of it what she will.

With deliberate slowness, Alastor lowers his ears, the tufted appendages pressing back against his head in the universal signal of omega submission. The motion feels foreign, wrong, like deliberately dislocating a joint. He tilts his chin upward slightly, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat, not fully bared, but enough to signal deference without complete surrender.

The tentacles around him shift in response, their pressure lightening slightly as Lilith registers the change in his demeanor. He seizes the opening, hating himself with each calculated word.

He pitches his voice lower, as if the effort of apology costs him. “If it would please Her Majesty—” he pauses, calibrating the angle of the plea for maximum authenticity, “might I… might I try again?” He quirks his mouth into a sheepish, self-effacing smile, then glances up through his lashes in a gesture borrowed from countless ruined debutantes of his own making. He is careful to hold her gaze for just the right amount of time before averting it again, reinforcing the image of a creature too wounded to withstand the full force of her attention.

He waits. There is a long, exquisitely uncomfortable pause. In the silence, Alastor catalogues the precise pressure of Lilith's grip, the shifts of her tentacles, the heat of Lucifer's intent gaze. All evidence, all data points, suggesting his gambit is working. Omegas are expected to be delicate, to bow and scrape and beg for approval. Fine.

Lilith's expression shifts, something predatory flickering in her eyes that might be mistaken for tenderness by one less observant than Alastor. She leans toward him, her blonde hair spilling forward to brush against his pajama-clad shoulder. The scent of her, intensifies with her proximity, an alpha musk designed by evolution to calm and seduce omegas.

Instead of repelling him, as most alpha scents do, Lilith's aroma carries an unexpected note that catches him off-guard, something almost familiar, like the bayou soil of his human home, dark and fertile beneath the Louisiana moon. The association disturbs him more than outright revulsion would have, creating a momentary confusion in his carefully maintained defenses.

Before he can process this unwelcome reaction, Lilith's cheek brushes against his, the contact sending electric shivers cascading down his spine. The gesture, intimate and possessive, mimics the scent-marking behaviors of alpha-omega pairs, a claiming display that leaves traces of her scent on his fur.

The unexpected contact triggers something primal and unwelcome in Alastor's throat. A sound escapes him, high, brief, and utterly mortifying. The chirp, for there is no other word for the noise, an omega vocalization of pleasure so stereotypical that he would rather be torn apart by holy weapons than acknowledge he produced it.

Lilith pulls back slightly, her eyes wide with delighted surprise before crinkling at the corners with genuine amusement. "Oh, how adorable," she purrs, her voice dripping with satisfaction that makes Alastor's skin crawl beneath his fur. "Such a sweet little omega sound." Her hand rises to stroke his cheek, fingers trailing along his jawline with proprietary familiarity.

Just as he begins to think his humiliating performance has succeeded, Lilith's demeanor shifts with the suddenness of a lightning strike. Her hand shoots upward, fingers tangling in the hair at the back of his head. She grips the crimson strands with unexpected strength, yanking his head backward with enough force to strain his neck without causing true injury.

Pain blossoms across his scalp, sharp and immediate, as she holds him immobile with that single point of contact. Her expression hardens, the maternal affectation falling away to the true face of Hell's Queen, unmasked and unforgiving.

"Did you really think," she whispers, her voice simultaneously intimate and terrifying, "that I wouldn't recognize manipulation?" Her grip tightens, forcing a small hiss of discomfort from between his clenched teeth. "That I wouldn't see through such an obvious attempt to play us against each other?"

Her free hand moves to his face, fingers pressing against the sides of his mouth with precise, inescapable pressure. Despite his resistance, she forces his jaws apart, her strength overwhelming his attempt to keep his teeth clenched. His sharp fangs snap uselessly as she pries his mouth open, holding him in a position of complete vulnerability.

"Darling," she calls to Lucifer, her voice warm with affection that contrasts obscenely with the violence of her grip. "You've been so patiently waiting. I hope our omega didn't hurt your feelings too badly." She turns Alastor's head toward the King of Hell, presenting him like an offering. "He's ready to eat now."

Lucifer's expression brightens, his momentary disappointment forgotten as he registers the scene before him. His smile widens with genuine pleasure, eyes sparkling with something between amusement and hunger as he takes in Alastor's forcibly opened mouth and the furious humiliation burning in his eyes.

"How thoughtful of you, my love," he responds, already reaching for his fork and the waiting pancakes. "And how considerate of our consort to finally accept my offering."

Alastor struggles against Lilith's grip, but her hold remains unbreakable, her fingers maintaining precise pressure that keeps his jaws parted without causing lasting damage. His eyes, the only part of him still capable of expressing his rage, burn with crimson fury as Lucifer's fork approaches once more, laden with syrup-drenched pancake.

The Radio Demon, terror of the Eastern District, feared throughout Hell for his power and cruelty, finds himself reduced to this, held immobile by one royal while the other prepares to feed him like a recalcitrant child. His attempted manipulation has backfired spectacularly, resulting in a position more humiliating than simple compliance would have been.

As the fork hovers before his forcibly opened mouth, Alastor's mind races with the dark promise of future vengeance. They may control his body in this moment, may force food past his lips and submission into his posture, but his will remains unbroken. The smile that Lilith forces wider with her grip is no longer merely a defensive mask but a promissory note, a guarantee that this indignity, like all others they have inflicted, has been cataloged and will be repaid in full when opportunity finally presents itself.

Chapter Text

The fork breaches the barrier of his teeth, sliding between them with the unwelcome intimacy of an invader crossing a defended border. Syrup-drenched pancake floods Alastor's mouth with cloying sweetness, an assault of sugar that coats his tongue and palate with sticky residue. His gag reflex rises immediately, throat constricting against the unwanted intrusion while Lilith's fingers maintain their inexorable pressure, forcing his jaws to remain open as Lucifer deposits the full load of soggy, syrup-saturated carbohydrates onto his unwilling tongue.

The sweetness crashes against his taste buds like a tidal wave of liquid sugar, overwhelming in its intensity. The flavor profile that humans and many demons find delightful registers in Alastor's mouth as nothing short of repulsive—sickening in its aggressive sweetness, the maple syrup sliding across his tongue in viscous rivulets that seem determined to coat every available surface. The texture is equally offensive, soggy yet somehow still maintaining structural integrity, the combination creating a mouthfeel that sends shudders of disgust rippling through his rigid form.

Lilith's fingers abruptly shift their pressure, releasing his upper jaw only to slam it closed with clinical efficiency. Her hand slides to cup his chin, thumb and forefinger pressing against the hinges of his jaw with precise pressure that prevents him from reopening his mouth. Her face looms close to his, crimson eyes boring into his own with hypnotic intensity.

"Chew," she commands, her voice soft yet carrying the weight of mountains. "And then swallow."

Alastor's eyes narrow fractionally, rage burning behind the forced smile that Lilith's grip maintains on his face. The pancake sits in his mouth like a dead thing, syrup continuing its invasive exploration of his oral cavity, finding new surfaces to contaminate with each passing second.

Lilith's gaze hardens, something ancient and terrible flickering in their crimson depths. "If you dare to spit it out," she whispers, her breath ghosting across his face, "I will force you to lick it up from wherever it lands." Her fingers tighten fractionally, the pressure just shy of painful. "And then I will stuff so many pancakes down your throat that your stomach bulges with them. Do you understand me?"

The threat sinks into him, not idle words but a promise from a being who has existed since the dawn of sin. Alastor makes a quick calculation, weighing dignity against further humiliation. His teeth descend once, twice, perfunctory compressions that barely qualify as chewing before he activates his throat muscles and forces the barely masticated mass down his esophagus in a single, determined swallow.

The lump travels down his throat with painful slowness, the inadequate chewing making the journey more difficult than it should be. He can feel every millimeter of its progress, the syrup leaving a trail of sweetness in its wake that lingers unpleasantly in a path from mouth to stomach. His face contorts slightly despite his efforts to maintain composure, the physical discomfort of swallowing such a large piece momentarily overriding his iron control.

Lucifer's eyes widen, his fork hovering halfway back to the plate as he watches Alastor's throat work around the too-large bolus of food. The King of Hell's pupils dilate visibly, his breathing pattern shifting as he observes the Radio Demon's struggle to swallow.

"Did you just—" Lucifer begins, his voice catching slightly. He clears his throat, composure returning though his eyes remain fixed on Alastor's neck. "Did you just swallow that almost whole?"

The question hangs in the air between them, loaded with implications Alastor cannot fully decipher. His brow furrows slightly, confusion momentarily overtaking his anger as he registers the shift in Lucifer's demeanor. The king's expression has transformed from gleeful dominance to something darker, more heated, his eyes tracking the final movement of Alastor's throat with undisguised fascination.

"That's..." Lucifer breathes, voice dropping to a register that sends unwelcome prickles down Alastor's spine. "That's kind of hot."

Confusion ripples through Alastor, temporarily displacing his rage and humiliation. What possible aspect of swallowing inadequately chewed food could be considered attractive? The statement makes so little sense that it momentarily derails his cataloging of offenses for future vengeance, leaving him staring at Lucifer with genuine bewilderment visible in his eyes despite his fixed smile.

Lilith's finger slides beneath his chin, the cool touch of her skin against his sending involuntary shivers cascading through him. She tips his face upward, forcing his attention away from Lucifer's unsettlingly heated gaze and back to her own calculating one.

"Are we going to have to repeat what just happened?" she asks, each word precise and measured. The question carries layers of meaning—a threat, a promise, an assessment of his willingness to continue resisting. "Or will you be cooperative?"

Alastor stares up at her, static crackling faintly around him as he weighs his limited options. The edges of his smile have gone tight with suppressed fury. The sweetness of the syrup continues to coat his mouth despite his best efforts to swallow it all, a lingering reminder of his vulnerability in this moment.

"I will eat," he finally replies, each word bitten off with precise diction despite the softness of his tone. "Though I maintain that this entire situation is repulsive and unnecessary." His eyes narrow fractionally, a flash of defiance breaking through his forced compliance. "And I still don't like sweets."

Lilith’s lips curve, so close to his jaw he can feel her breath as she all but purrs, "Oh, darling. You say that, but you’ll acclimate. Omegas always do." Her nails trace a slow, deliberate line along his jaw, not enough to break skin but enough to remind him what she could do if she chose. "It’s the hormones, love. You’ll crave sweets eventually. It’s how your body copes with the cycles—blood sugar, mood, all those little animal weaknesses you loathe so much in others." Her smile turns secretive, almost gentle, like a cat playing with a downed bird. "Give it a week and you’ll be whining for caramel at midnight."

Alastor’s jaw tenses under her grip, and the sweetness in his mouth grows cloying, as if his very saliva is thickening to syrup. The notion that his tastes are a foregone biological conclusion is so profoundly insulting it nearly sends another spike of static tearing through the air. But something in the way Lilith says it—so certain, so matter-of-fact, makes him shut his mouth hard around whatever retort he’d intended.

Lucifer's knife glides through the stack of pancakes with surgical precision, carving another perfectly proportioned bite as though the momentary tension had never occurred. The metal gleams under the harsh light of the chandeliers, reflecting distorted images of Alastor's rigid posture as the King of Hell prepares the next morsel of his sugary torture. Alastor can feel the residue of the previous bite coating his teeth, a film of sweetness that clings with stubborn persistence despite his efforts to clear it with his tongue. Each swipe only spreads the sugar further, distributing it across his palate in a fresh wave of cloying discomfort that makes his stomach turn.

The fork rises once more, laden with another syrup-saturated piece, its approach sending fresh waves of revulsion crawling across Alastor's skin. His mind races with desperate calculation, seeking any strategy to minimize this violation of his senses. An idea forms, unpleasant but potentially effective. If he must consume this revolting sweetness, perhaps he can reduce its impact by minimizing its time in his mouth.

When the fork crosses the threshold of his lips, depositing its unwelcome cargo onto his tongue, Alastor does not chew. Instead, he tilts his head back slightly, throat working as he swallows the entire piece whole. The pancake slides down his esophagus in a single movement, barely touching his taste buds before disappearing into the darkness of his digestive tract. The maneuver is uncomfortable, the food too large for such treatment, but the discomfort of the swallow is vastly preferable to the lingering assault of sweetness that chewing would prolong.

A sharp intake of breath from Lucifer draws Alastor's attention. The King of Hell stares at him with an intensity that borders on predatory, pupils dilated to nearly eclipse the golden irises surrounding them. His breathing has grown heavier, the rise and fall of his chest visible even beneath his pristine waistcoat. A pink tongue darts out to moisten his lips, the movement slow and deliberate as his gaze remains fixed on Alastor's throat.

The air between them grows thick with something Alastor cannot name but instinctively recoils from, a tension that has nothing to do with anger or dominance and everything to do with something more primal, more intimate. Static crackles around him as he shrinks back fractionally, confused by this shift in dynamic that he cannot quite interpret.

Behind him, Lilith chuckles, the sound rich with amusement and understanding that Alastor does not share. Her hands settle on his shoulders, thumbs pressing against the base of his neck in a gesture both restraining and possessive.

"Calm down, darling," she says to Lucifer, her voice carrying notes of affectionate warning. "Our little deer is far too strung up currently to deal with you jumping his bones this early in the morning." Her fingers knead Alastor's tense muscles with unwelcome familiarity. "Let's at least get some food in him first."

Lucifer laughs, the sound sending vibrations through the air that Alastor feels against his skin like physical contact. The king leans back slightly, one hand rising to smooth his already immaculate hair, a gesture that appears designed to regain composure rather than fix any actual disarray.

"You're right, of course," Lucifer agrees, his voice carrying a ragged edge that sets Alastor's teeth on edge. "Food first. Other appetites later."

Confusion and dread twist together in Alastor's stomach, forming a knot more unpleasant than the barely-digested pancake now residing there. He looks between the royal couple, their matching expressions of amused indulgence making him feel like the butt of a joke he doesn't understand.

"I'm so very glad you find forcing food on someone this interesting," he says, unable to keep the acid from his tone despite the smile fixed on his face. "Perhaps next you could document the experience for Hell's scientific journals. 'The Feeding Habits of Captive Radio Demons,' a study in non-consensual nutrition."

The royal couple's laughter redoubles, shared glances communicating some private understanding that excludes him entirely. Their mirth carries notes of genuine amusement rather than mockery, somehow making it more unsettling than outright derision would be.

Lucifer, still chuckling, cuts another section of pancakes for himself. He lifts the fork to his own mouth, consuming the bite with obvious relish, his lips closing around the tines with deliberate slowness. His tongue darts out to catch a drop of syrup at the corner of his mouth, the movement drawing attention to lips that curl upward in eternal, knowing smile.

Without changing forks, he cuts another piece and extends it toward Alastor's face. The same utensil that has just been in Lucifer's mouth now approaches his own, the forced intimacy making his skin crawl, a cold revulsion that slithers down his vertebrae one by one. Alastor leans backward, his spine pressing against Lilith's body as he tries to create distance between himself and the contaminated fork.

The sharp tap of Lilith's nails against her plate cuts through the air like gunshots, the sound a clear warning that freezes him in place. Each click of polished nail against fine china communicates more effectively than words the consequences of continued resistance.

His smile stretches wider, brittle as glass, while one eyebrow jerks upward in a spasm of barely contained loathing. A shudder runs through Alastor's frame, instinctive and impossible to suppress. "Could you perhaps use a different fork?" he asks, the request emerging more desperate than he intends. "One that hasn't been in your mouth? I do prefer my meals uncontaminated."

Lucifer's smile widens, eyes glittering with malicious amusement. He shakes his head slowly, deliberately, the fork remaining extended between them like a challenge. "I'm afraid not," he replies, voice honeyed with false regret. "We're family now, after all. What's mine is yours."

Panic flutters in Alastor's chest, a trapped bird beating against the cage of his ribs. He turns to Lilith with what he knows must be a pathetically pleading expression, hating himself for the display of weakness even as he makes it.

"Surely you can see how disgusting this is?" he asks, directing the question to the Queen of Hell with forced calm despite the desperation bubbling beneath the surface.

Lilith merely holds his gaze, her expression neither sympathetic nor hostile. With deliberate movements, she selects a piece of bacon from her plate and places it in her mouth, chewing slowly as though to emphasize that she is consuming the very food he has been begging for, yet remains unwilling to share it with him.

She wipes her mouth, dabs away a spot of grease, and then turns, regarding him with bored perfection. "Sharing is expected," she says, the words whispering against his ear, as if she were teaching etiquette to a veal calf awaiting the knife. "If you find it so distasteful, you may always refuse. But I assure you, the punishments only become more... memorable from here."

Lucifer’s fork hovers, and Alastor glares at it, at the thin sheen of spit-slicked syrup glimmering on the silver, at the droplets quivering on the prongs like a dare. He clamps his mouth shut. His jaw aches from the morning’s struggle, from the forced smiles and the grinding of his teeth. He is not sure what will break first: his molars, or the patience of the people who have decided to keep him as a pet.

Alastor's options collapse into a singularity of humiliation—accept this new violation or face consequences even more degrading. With a barely suppressed growl of frustration, he leans forward and takes the offered food, the knowledge of where the utensil has been adding a new layer of revulsion to the already detestable experience.

He swallows it immediately, desperately trying to ignore both the sweetness and the knowledge that his mouth has now touched where Lucifer's had been moments before. The intimacy of it, forced and unwanted, leaves him feeling more violated than the physical restraint had. Another small piece of his dignity sacrificed on the altar of their amusement, another indignity cataloged for future vengeance.

Lucifer abandons the fork in favor of his fingers, selecting a flaky pastry from the array of breakfast offerings with the deliberate care of a connoisseur. The delicate creation crumbles slightly at his touch, shedding golden flakes onto the pristine plate below as he raises it to his mouth. His bite is measured and precise, teeth sinking through layers of buttery dough with obvious pleasure. Crumbs cling to his lips, catching in the corners of his smile as his eyes drift closed in an exaggerated display of culinary ecstasy that borders on the obscene.

"Mmm," he hums, the sound vibrating through the air between them. "Absolutely divine. The baker has outdone himself this morning."

Alastor watches with poorly disguised revulsion as Lucifer consumes the remainder of the pastry, each bite accompanied by small sounds of appreciation that seem calculated to emphasize the sensory experience. When nothing remains but crumbs, the King of Hell examines his fingers with theatrical interest, turning his hands to observe the butter and sugar clinging to the skin.

With deliberate slowness that demands attention, Lucifer brings one finger to his mouth. His lips part slightly, tongue extending to collect the remnants of pastry with meticulous thoroughness. The pink muscle curls around each digit in turn, cleaning away every trace of butter and sugar with movements that carry unmistakable sexual undertones. His eyes remain fixed on Alastor throughout the display, gauging the Radio Demon's reaction with predatory attention.

Disgust coils in Alastor's stomach, twisting alongside confusion at the overtly sensual nature of what should be a simple act of cleaning one's fingers. The static around him crackles with discomfort, his smile rigid as he averts his gaze from the spectacle, only to find Lilith watching him with amused understanding, as though his discomfort provides her some particular satisfaction.

Finished with his performance, Lucifer reaches for a cheese danish nestled among the remaining pastries. The offering appears slightly less sweet than the pancakes, its center filled with soft white cheese rather than pure sugar, but still firmly in the category of dessert rather than proper breakfast. He lifts it with obvious intent, already leaning forward to present it to Alastor.

Alastor jerks his head away from the approaching pastry, a snarl distorting his smile so that it nearly splits his face in half. “Must you insist on feeding me with your contaminated hands?,” he snaps, breathless in his disgust. “At least pretend at civility!” The words spill out sharp and fast, his own voice barely recognizable to himself, strangled as it is by humiliation and the lingering sweetness on his tongue.

Lucifer’s face splits into an even wider, brighter smile—as though this minor protest is the most delightful part of the morning. “Oh, darling, in this kingdom we prefer a… hands-on approach.” His gaze drops suggestively to the danish, then rises to find Alastor’s again, pupils blown wide with barely restrained amusement. “It fosters intimacy.”

“Or hygiene violations,” Alastor mutters. He cannot help it; some taboos are bred too deeply to abandon, even in Hell.

Alastor's gaze slides sideways, lingering on the savory bounty displayed on Lilith's plate. Eggs speckled with herbs, their yellow centers still slightly runny, promise rich protein without cloying sweetness. Bacon curls in crisp perfection, its smoky aroma reaching him even through the overwhelming scent of syrup and pastry. Thin slices of some rare meat—venison, perhaps—glisten with juices that speak of salt and umami rather than sugar. His stomach twists with genuine hunger at the sight, his body recognizing sustenance that aligns with his natural preferences.

"Perhaps," he suggests, voice carefully modulated to hide the desperation lurking beneath his words, "we might switch back and forth between offerings? The sweetness is..." He pauses, searching for words that might persuade without revealing too much weakness. "Rather overwhelming for someone unaccustomed to such indulgences at breakfast."

Lilith spears a perfect bite of egg on her fork, the yellow yolk breaking to run across the tines in golden rivulets. the prongs of the fork slide quickly across the plate creating a sharp sound that pierces Alastor’s ears. She lifts it to her mouth with precise movements, consuming it with obvious relish while making no move to share or acknowledge his suggestion. Her eyes, fixed on his face as she chews, communicate volumes without a single word—amusement, power, refusal.

Frustration bubbles within Alastor, threatening to spill over into the rage he keeps carefully contained beneath his eternal smile. The film of sugar coating his teeth and palate feels thicker with each passing moment, a constant reminder of the unwanted sweetness being forced upon him.

"I really don't like sweets," he says, the statement emerging with more venom than he intends despite his efforts to keep his tone civil. The words hang in the air between them, a declaration of preference that should be mundane but feels dangerously close to rebellion in the current context.

Lilith's gaze shifts from amused to calculating, her head tilting slightly as she studies him. "Lucifer," she says, her voice carrying the patient tone of explanation rather than genuine reproach, "is trying to bond with you through the sharing of sweet foods." Her hand settles on Alastor's shoulder, fingers pressing into the silk-covered flesh with proprietary familiarity. "Sweets are deeply important to him—they represent care, affection, nurturing."

Her thumb traces small circles against his collarbone, the touch sending unwelcome shivers down his spine. "When an alpha offers food to their omega, particularly food they themselves value highly, it's a significant gesture. He's giving you what he considers most precious." Her voice drops slightly, carrying the weight of ancient knowledge. "You would do well to recognize the honor being extended."

Alastor's static aura flickers with suppressed emotion—rage, humiliation, calculation. The explanation, delivered with such maternal condescension, somehow makes the situation both clearer and more infuriating. They are not merely feeding him; they are enacting some primal alpha-omega bonding ritual, with him cast as the grateful recipient of their benevolence.

Lucifer, who has been watching this exchange with patience, extends the danish once more. "Perhaps I can offer a compromise," he says, his voice carrying the false reasonableness of one who knows they hold all the power. "If you eat this danish—just this one—I'll allow you to have something savory afterward before moving on to the next sweet."

The word "allow" sends fresh indignation coursing through Alastor, the presumption of authority over his diet adding another entry to his growing ledger of grievances. Yet beneath the outrage, his strategic mind recognizes opportunity, a chance to secure something he genuinely wants through minimal compliance.

"Two," he counters, the word emerging before he can fully consider the implications of negotiating rather than refusing outright. "Two savory items."

Lucifer's expression softens, something sickeningly close to adoration spreading across his features. The look one might give a particularly clever pet performing an unexpected trick, pride mingled with possessive affection. "Anything for my omega," he says, the possessive claim falling from his lips with casual ownership that makes Alastor's skin crawl beneath his fur.

The danish hovers before him, simultaneously a challenge and an opportunity. Alastor calculates swiftly, two bites of something he genuinely desires against the momentary unpleasantness of this pastry. A small victory in the midst of defeat, a crumb of autonomy within his captivity. His smile tightens at the corners as he leans forward to accept the offering, already planning which items he will select from Lilith's plate once this ordeal is complete.

As his teeth sink into the danish, he maintains eye contact with Lucifer, refusing to show pleasure despite the fact that the cheese filling proves less offensive than the pure sugar of the pancakes. Each chew is measured and deliberate, a performance of compliance that masks the rebellion still burning within. He may be forced to eat their food, to endure their touch, to reside within their palace against his will—but the Radio Demon's spirit remains unbroken, his calculations for eventual vengeance growing more elaborate with each indignity endured.

Chapter Text

The saccharine residue of Lucifer's danish coated Alastor's tongue like oil on water, refusing to dissipate despite his repeated attempts to swallow it away. Relief flickered through him nonetheless, the trial by sugar had finally concluded, the king's sweet offerings consumed with strategic compliance rather than genuine acceptance. Now, at last, Lilith would fulfill the bargain, allowing him access to the savory delights that had been taunting him from her plate throughout this entire degrading ritual. Yet as he shifted his weight slightly against the plush bedding, an uncomfortable pressure in his abdomen sent a wave of dismay through him, his stomach, unused to such substantial breakfast, was already signaling its approaching limits.

The sweetness lingered in his mouth like an unwanted guest overstaying its welcome, clinging to every surface with stubborn persistence. His teeth felt fuzzy with sugar, his palate saturated with the memory of syrup and pastry. The taste was a violation in itself, an unwelcome intrusion that continued long after the actual consumption had ended. Even his saliva seemed to have betrayed him, carrying notes of maple and butter with each swallow rather than washing the sweetness away.

Lilith's tentacles shifted around him, adjusting their grip as she selected a piece of bacon from her plate. The meat curled enticingly, its edges crisp and dark, promising salvation from the cloying assault of sugar that had dominated his morning thus far. The aroma reached him, smoky, savory, complex, a stark contrast to the one-dimensional sweetness that had been forced upon him. His mouth watered involuntarily, anticipation momentarily overshadowing his discomfort.

"As promised," Lilith purred, her voice carrying the smooth satisfaction of one fulfilling a bargain whose terms were entirely in her favor. The bacon dangled from her fingers, hovering before his face like a reward for a performing pet. "Your first savory item. You've earned it."

Alastor leaned forward, eager to replace the lingering sweetness with something more aligned to his palate. Unlike the pancakes, Alastor thoroughly enjoys chewing on this food item. The salt from the bacon creates an interesting combination with the sugar. After swallowing he eyes her plate again eager for his next piece.

As he moved, however, his stomach protested with a dull ache that radiated outward from his core. The feeling was foreign and deeply unpleasant, a sensation of fullness that bordered on discomfort, his digestive system struggling with the volume of food already consumed. He paused, momentarily frozen by the realization that his body's limitations might prevent him from claiming his hard-won prize.

The hesitation lasted only a fraction of a second, but it was enough. Lilith's eyes narrowed, crimson irises gleaming with that terrible perception that seemed to see through flesh and bone to the vulnerabilities beneath. Her head tilted slightly, bird-like in its precision, as she studied the subtle changes in his expression.

Pride demanded he ignore the discomfort, that he consume whatever was offered simply to deny her the satisfaction of seeing his weakness. The corners of his smile straining slightly as he forced himself to lean forward once more, determined to claim the bacon despite his body's protests.

"Open wide," Lilith cooed, her voice taking on that maternal tone that made his fur bristle.

The moment his jaws parted, another twinge of discomfort rippled through his abdomen, more insistent than before. A subtle grimace flickered across his features before he could suppress it, a momentary crack in his mask of indifference that he knew instantly had not gone unnoticed.

Lilith's hand withdrew, pulling the bacon away just as his teeth would have closed around it. The denial sent a fresh surge of frustration through him, static crackling around his form in agitated bursts. His eyes narrowed, confusion and anger warring for dominance as he stared at the Queen of Hell.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice carrying less strength than he intended, the words slightly breathless as his overfull stomach pressed against his lungs.

Lilith's free hand rose to his face, fingers cool against his skin as she stroked his cheek with unwelcome intimacy. "You've had enough," she said, her voice gentle yet unyielding. "I can see it in your face, dear heart. Your body has reached its capacity."

Denial rose in his throat, automatic and fierce. The sweetness still lingered on his tongue, a persistent reminder of all he had endured. To be denied the savory reward now, when he had finally earned it through compliance with their demands, was an injustice he could not accept.

"I can eat more," he insisted, voice tight with determination. "The taste of sugar still coats my mouth. I would prefer something savory to clear it away."

A small, knowing smile played across Lilith's lips, her expression carrying that terrible combination of amusement and affection that made him feel like a child rather than the feared demon he truly was. Without warning, her hand moved from his face to his abdomen, palm pressing gently against the silk-covered curve of his stomach.

The contact sent a jolt through him, intimate and invasive in ways that transcended physical discomfort. Her fingers applied the slightest pressure, a barely-there push that nonetheless sent waves of sensation radiating outward from the point of contact. The pressure of his overfull stomach amplified beneath her touch, transforming from manageable discomfort to something that forced a small, involuntary sound from his throat, a groan that emerged despite his desperate attempts to contain it.

Lilith's laugh, low and musical, brushed against his ears like dark velvet. "Listen to that," she murmured, her voice carrying a note of genuine delight at his discomfort. "Your body knows its limits, even if your pride refuses to acknowledge them." Her thumb traced small circles against his silk-covered stomach, each movement sending fresh waves of discomfort through him. "While I'm pleased to see such a healthy appetite, little deer, there's no need to push yourself to discomfort."

Frustration burned through him, hot and bitter as acid. He had endured the sweetness, choked down pancakes and pastry against his every preference, all for the promise of savory reward, and now, when that reward was finally within reach, his own body betrayed him with its limitations. “Ah, how fortunate I am to have my every bodily function diligently supervised. Quite the luxury, truly.”

Lilith’s fingers slide from his gut with the same casual grace that had once, in another life, lifted him from the slaughterhouse floor. At the same time, the tentacles uncoil, first one, then all, slithering away from his midsection, the pressure gone in a second like a popped bubble. The abrupt freedom floods him with adrenaline that pushes straight through his discomfort.

Alastor wasted no time on dignity, he propelled himself upright, the sudden motion forcing a sharp ache through his belly, but the promise of salt, protein, and relief overrode every other signal.

The plate was there, within arm’s reach. He snatched at it with both hands, heedless of the propriety that had until this moment governed the entire ordeal. Bacon, sausage, even the triangle of toast, he seized the nearest morsels, shoving them into his mouth in rapid succession. His jaw extends to accept the large amount of food.

The first hit of bacon broke across his tongue with a grease-pop and crunch, instantly cutting through the syrupy film with brute savory force.

The salt and fat struck his palate and for a moment the relief was so acute it bordered on pain, sharp and transcendent, the flavor a solvent that cut through the sticky residue coating his teeth. The hard chew made his jaw ache, but it was a better ache than the one in his gut, an ache he could savor, control. He chewed furiously, swallowing before the food was properly broken down, ignoring the spike of pain as the food rammed into what was surely an already distended stomach. He chewed only as much as strictly necessary, old habits, from leaner years when every meal could be your last and someone else’s too. The toast followed in, scraping against the backs of his teeth, sopping up the errant syrup and egg yolk with a soggy finality that felt, in its own way, like victory.

He barely processed the sensation of hands descending on his shoulders, Lilith, restraining him, or was she steadying him? The difference felt academic in the moment. She leaned over, her hair tickling the very edges of his senses, and whispered low so only he could hear it: "Careful, darling. I'd hate for it to come back up before you've even had a chance to metabolize your triumph."

He dropped the plate, barely aware of the muffled clatter as it landed safely on the bedding. He chewed, still chewing, desperate to erase that sticky-sweet echo in his gums. The sausage was a dense, herbed crumble, the toast a brittle roof to the bacon’s foundation. More, he thought, more, until the taste of sugar is only a memory. But his body was no longer an instrument under his control; each new swallow stoked the ache in his belly, the pain transforming now to a searing burn just beneath the sternum.

The tremors in his hands abated with the last swallow, the final bite of bacon falling into the mass grave of his stomach, already more packed than a mass-transit trolley at rush hour. The savory tang did its work, warring the sugar into submission and leaving only a pleasant, greasy warmth in its wake, but the triumph lasted mere seconds. He sat back, pulse hammering in his throat, and waited for the next urge, always the next urge, the next drive, the next fight to win. It never arrived.

Foolish, to think this would be the end of the ordeal. The ache in his gut spreads, a hot and viscous tide. He tries to will it away, to focus on the salt-smoke flavor now saturating his mouth, but the satisfaction is short-lived. The pain lingers, pulsing in time with his heart, swelling in aftershocks that make each breath a calculated risk.

He felt his body, truly felt it, as if returned to himself after a bender, the landscape of his flesh suddenly familiar and uncomfortably real. The gut-ache had gone from faintly comic to leaden, an anvil dropped in the soft cavity below his ribs. Every breath tugged at the distention, made his skin feel tight and feverish. His limbs buzzed with the jittery aftermath of adrenaline.

He clings to the remnants of triumph, but the adrenaline is already souring in his blood, replaced by a dizzying fatigue. The world seems to tilt, the air growing sluggish and syrup-thick around him. He blinks, tries to rally; a predator, not a pet, he is meant to conquer, devour, not to be conquered by something as pedestrian as breakfast. But his arms feel distant now, fingers tingling as if he'd been holding something too tightly for too long.

Alastor felt the full weight of his condition settle upon him. His body seemed unusually heavy, limbs leaden with the effort of digestion, a languor spreading through him that he recognized with mounting horror as the post-meal drowsiness that accompanied overindulgence.

He slumped back against the pillows, momentarily too exhausted to maintain his rigid posture of defiance. The softness of the nest enveloped him, catching his weight as his energy flagged. The heaviness in his stomach spread outward, a warm weight that seemed to anchor him to the bed more effectively than any physical restraint.

Sleep. His body craved it, demanded it with an insistence that surprised him. The combination of rich food and his previously sleep-deprived state created a dangerous cocktail of fatigue that pulled at his consciousness like quicksand. He struggled against it, rage providing momentary clarity. He would not surrender to sleep again, would not allow himself that vulnerability in their presence. Yet his eyelids felt weighted, each blink requiring more effort than the last.

He hated it. Hated the fullness, the heaviness, the drowsiness—all of it evidence of their control over his physical state, their ability to manipulate his body's needs against him.

Lilith's hand reached forward, smoothing a strand of hair from Alastor's forehead with unwelcome intimacy. Her touch lingered against his skin, fingers tracing the contour of his face with proprietary familiarity that sent shivers of revulsion crawling down his spine. "You look absolutely adorable when spoiled," she murmured, voice rich with amusement and something darker, more possessive. "All full and drowsy, like a fawn after its first proper meal." The comparison burned through him, adding another ember to the smoldering fire of his indignation.

Static crackled around him, a physical manifestation of his displeasure that did nothing to deter her continued touch. The drowsiness weighed on him like a physical burden, his limbs heavy with the aftermath of overindulgence. Still, his mind remained sharp, calculating each moment, each small opportunity that might present itself. The breakfast charade had concluded, surely now he could remove himself from this nest of forced intimacy.

"Am I allowed to get out of the bed now?" Alastor asked, the question framed with careful neutrality despite the acid bubbling beneath the surface of his words. His limbs felt leaden as he braced his palms against the plush bedding, struggling to hoist himself upright from the cushioned hollow that had formed around his body.

Rather than answering, Lilith pressed her palm against his chest, fingers splayed across the silk pajamas in a gesture that managed to be both gentle and utterly unyielding. Confusion flickered across his features as she applied pressure, pushing him back against the plush pillows he had just been attempting to leave. The movement was deliberate, unhurried, not the forceful restraint of their previous confrontations, but something almost worse in its casual assumption of compliance.

He allowed the pressure to guide him backward, more out of confusion than submission. His eyes narrowed, seeking explanation in her expression, finding only that terrible maternal affection that made his skin crawl beneath his fur. The static around him intensified, his discomfort manifesting in crackling waves that made the air taste of ozone and darkness.

"You just relax while we clean up," Lucifer explained, his voice carrying the exaggerated patience one might use when speaking to a particularly slow child. "No need to rush, after all. We have the entire day ahead of us."

That statement sent a wave of unease through Alastor. The implication of shared activities, of time spent together as though they were indeed a mated trio rather than captor and captive, added another layer to his growing sense of confinement. The day stretched before him, endless and uncertain, boundaries undefined yet somehow closing in with each passing moment.

The royal couple began gathering the breakfast dishes with synchronized efficiency, stacking plates and collecting silverware with the practiced movements of those accustomed to working in tandem. Lilith's tentacles emerged to assist, pale appendages lifting trays and consolidating leftovers while her physical form continued the work alongside Lucifer. They moved around the bed like dancers following well-rehearsed choreography, their paths never crossing, their actions complementing rather than hindering each other.

Alastor watched their movements through narrowed eyes, calculating the shifting positions, the opening and closing of potential escape routes as they worked. When they both turned momentarily away, focused on arranging items on the rolling cart, he seized the opportunity to prop himself up on his elbows. The movement was small, insignificant in the grand scheme of his captivity, yet it represented defiance, a refusal to remain in the reclined position they had placed him in, a tiny reclamation of autonomy.

Lucifer turned, his smile widening fractionally as he caught sight of Alastor's slight elevation. The King of Hell's finger rose in a gesture that managed to be both playful and deeply threatening, pointing directly at Alastor with mock severity.

"Don't get up," he warned, voice light yet carrying unmistakable command beneath its cheerful surface. "You've had quite the breakfast, dear Radio Demon. Digestion requires rest."

The presumption, that Lucifer had any right to dictate his activities, that the King of Hell knew better than Alastor what his own body required, made Alastor bristle in fury. His smile stretched wider, defensive and sharp.

"And after you've finished cleaning?" he pressed, each word precise despite the static that crackled at its edges. "Will I be permitted to leave this bed then?" The question is loaded with more meaning than its simple phrasing suggested, a test of boundaries, an assessment of the extent of his captivity.

Lucifer approached the bed with that same unhurried confidence that characterized all his movements. Without warning, his hand pressed against Alastor's chest, pushing him back down against the mattress with casual strength that brooked no resistance. The contact was brief but firm, a physical reminder of the power imbalance between them.

A snarl escaped Alastor before he could suppress it, the sound rumbling from his throat in a display of naked aggression that momentarily shattered his carefully maintained façade. His teeth flashed, sharp and white against the crimson of his attire, antlers growing fractionally with his surge of anger.

Rather than taking offense, Lucifer's expression softened into something sickeningly close to adoration. He blew a kiss toward Alastor, the gesture deliberately provocative in its dismissal of his rage. "So cute when you're feisty," he commented, the words landing like hot oil on exposed skin, searing into Alastor's pride and spreading a burning shame that he could neither wipe away nor ignore.

Left alone momentarily as the royal couple returned to their task, Alastor stared upward at the ornate ceiling, his body rigid with suppressed fury. He positioned himself with deliberate precision, flat on his back, arms at his sides, legs extended, refusing to curl into the nest or make any adjustment that might suggest comfort or acceptance. This small rebellion, invisible perhaps to casual observation, represented his continued resistance. He would not nest, would not burrow into the blankets and pillows as an omega might, would not allow himself even that small comfort when escape remained his sole objective.

The metallic clinking of dishes provided a soundtrack to his silent defiance, each sound marking the passage of time as the remnants of breakfast were gathered and arranged on the trolley. When all had been collected, the massive doors opened briefly as Lucifer spoke to someone outside, a servant, presumably, summoned to remove the evidence of their morning ritual.

Footsteps approached the bed once more, and Alastor's gaze shifted to find Lilith standing over him, a crystal glass of water held in her slender hand. She gestured for him to rise slightly, the movement imperious despite its silence.

He complied, leveraging himself up on his elbows once more. Hydration might help clear the lingering sweetness from his mouth, might provide strength he would need for whatever came next. The sooner he appeared cooperative, the sooner they might lower their guard.

Lilith tipped the glass against his lips, controlling the flow of liquid with maternal precision. The water was cool and clean, washing away some of the residual sugar coating his tongue and teeth. He drank deeply, motivated by genuine thirst rather than obedience.

When the glass was empty, Lilith withdrew it with a satisfied nod. "Back down now," she instructed, her tone leaving no room for argument despite its gentle cadence.

A groan of frustration escaped him, barely audible beneath the static that surrounded him like an aura of discontent. Nevertheless, he lowered himself back to the mattress, calculating that this small compliance might serve his longer-term goals. The doors opened once more as the servant collected the trolley, then closed with ominous finality, leaving Alastor alone with his captors in their shared chamber.

The mattress dipped beside Alastor as Lilith glided onto the bed with serpentine grace, her weight settling against the silk sheets like darkness pooling in a forgotten corner. Her proximity sent waves of unease crawling across his skin, each inch between them charged with unwelcome intimacy. Before he could shift away, her hand found his hair, fingers threading through the crimson strands with proprietary familiarity. The touch, gentle yet possessive, claimed his personal space as territory already conquered, already owned. His ears flattened against his skull, a reflexive response he could not entirely suppress despite his determination to reveal no weakness.

"There now," she murmured, voice pitched low and soothing as though addressing a skittish animal. "Isn't this nice? Just relaxing together after a pleasant meal."

The mattress shifted again, a second depression forming on his opposite side as Lucifer climbed into the bed. The King of Hell settled himself with casual entitlement, his body a mirror to his wife's position, boxing Alastor between them in perfect symmetry. Unlike Lilith, who maintained a whisper of space between their bodies, Lucifer pressed his side directly against Alastor's, the contact sending revulsion crawling through him.

Lucifer's hand descended to rest on Alastor's thigh, fingers splayed against the silk pajamas in a gesture that managed to be both casual and deeply intrusive. His thumb began tracing small circles against the fabric, each rotation sending fresh waves of discomfort radiating outward from the point of contact.

The dual sensation, Lilith's fingers in his hair, Lucifer's hand on his thigh, created a circuit of unwanted touch that sent a visible twitch through Alastor's frame. His static aura flared in response, crackling around him in agitated bursts that did nothing to deter their continued contact. Trapped between them, hemmed in by their bodies and their scent, the walls of his captivity seemed to close in further, boundaries shrinking from a palace to a room to this bed where they now held him.

"May I get up now?" Alastor asked, his voice carefully modulated despite the desperate need to escape their proximity. The question emerged more strained than he intended, a hint of pleading creeping in at the edges despite his efforts to maintain dignity.

Rather than answering directly, Lilith's fingers continued their gentle exploration of his hair, occasionally brushing against one of his tufted ears in a way that sent unwelcome shivers down his spine. "Is there anything we can get you to help make you more comfortable?" she countered, her voice carrying that maternal concern that made his teeth clench behind his fixed smile.

Confusion flickered across his features, momentarily displacing the mask of indifference he fought to maintain. The question seemed so incongruous with his situation, held captive in their bed, denied even the basic dignity of movement, that he could not immediately process its meaning. His eyes narrowed, searching her face for some hint of mockery or cruelty, finding only that terrible affection that somehow felt more threatening than outright malice.

"My freedom," he replied, the words emerging sharper than intended despite his attempt at levity. His smile stretched wider, tight at the corners with suppressed rage. "That would make me considerably more comfortable."

Lilith's expression softened, something like pity flickering across her perfect features before settling back into maternal patience. "In good time," she said, the vague promise hanging between them like mist, insubstantial yet obscuring any clear path forward.

Lucifer's hand squeezed Alastor's thigh. "What my dear wife means," he clarified, his voice carrying the exaggerated patience of one explaining complex concepts to a child, "is whether there's anything we can send up to entertain you for the day. Books, perhaps? Music? A radio, ironically enough?" His smile widened at his own joke. "Anything to help alleviate boredom."

The implications of the question crashed over Alastor in a wave of cold understanding, each word another bar in the cage being constructed around him. His gaze darted between them, searching their expressions with growing horror as comprehension dawned with terrible clarity.

"Am I not going to be allowed to leave this room?" he asked, the question emerging with more vulnerability than he intended, a crack in his carefully maintained facade of indifference.

The royal couple exchanged glances over his prone form, that silent communication passing between them that excluded him entirely despite being its subject. Lucifer's hand remained on his thigh, thumb continuing its maddening circular motion against the silk.

"Not yet," Lilith confirmed, her voice gentle yet carrying the immovable certainty of ancient stone. "You need more time to acclimate before we feel comfortable allowing you to roam the grounds."

"Additionally," Lucifer added, his tone shifting to something more serious, "you are not bonded to us yet. Without that connection, we cannot risk having you out where others might approach you."

"Unless," Lilith interjected, her fingers pausing in their exploration of his hair, "you would consent to some scent sharing? That would at least signal to anyone near you that you're claimed, even without a formal bond."

The suggestion sent acid crawling up Alastor's throat, bitter revulsion that he had to force himself to swallow back down. Scent sharing, the deliberate transference of alpha pheromones to an omega's skin and clothing, a primitive claiming display that would mark him as their property to any demon who came within proximity. The very thought made his fur stand on end beneath the silk pajamas.

"I decline," he said, each word precise and cutting despite the softness of his tone. "Most emphatically."

Lilith's fingers resumed their movement through his hair, the gesture somehow both soothing and deeply threatening. "Then there's your answer," she replied, as though his captivity were the natural consequence of his own choices rather than their imposed will. "You'll stay in our room for now."

A thought struck him suddenly, reality intruding through the haze of indignation and captivity. The angle of light through the massive windows, the position of shadows across the ornate ceiling, these spoke of late morning approaching midday. Time slipping away, carrying with it a deadline he could not afford to miss.

"What time is it?" he asked, forcing casualness into his tone despite the urgency building within him. Without waiting for their response, he continued, "I need to be allowed up to take my medication."

The silence that followed his statement lasted only seconds, yet seemed to stretch into eternity. The royal couple exchanged another glance, something passing between them that sent ice crawling through Alastor's veins before they had spoken a single word.

"About that," Lucifer began, his voice carrying false regret that did nothing to mask the satisfaction beneath. "You will no longer be taking that particular medication."

"We need you ready during your next heat," Lilith explained, her fingers still moving through his hair with that terrible gentleness. "The suppressants would make bonding difficult, if not impossible. It's best to clear them from your system entirely."

The words hit hard, each syllable a death sentence to the careful equilibrium Alastor had maintained for decades. The medication, his shield against the biological vulnerabilities of his secondary gender, his protection against the debilitating effects of heat, his defense against the very scenario now unfolding around him, was being stripped away, leaving him exposed on the most fundamental level.

Understanding crashed through him like a tidal wave of ice, freezing him momentarily as the full implications settled into his consciousness. They hadn't just taken his freedom, his dignity, his autonomy, they had removed the chemical barrier that kept his biology in check, deliberately exposing him to the very weakness he had spent decades guarding against.

They were preparing him for mating. For bonding. For complete and irrevocable possession.

Rage erupted through Alastor like hellfire breaking through earth's crust, white-hot and all-consuming. The static around him exploded into violent waves that made the chandeliers sway overhead, glass tinkling like distant wind chimes in a hurricane. His body launched upward from the mattress with sudden, violent force, all previous drowsiness burned away in the inferno of his fury. "You have NO RIGHT!" he roared, voice distorting with the force of his rage, radio interference crackling through each syllable until the words barely resembled speech. His antlers extended upward in jagged points, growing longer and sharper as his power responded to the surge of primal emotion.

Lucifer and Lilith moved, their bodies converging on Alastor from either side. Their hands closed around his arms, their combined strength pressing him back into the nest with inexorable force. His limbs thrashed against their restraint, hooves kicking at the silken sheets, tearing gouges in the expensive fabric as he fought against their hold.

"Take your hands OFF me!" he snarled, teeth bared in a smile that had abandoned all pretense of pleasantry, now merely a display of weaponry. "You cannot—WILL not—dictate my medication! My body is not your property to manipulate!"

Lilith's pale tentacles materialized from the shadows beneath the bed, coiling around his thrashing legs. The luminescent appendages pinned his lower half to the mattress while her hands maintained their grip on his upper body, effectively immobilizing him despite his continued struggles.

"What our omega needs," she said, her voice maintaining its maternal cadence despite the violence of the situation, "is rest. You should stay in your nest today and just relax, dear heart. Your body needs time to adjust."

The patronizing tone, the presumptuous possessiveness, the casual dismissal of his autonomy, each word fanned the flames of his rage higher, hotter. Static distortion surrounded him like a storm cloud, images flickering in the darkness between bursts of interference, visions of violence, of tearing and rending, of blood spilled across silk sheets.

"I will relax," Alastor hissed, each word precise despite the distortion crackling through his voice, "when you are DEAD." The threat hung in the air between them, raw and visceral. "I’ll tear out that silver tongue you use for your pretty lies. I’ll string your entrails from your balcony as a warning to every parasite who thinks they own me. and when I’ve finished feasting on what’s left, I’ll make sure your screams echo in every miserable ear in Hell, so they remember what happens to tyrants who mistake leashes for love."

Lucifer's expression darkened, the smile thinning at its edges as something cold and dangerous flickered in his golden eyes. His grip on Alastor's arm tightened, pressure increasing to the threshold of pain without quite crossing it.

"Take that back," the King of Hell demanded, his voice carrying none of its usual playfulness. "Apologize to your Queen immediately."

Laughter bubbled from Alastor's throat, harsh and distorted like a broken broadcast. "I will not," he spat, static intensifying around his form. "And she is not MY queen. She is a presumptuous, controlling harpy who thinks that ancient power gives her the right to violate the autonomy of others. You are both delusional, entitled PARASITES with delusions of ownership over beings who would rather DIE than submit to your grotesque fantasy of family!"

The words poured from him in a torrent of rage, each one sharper than the last, designed to cut as deeply as possible. Part of him, the calculating strategist that had survived decades in Hell, knew he was crossing a dangerous line, pushing beyond the boundaries of what even captive status might excuse. Yet the violation of his medication, the deliberate exposure of his most carefully guarded vulnerability, had shattered his restraint completely.

Lilith's expression shifted, maternal patience giving way to something colder, more ancient. "You are acting like a child," she observed, her voice carrying notes of ice rather than warmth. "If you don't wish to be treated as such, I suggest you calm yourself and reconsider your words."

"Go to hell," Alastor snarled, the irony of the statement lost in his rage. "Oh wait—we're already there. Then go somewhere worse. Go back to Heaven where you can bore the angels with your self-righteous posturing and leave the rest of us in peace!"

Something shifted in Lilith's eyes, a decision reached, a line crossed. Without warning, her tentacles reconfigured, lifting Alastor's body from the mattress with swift, fluid motion. She twisted beneath him, positioning herself at the edge of the bed while the tentacles rotated his body in midair, disorienting him momentarily.

Before he could process what was happening, the tentacles slammed him downward, bending him at the waist, arms pulled behind his back and secured with a coil of pale appendage and positioning him across Lilith's lap. The position was both vulnerable and humiliating, his upper body pinned while his lower half lay exposed across the Queen's thighs.

"What the HELL do you think you're doing?" Alastor demanded. He struggled against the restraint, the unfamiliar position sending alarm bells ringing through his consciousness.

Rather than answering, Lilith's hand moved to the waistband of his pajama pants, fingers sliding beneath the elastic with deliberate slowness. Realization dawned with horrifying clarity, sending fresh waves of outrage and humiliation coursing through him.

"Don't you DARE—" he began, the words strangled by fury and disbelief.

"Let me do that for you, my love," Lucifer interrupted, his voice carrying notes of anticipation that had goosebumps prickling along Alastor’s skin. The King of Hell's hands replaced Lilith's at his waistband, fingers hooking into both pants and underwear with practiced efficiency.

With one smooth motion, Lucifer pulled the garments down, exposing Alastor's buttocks to the cool air of the bedroom. The fabric bunched around his thighs, another layer of restraint added to the tentacles that held him immobile across Lilith's lap.

"Oh!" Lucifer exclaimed, voice brightening with genuine delight. "Look at his little tail, darling. I forgot about it!"

"Adorable," Lilith agreed, her voice warm with an appreciation that sent fresh waves of humiliation burning through Alastor. "But it will get in the way, and I don't want to hurt it."

Alastor's white deer tail, normally hidden beneath his clothing, twitched with agitation as the cool air caressed fur unused to exposure. The appendage was small but distinctly cervine, a tuft of white against the beige of his skin, marking him as clearly as his hooves and antlers did.

"I've got it," Lucifer assured her, his hand closing around the base of the tail with unwelcome intimacy. With gentle pressure, he lifted the appendage, pressing it up against Alastor's lower back to keep it clear of the area Lilith intended to target. "There we go."

"Thank you, dear," Lilith murmured, her free hand rising to cup Lucifer's cheek in a gesture of affection. The royal couple's lips met in a chaste kiss above Alastor's prone form, the casual intimacy of the gesture somehow more humiliating than the position itself.

Understanding crashed through him with terrible clarity, they intended to spank him like a misbehaving child, to add physical punishment to the litany of humiliations already endured. The realization sent desperate energy surging through him, his legs kicking out with renewed vigor despite the tentacles wrapped around his thighs.

"Don't you DARE touch me!" he snarled, voice crackling with static and rage. "Release me this instant or I swear by all that is unholy—"

The first strike cut through his threat, Lilith's palm connecting with his exposed flesh with surprising force. The sound cracked through the air like a gunshot, followed instantly by a bloom of stinging pain that radiated outward from the point of impact. Before he could process the sensation, a second blow landed, then a third, each precisely targeted to maximize both pain and humiliation.

Alastor bit back the sound that threatened to escape him, teeth clenching behind his rigid smile as he refused to give them the satisfaction of hearing his discomfort. The strikes continued, methodical and unrelenting, each one adding to the building heat across his skin. The pain itself was manageable, he had endured far worse in his time in Hell, but the degradation, the infantilizing nature of the punishment, cut deeper than any physical discomfort.

"I will stop," Lilith informed him between strikes, her voice calm despite the force behind her hand, "when you apologize for your threats and show proper respect."

"Never," Alastor hissed, the word emerging strained yet defiant. His antlers had retracted slightly with the shock of the initial blows, but now extended once more, a visible manifestation of his continued resistance.

The rhythm of the spanking changed, Lilith's technique shifting as she introduced her claws into the equation. Sharp points raked across already sensitized skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake that intensified the building sting to something approaching genuine pain. Still, Alastor maintained his silence, refusing to vocalize the discomfort that pulsed through him with each impact.

"His rear looks quite fetching with all those lovely red marks," Lucifer observed, his voice carrying a note of appreciation that sparked new waves of humiliation through Alastor. "Such a shame to hide it from the world."

The King of Hell's fingers traced over Alastor's burning skin, each touch a fresh invasion that made him tense beneath the restraint. "What do you think, my love? We have a perfectly good balcony with a beautiful view of the city." His voice dropped slightly, taking on a casual quality that somehow made the words more threatening. "And those Voxtech drones do like to occasionally fly by. They're always hunting for interesting footage."

Ice replaced fire in Alastor's veins, the threat penetrating his defiance with terrible precision. The thought of being displayed publicly in this position, exposed and humiliated for all of Hell to witness, struck at the core of his carefully maintained image. The Radio Demon, feared throughout the underworld for his power and cruelty, reduced to this, bare-bottomed and spanked like an errant child.

"No," he gasped, the word escaping before he could prevent it. His legs kicked with renewed desperation, the panic in his movements genuine rather than performative. "Do NOT—"

"It's a good idea," Lilith agreed, as though he hadn't spoken at all. Her hand paused in its punishment, resting heavily on his stinging flesh. "The balcony gets such lovely light this time of day. The cameras would capture every detail quite clearly."

Alastor's mind raced, calculating the cost of continued defiance against the public humiliation they threatened. His reputation, his carefully constructed persona of untouchable power, all would be shattered by such a display. Future escape would become nearly impossible if his image was so thoroughly degraded in the eyes of potential allies.

"Are you willing to apologize now?" Lilith asked, her voice carrying the patience of one who knows they have already won. "Or shall we continue this lesson in manners on the balcony?"

The silence stretched between them, filled only with the sound of Alastor's ragged breathing as he struggled against the inevitable. Pride warred with strategy, defiance with calculation, rage with self-preservation. Finally, a decision crystallized, a tactical retreat rather than true surrender, a momentary concession to secure better positioning for the long game.

Alastor drew a slow, deliberate breath, forcing his ragged exhale into a thin, contemptuous laugh. The sound, though lacking its usual resonance, carried enough venom to communicate the precise value of his impending concession.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice as smooth as a razor strop, "that you two are so deeply insecure you must resort to the tactics of playground bullies. You have my profoundest apologies for not properly respecting the delicate egos of the royal couple." Each word landed like a chip of broken glass, brittle and insincere, but it was apology enough.

Suddenly Lucifer strikes against Alastor’s behind, but this slap was nothing compared to the ones done by Lilith. Just the one impact was enough to fully knock the wind from Alastor’s lungs at the same time feel the aftershocks down each vertebrae before reaching his skull where his vision blurred for a brief moment. The sting left behind felt more like a firepoker applied to his skin. He turns his head slowly as if not believing what happened and maybe even see if he was still intact. Lucifer glares down at him with glowing red eyes.

“A proper apology Consort.”

Alastor blinked slowly, the world resolving itself in fractured reds and golds as the ringing in his ears faded to a dull, crawling static. The pain radiated up and out, refocusing his mind in the way only true violence could, a precious clarity that functioned, in its own twisted way, like a reset. Far from humiliation, the sensation pulled something primal to the surface, a cold, crystalline core of survival that outpaced all shame.

His voice, when it came back to him, was lower, stranger, more resonant than before, a wavelength stripped of all the human politeness that had once adorned it. “My apologies, Your Majesties,” he intoned, biting every syllable with undertow. “I am, of course, grateful to be so… thoroughly corrected.” The shape of the words made it evident that he was not. But he gave them this much, and no more, because to do less would be to invite another blow. "It was out of line," he managed, the phrases clipped, each syllable chiseled from granite. "And it will not happen again."

Lilith’s hand caressed his lower back, fingers splayed wide, and for a moment he thought she might continue. Instead she only smoothed the fur there, as if petting a prize show dog after a particularly dazzling performance. The tentacles around his thighs loosened, and with the aid of Lucifer’s hands, Alastor was repositioned: first righted onto his knees, then arranged so both feet rested on the floor beside the bed. His pajama bottoms remained pooled at his ankles, his backside burning as if painted with lye and displayed shamelessly to the chill of the royal suite.

Lucifer crouched to Alastor’s level, golden eyes an inch from his own, the tips of their noses nearly touching. “There,” the King murmured, voice gentler now, “That’s much better. Suffering brings out the sincerity in people.” His hand left Alastor’s shoulder, then rose to gently cup the demon’s cheek. “You’re learning, aren’t you?” The question lingered in the air, less a question than a verdict, the sort of line meant to be taken down in the royal ledgers as immutable truth.

Alastor’s smile, perversely vivid through the haze of pain, showed all his teeth. The static was gentler now—a radio moderately tuned, sullen but coherent. “I aspire to excellence in all things,” he said, and the words, acidic and careful, were just opaque enough to pass for obedience.

Lilith’s hand, still splayed across the small of his back, pressed him upright as easily as one might right a vase knocked over by a misbehaving pet. “Every court needs a clever omega,” she purred, her breath a private draft of icy air. “I think you catch on faster than you let on, sweetheart.” She smoothed his pajama top, as if to erase all memory of the punishment, her claws deliberate in their precision, her mouth pressed in a line of satisfied resolve. “But next time, a little less drama, perhaps?” The tone cut the air like a knife. “We prefer not to raise our voices so early in the day.” She leaned close, her lips grazing the point of his ear. “Understood?”

He nodded, not trusting his voice. The last vestige of defiance spiked static behind his eyes but the rest of him, every nerve raw, relented. “Understood,” he echoed, numb. The finality in the word surprised him—more than the pain, more than the humiliation. It closed around his chest, a new band of iron, heavier than any chain.

Lucifer straightened, nudging the pajama bottoms back into place with a flick of his wrist. The fabric settled over Alastor’s scorched skin, soothing nothing. “There’s an obedient Consort,” Lucifer said, and the satisfaction in his tone made Alastor wish he’d bitten through his tongue instead.

Chapter Text

Evening descends upon the royal bedchamber like a shroud of unwelcome intimacy, draping shadows across ornate furnishings and painting the walls in muted golds from crystal sconces. Lilith perches at her vanity, a vision of regal poise as she examines her reflection with casual satisfaction. Between her legs, Alastor kneels on the plush carpet, his naked form a study in controlled rage. His chin rests against her thigh in a pose of forced submission, the contact between his skin and hers sending revulsion crawling through him.

His claws dig crescents into his palms, the sharp points breaking skin just enough to create pinpricks of pain. It’s a private rebellion, a silent resistance against the domestication being forced upon him. The slight sting serves as an anchor to his sense of self, a reminder that beneath the mask of compliance, the Radio Demon still exists, still seethes, still plans. Blood wells beneath his fingertips, tiny droplets hidden in his closed fists, the scent too faint to register beneath the cloying perfume that surrounds the Queen of Hell.

Lilith’s nightly rituals unfold with the mechanical calm of a physician prepping for a tedious surgery. First, the rigorous brushing of her hair, each stroke measured and deliberate, dark strands falling in a glossy curtain over her bare shoulder and into Alastor’s line of sight. The sound, soft but insistent, a whisper of bristles on silk, grates on him more than it should. She applies a serum to her scalp, massaging with the pads of her fingers, nails clicking with a methodical percussion he half suspects is exaggerated for his benefit. He tries not to watch, tries not to think of the tactile pleasure she must derive from these tender violences, but her reflection is everywhere: the polished vanity, the bright glass of the perfume bottles, the sharpened edges of every metal implement in her arsenal.

Lilith unscrews a glass vial, her movements precise, and dabs the oil along her neck with ringed fingers. The scent is cloying. The fragrance opens with the sharp green bite of crushed basil and thyme, softened by a whisper of lavender’s dry sweetness. Beneath the herbal brightness coils something darker, smoked vetiver and black patchouli, edged with a resinous myrrh that clings to the skin like shadows. It settles into the air with suffocating insistence. His nose twitches involuntarily. The perfume, like everything about her, is calculated to dominate. It colonizes the senses, leaves no room for the violence of his own scent, which has been scrubbed away in the bath hours before.

He keeps his gaze fixed on the floor, though his eyes burn with each minute. The carpet leaves an imprint on his knees, a regular lattice of sensation that will leave marks for hours, but he welcomes the minor agony, uses it to drown out the sickly sweetness in the air.

Lilith leans forward to scrutinize her face in the mirror, nose almost touching the glass, and as she does, her hand falls to his head as if he were some expensive fur muff. The fingers press behind his antler, sliding down to the base of his left ear, petting with the absent-minded affection one bestows on a docile animal. Her palm is cool on his scalp, but the movement tugs a strange electric thread just under his skin. Each time she touches his ear, it flicks, betraying him with a reflex he cannot suppress.

“Stay.” The word is soft, spoken without a glance; it lands like a commandment, immutable as ever. He bites the inside of his cheek and lets his chin rest heavier against her thigh.

Lilith moves on to her face, the slow ministrations of cream and tincture, each application another layer of impenetrable mask. He cannot decide if she is fortifying herself for battle or simply tending to the corpse of her own humanity, embalming it nightly in anticipation of the next day’s charade.

Lilith’s hand hovers over her reflection, inspecting the fresh lacquer of her lips for cracks, then sets the silver tube aside with surgical certainty. She wipes her fingers delicately on a monogrammed square of linen. She finishes with the cream, then lets her gaze drift down, zeroes in on the coiled mass of red at her knee. Only then does she deign to acknowledge her omega. “Up, darling,” she says, and lifts his chin with two fingers then shifts her thigh just enough to slide him away from her body. The touch leaves a pearly smear on his jaw; he tastes resin and something bitter, unfamiliar, on the inside of his mouth. The loss of contact is a reprieve, brief and chill as a draft from the crypt. He waits, hands braced on his own knees, as she sifts through the trays and drawers for a tool of his undoing.

Without warning, Lilith's hands slide beneath his arms, lifting him with effortless strength. The sudden movement disorients him momentarily, his world shifting and rotating until he finds himself seated upon her lap, facing her, legs dangling on either side of hers. The position is absurdly infantilizing, reducing him to a doll to be positioned and groomed at her whim.

"Much better," she declares. "Now I can reach all of you properly." The first stroke of the brush against his crimson hair sends a shiver of revulsion down his spine. The gentleness of it, the casual intimacy—these cut deeper than any violence could. Pain he understands, pain he can contextualize within the framework of conflict. This tender grooming, however, exists in a realm beyond his comprehension, a twisted pantomime of care that serves only to reinforce his captivity.

The brush moves in long, deliberate strokes, pulling through tangles with methodical precision. When she reaches his tufted ears, Alastor's entire body tenses, the vulnerable appendages flicking reflexively at the unfamiliar contact. The sensation borders on ticklish, a maddening stimulation that makes his ears twitch and swivel against his will. Each involuntary movement feels like a betrayal, his body responding to her ministrations without his permission.

"These little ears," Lilith murmurs, her voice honeyed with affection that feels like acid against his skin. "So expressive. You cannot hide your feelings when these give you away." She brushes them again, deliberately this time, watching as they flatten against his skull before flicking upright once more.

A low growl builds in his throat, static crackling at the edges of his consciousness as his patience frays. The brush pauses, Lilith's hand settling on his shoulder with warning pressure.

"None of that, now," she admonishes, the maternal tone slipping just enough to reveal the steel beneath. "I'd hate to have to punish you again so soon. Your poor bottom has barely recovered from this afternoon."

The reminder of his earlier humiliation douses the spark of defiance, replacing it with cold calculation. Survival requires adaptation, requires strategic concessions. He forces his growl to subside, allows his ears to remain passive beneath her attentions, retreating into the fortress of his mind where plans for eventual retribution unfold like origami nightmares, intricate and sharp-edged.

“You will be groomed every night,” Lilith says, fingers already delving into the tangles at his nape. “Properly. With some variation, but always attended by me. Good grooming is an omega’s most basic duty.”

He opens his mouth to retort, to twist the situation into some pointed farce, but she clicks her tongue and yanks gently at a particularly stubborn knot, sending a jolt of pain through his scalp. He bites down the retort, grinds his molars so hard it’s a wonder they don’t splinter. Submission is demanded here, even in the phrasing—him being “attended,” as if by a mortician.

She works the brush through the vivid mess of his hair, pausing at each snarl to work it free with her nails. For a moment he wonders if she intends to scalp him just for the inconvenience, or if she savors this slow domestication the way one might savor a sweet afterthought.

“You’ll find the arrangement easier to tolerate if you simply let it happen,” Lilith purrs, each word carefully buffed to a gleam. “It isn’t so bad, is it? To be cared for. To be... cherished.”

“You-” Alastor starts but Lilith clamps her hand lightly over his lips, effortless, gloved in the faint residue of her own products, just long enough to reassert her claim on the next word.

“You will not lose your selfhood. Far from it.” She leans in, breath warm and sharp with the alcohol from her toner, voice for his ears alone. “But you will be seen polished. Presented as you are meant to be.” Each syllable is delivered with the deliberate pacing of a sentence being passed. “I want you radiant, darling. For your sake and ours.”

He imagines gnawing her fingers to the bone, biting down till he tastes royal blood and the small bones crunch like sugar sticks. Instead, he nods, brittle and mechanical, an automaton performing for its master. The brush resumes its patient sweep through his hair, each stroke measured, tugging the roots with just enough force to remind him how fragile they are, how easily the whole crown could be torn free.

“Hmm.” Lilith hums, a sound half amusement, half diagnosis. “More tangles than I had anticipated.”

Lilith swaps brush for comb, the wide-toothed ivory snapping through sections with predatory efficiency. She lifts strands with cool fingers, clips them into geometric order, and sets about the work of detangling. The first pass is almost gentle, but he recognizes the tactic: the soft approach to lower the prey’s guard before the inevitable. When the comb hits the first true snarl, she pauses, pinches close to the root, and tugs, slow and steady, until the knot yields with a wet-silk pop. He jerks, breath hissing between his teeth.

“None of that,” she warns, voice low and edged. “If you fidget, it will take longer. If you complain, it will hurt more.”

Alastor grinds his teeth together and goes still, a statue hewn from quartz and bile, polished into obedience. His body resists the urge to recoil, to shudder, to bite. He forces it instead into stillness, brittle and cold, as if he might outlast her through sheer petrification.

Memory rises, unwelcome, from beneath the surface of his composure. He remembers the kitchen of his childhood, the humid press of summer air heavy with the perfume of chicory coffee and fried batter. His mother’s hands—roughened from work yet gentle when they carded through his hair—never tugged with this calculated malice. Her brush moved with care, coaxing out knots with patience, humming all the while. Even when it hurt, the pain had been incidental, softened by affection, soothed by the low cadence of her voice.

This is nothing like that.

Lilith’s touch is precise, impersonal, the comb biting like teeth, her fingers cold as if carved from marble. She does not hum, does not soften the sting. Every stroke is deliberate, a ritual of dominance disguised as care. Where his mother’s ministrations were an intimacy, this feels like a performance staged for his submission alone. He swallows against the rising bile, tastes bitterness like iron.

Lilith reaches for a frosted bottle, upends it, and the palm of her hand gleams with a translucent, faintly shimmering cream. She warms it between her hands, then rakes her fingers through his hair with expert pressure, distributing the cold slime from root to tip. A sharp, chemical-sweet chill lands on his scalp and slides down the strands. The faint perfume of white musk and something acidic, citrus rind, maybe, overpowers even the resinous perfume still clinging to her pulse points, but it leaves his hair hanging limp and slippery, the sort of texture that makes his skin crawl. She works it in with the flat of her hand, scalp-massaging circles that threaten to lull even as they disgust, then combs through again, faster, almost brisk. At the nape of his neck, her thumb finds a sensitive patch of scalp; he flinches, a microspasm she registers with a soft hmm, the kind that precedes a note in a medical chart.

He’s barely processed the violation of this step when she moves on, flicking the residue from her hands and reaching for another vial. From a tiny glass pipette she draws two drops of oil, thick and amber, and rubs them between her fingers before smoothing them into the ends of his hair. She pinches at the ends of his hair, twisting oil through the tips until each section gleams.

She divides his hair into sections, the comb clicking off neat boundaries across his scalp. The initial part is mercifully quick, then comes the twisting, the gathering of each lock with a precision that could only belong to a sadist or a saint. The first braid is tight, pulled so close to the skin that it stretches his temples and widens his eyes, a sensation that sends pinwheels of pain around the circumference of his skull. She pins the tip with a soft tie, black velvet that looks delicate but bites as hard as steel. He feels the strain all the way to the nape of his neck, a tether straight to her hand.

Lilith is not content with a single, simple braid. She moves methodically across his scalp, dividing, twisting, and tying until a crown of plaits girds his head, rendering the wild chaos of his hair into a series of ordered ropes.

The next braid is worse, centered behind his left ear, the roots dug out and parcelled with military neatness. He breathes through his nose, counting the seconds between each tug. He can sense her satisfaction in the work, the faint press of a smirk somewhere in the glassy reflection, though she never meets his gaze.

She works with the focus of a master embroiderer, hands deft, each braid a precise act of control. He counts the passes—six, then seven—until the entire crown of his head throbs with a halo of tension, the skin drawn tight enough that even a small movement threatens to tear a seam. Lilith finishes the last braid, smoothing it against his skull with a possessive palm. Her fingertips linger, pressing lightly at his temples as if to test the durability of her labor.

Before he can begin to imagine a reprieve, she pulls open a velvet-lined drawer and extracts a folded square of pale red satin smooth as water and obscenely expensive to the touch. At first he doesn’t register its purpose, until Lilith snaps it open, reveals the shape, the ear holes. Lilith lets it pool between her hands for a moment, making a show of measuring its width against his face. “We’ll keep everything tidy,” she says, as if to herself, and brings the wrap up beneath his chin like a barber about to slit a throat.

He jerks back, but her hand is there, stoneclad at the nape of his neck. “No,” he says, a bare whisper, but she’s already sliding the satin over his scalp, smoothing it flat, and tucking the ends behind his ears. She threads the length through a set of cut-outs, perfect little ovals, lined with something stiffer so the edges don’t fray.

The thing is designed to keep his braids pristine through the night; the fabric’s slick coolness slides over his scalp, locking the plaits in place with mechanical certainty. But it’s the ears that are the worst: the wrap cups around their base, snug and inescapable, holding them upright and in full display.

He tries to flatten them, to press them down, but the engineering is perfect, elasticized holes and satin channels hold them taut and perky no matter the resistance. Even the tiniest twitch reverberates through his skull, latex-tight, amplified by the pressure of the binding. The blood rushes to their tips and then stagnates, the ache turning quickly from nuisance to something more strident, a constant reminder that this indignity is not fleeting. The fixed upturned tilt of his ears makes his head feel hideously topheavy. The pressure at the base is mounting, a wordless, itching ache that he suspects will outlive both Lilith and Lucifer, should he ever get the chance to settle accounts.

Lilith’s hands remain at the back of his head, fingers kneading the scarf’s knot like she’s affixing a prize ribbon to a show animal. She doesn’t release him until she is personally satisfied with the symmetry of the wrap, tugging at the edges to ensure no renegade strand or tuft escapes its grasp. She employs a compact mirror to examine her handiwork from all angles and then turns his head this way and that, manipulating his chin with two fingers, assessing the line of his jaw, the angle of the ears, the set of the eyes under the newly braided coronet.

“Perfection,” she murmurs.

Alastor’s scalp crawls with a hot, crawling itch beneath the satin, the ache at his temples blossoming into a steady hum. He drags his claws along the seam at the edge of the wrap, digging at a point just above his right ear, determined to work the pressure free. The satin is too tight, the braids too new—his skin feels stretched, a million tiny nerves straining for relief. He tries to slip a finger under the band, but Lilith is already on him, her hand clamping around his wrist with gentle finality.

"Let it breathe, little deer. You'll get used to it," she tells him, her voice close to his ear, as intimate as a confession. She tugs his hand away, then smooths the wrap again, as if his mere touch is enough to throw off its entire architecture. She returns his hand to his lap with a pat so patronizing it leaves him trembling. “If you can’t leave well enough alone,” she says, “I’ll have to glove you.” She produces a pair of silk mitts from a drawer, the threat as real as the hairnet strangling his skull. She sets them beside the perfume bottles, a warning in the shape of two tiny coffins.

He clenches his fingers until the blood prickles and recedes. The urge to scratch, to wrench the wrap off and tear each braid loose, gnaws at him with a feverish persistence, but he wills his hands to remain still.

Lilith’s attention now turns to his face, and he knows the next assault is about to begin. “This should have happened in the bath, very sloppy of me. Forgive me for the lapse,” she says, as if this oversight is a tragedy on par with war. She draws something from the vanity, a shallow ceramic bowl and a brush with a fan of silvery-white bristles, followed by a series of bottles in frosted glass. She uncaps a tube of cleanser, and extrudes a cloud of foam onto her palm. The smell is sharp, almost medicinal, with a faint undercurrent of sweet almond. She rubs it between her hands, then smooths it onto his cheeks, chin, forehead, moving in circles that pick up every trace of oil, every fleck of dust, every scrap of dignity he’s managed to salvage.

He grinds his teeth until Lilith pries his jaw open with her thumb. “Stop tensing, it makes you look older,” she says, fingers working the foam into the hollows below his cheekbone, then sliding her thumbs up his temples as if she might smooth the scowl right off his face.

He bares his teeth. “If I look my age, perhaps you’ll realize I am not a wayward child.” The words don’t come out as sharp as he hopes; the foam bubbles between his lips, blunting the bite.

Lilith ignores the jab. She finishes working the cleanser into every pore, then reaches for a folded, steaming cloth. She swipes it across his face in slow, precise arcs, as if she’s stripping the very history from his skin. The heat shocks him; he flinches, but she’s unrelenting, using the edge of the cloth to dig along the line of his jaw, under his chin, into the hollows beside his nose. She works with the impersonal efficiency of a nurse prepping a cadaver for viewing.

When she’s decided he’s sufficiently scoured, she holds his chin high and pats his face dry with the edge of the cloth, her palm pinning his jaw in place as if daring him to twist away. For a moment, she holds him like that, chin angled up, face framed between the blade of her hand and the heel of her thumb, then releases with a last, gentle tap of the towel. Air hits his skin, now hypersensitive and tingling in every freshly-exposed pore, as though she’s flayed away not just dirt but a membrane of self-defense.

He expects her to be finished. Instead, she takes a round cotton pad, saturates it with a clear, cold solution, and pats it along his cheekbones and brow. The sharp scent of alcohol and something astringent burrows into his sinuses. The first touch is shocking, almost icy, and his body tries to recoil, but her other hand finds the back of his neck and keeps him steady, immobile. She works the pad in precise sweeps, over his nose, along the angles of his lips, and finally across his jawline, pausing with each application to let the liquid sting and evaporate. The skin on his face prickles, tightens, as if she is shrink-wrapping him into a new existence. He can feel the surface of his cheek beneath her palm, glassy and raw.

“There, see how fresh you look when you let me take care of you?” Her breath is almost a laugh. She turns his face toward the mirror, and for a moment he barely recognizes the creature staring back: the braids, the trembling points of his ears, the eerie shine stretched over the bones of his face. The old, feral wildness is still there, but reined, domesticated, put on parade.

He tries to scowl, but the tightness of the skin dulls the gesture into an awkward grimace. “Is this really necessary?” The words come slow, half-dragged through the cotton of his tongue. “I fail to see how a radiant complexion will prevent my imminent domestication.”

Lilith cocks her head, the motion so gentle it almost passes for kindness. “You’re a royal omega now,” she says, as if that explains everything—her words, her hands, the air itself. “It’s not about beauty, little deer. It’s about precedent. About what is owed to power, and what is owed to oneself.” She uncaps a second bottle, this one viscous and clear. “You’re expected to look the part.” The tip of her finger traces the line of his nose, as if aligning him to a template no one else can see. “Beauty is a weapon, darling. Even an omega’s.”

He scoffs, but the sound is fragile, more breath than voice. “I have heard of poison lips, but not poison skin.” The attempt at wit falls flat, lost in the rising tide of irritation and the persistent sting along his jaw.

She tips the bottle forward, and a single drop wells at the mouth of the pipette before it lands, cold and luminous, on the tip of his nose. She dabs it in with the ball of her finger, then more, dotting his brow ridge and the apples of his cheeks with the brightening serum. The process is ceremonial, each application a sigil pressed into his skin. The scent is mellow, almost honeyed—an undertone of chamomile, maybe, and something metallic underneath. She pats it in with brisk, upward motions, the slap of her palms barely shy of a blow. His skin, already raw, drinks it.

Next comes the jar of cream, heavy and opaque, the lid unscrewed with a slow, deliberate flourish. The scent is less medicinal, lanolin and the faint, greasy tang of tallow, chased by the powder of iris root. Lilith scoops a marble-sized dollop onto her finger, massages it between her palms, and then spreads it over his face as if sealing in all her previous work. The glide of it is cloying and oppressive, a second skin that closes every pore and leaves him tingling and suffocated at once.

She uses both hands now, cupping his jaw, working the cream up from chin to cheekbones in gliding, possessive strokes. It would almost read as tender, if not for the iron clamp of her grip. He tries to angle his head away, but her palm redirects him, her thumb digging under his ear until he’s forced to meet her eye in the glass. The cream leaves a pale sheen behind that catches even the yellow fire of the lamps and refracts it back like a layer of wax.

“Is there more?” He tries to keep the sarcasm in check, but it slips through the tight line of his mouth, warping the vowels into something brittle. “This seems… ample for a single face.”

She smiles, tight and sly. “It’s an honor to be so well maintained, dear heart. One final step.” She produces a tiny pot of pale gel from one of the vanity’s drawers and unscrews it with the deliberate care. “Close your eyes.”

She doesn’t wait for his compliance, simply presses his lids shut with her thumb and smooths the cold cream beneath his eyes in two quick swoops. The pressure is gentler than he expects, almost surgical, but the substance itself is icy, a shock to the paper-thin skin there. The scent is faintly of cucumber and astringent florals, a reminder of hotel towels and wasteful luxury.

Then, from the same drawer, Lilith produces a tiny tin of pale ointment, the label embossed with something in a language Alastor can't read. She opens it, and the scent of raw beeswax and mint jumps to his nose. The Queen dips her finger in, scooping up a translucent slick, and brings the pad of her thumb directly to his mouth.

He jerks his head back a fraction, but her hand is already at the nape of his neck, the other thumb poised over his lips. "Tsk," she says, and the chastisement is so soft it stings. "Lips closed."

He presses them together, but the resistance is token, ceremonial. She smooths the balm across the seam of his mouth, coating the edges, then presses with enough firmness that the balm slicks over the ridges and seams, banishing every trace of dryness, every excuse for a frown. It leaves behind a numbing tingle, a soft glow that Alastor supposes must read as appealing from a distance, if not up close.

“There you are.” Lilith taps his lower lip, a gesture that feels like a period at the end of a grim joke. “No cracks, no chapping, no evidence of recent unpleasantness.” Her gaze rakes over him, from the binding of his ears to the gloss of his mouth. “The public rarely forgives the sight of a disheveled omega, but they will tolerate a monster if he is beautiful.”

He bares his teeth, well aware the effect is blunted by the balm and the sickly shine of his skin. “Give them a few weeks. They’ll come to prefer the horror, in time.”

Lilith laughs. Her laughter tapers into a hum, pleased, unbothered, as though his little barb were nothing more than music to her ears. She sets the tin aside with the same unhurried precision as before, the echo of the lid snapping shut punctuating her amusement. Then, without ceremony, her hand drifts back to the drawer, an instinctive continuation rather than a change of subject. The Queen produces an ornate silver brush with a handle the shape of a serpent with ruby eyes this one with softer bristles designed for body fur rather than the coarser hair of his head, this one with softer bristles designed for body fur rather than the coarser hair of his head, and turns toward him with the easy inevitability of a tide coming in.

"Your fur has become quite matted," she observes, her voice carrying that terrible maternal concern that makes his teeth clench behind his frozen smile. "We really must take better care of you."

The brush begins its work, now moving across his chest in sweeping strokes that flatten his fur before it springs back, slightly fluffier than before. He fixes his gaze on a distant point on the wall behind her, a small imperfection in the otherwise perfect gilding, a microscopic flaw that becomes his entire world, the focal point that allows him to detach from the present moment, to exist somewhere beyond the indignity being visited upon his person.

When the brush reaches his stomach, his muscles contract involuntarily, the area sensitive and unaccustomed to touch. A small, strangled sound escapes him before he can prevent it, not quite a laugh, not quite a protest, but something vulnerable and unguarded that he immediately despises himself for producing.

Lilith's eyes narrow slightly, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Ticklish?" she asks, the question rhetorical and tinged with dangerous interest. The brush slows its pace, lingering over his abdomen with deliberate strokes that send fresh waves of uncomfortable sensation crawling through him.

He refuses to answer, refuses to give her the satisfaction of confirmation. His eternal smile stretches wider, teeth clenched behind the rictus as he forces himself to remain still, to show no reaction despite the maddening stimulation.

The brush completes its journey, leaving his fur unnaturally smooth and sleek against his skin. Lilith sets it aside, her eyes traveling over his body with proprietary satisfaction before her hand returns to his chest. Her claws extend slightly, raking through the newly-groomed fur with experimental pressure, testing its softness against her fingertips.

"Turn," Lilith commands, her palms already pressing against his shoulders, pivoting him away from her with practiced efficiency. His reflection stares back at him from the mirror, a prisoner watching his own subjugation.

The brush begins its journey at his shoulders, sweeping down the expanse of his back in long, methodical strokes. When it reaches the base of his tail, a shudder runs through him that he cannot entirely suppress. The small, white appendage twitches with agitation, the fur bristling as the brush moves over and around it with deliberate thoroughness.

His hands twitch at his sides, fingers flexing with the nearly overwhelming urge to snatch the brush from her grasp, to smash it against the vanity mirror, to turn its handle into a weapon against his captor. The fantasy plays vividly in his mind—the crunch of silver against flesh, the shattering of glass, the precious seconds of chaos that might afford escape.

Yet reality remains immutable. Lilith is no ordinary demon but the Queen of Hell herself, ancient and powerful beyond measure. Such rebellion would end in failure, in further punishment, in deeper humiliation. So he bites his lip until blood wells beneath his teeth, another small pain to focus on, to ground himself in as the brush continues its relentless journey across his body.

"Like silk," she murmurs appreciatively. "You clean up quite nicely, my little deer." Before he can formulate a suitably cutting response, her hands withdraw from his body. One palm presses against his lower back, guiding him forward with deceptive gentleness. "Go sit on the bed now," she instructs, her tone making it clear this is not a request but a command to be obeyed without question or delay.

His eyes flick to her face in the mirror, searching for some hint of what fresh humiliation awaits him there. Her expression remains placid, offering no clues beyond the expectation of immediate compliance. With leaden limbs and burning dignity, Alastor slides from her lap, each step toward the massive bed feeling like a march toward some new circle of personal hell he has yet to discover.

The mattress yields beneath Alastor as he perches at the edge of the bed, his posture rigid with apprehension. His ears strain against their bindings, desperate to swivel toward Lilith's approaching footsteps, tracking her movements as she approaches with that accursed brush still clutched in her elegant fingers. The soft bristles that had seemed so innocuous at first now represent another instrument of degradation, another means by which these self-proclaimed mates seek to domesticate him. His fur, freshly groomed and unnaturally smooth, feels foreign against his skin, a constant reminder of their unwanted attention, their insistence on treating him like a prized pet rather than the powerful entity he truly is.

"What else could possibly require brushing?" he inquires, his voice carefully modulated to conceal the desperation lurking beneath the surface. The static that normally crackles around his words has diminished to a barely perceptible hum.

Lilith doesn't deign to answer, her silence more unsettling than any explanation might have been. Instead, she reaches for his leg, her cool fingers wrapping around his ankle with deliberate gentleness that somehow feels more invasive than force would have. Without warning, she lifts his limb, the sudden motion unbalancing him so that he falls backward onto the plush bedding, his dignity crumbling further as he finds himself staring at the ornate ceiling, one leg elevated in her grip.

"There's no need to be shy," she murmurs as his free leg instinctively snaps shut to shield himself. Her knowing smile suggests she chooses to read his desperate self-protection as bashfulness rather than the disgust churning in his stomach. "We've seen all of you already, little deer. Many times."

The reminder sends a fresh wave of humiliation burning through him, memories of forced exposure and vulnerability flickering through his consciousness like fragments of a nightmare that refuses to fade with waking. Her words carry a possessive intimacy that curdles in his stomach, acid and bitter.

The brush begins its work again, this time against the fur of his thigh. The bristles sweep upward from knee to hip, each stroke meticulous and thorough. When she reaches the sensitive junction where thigh meets pelvis, his muscles tense involuntarily, a reflexive defense against the violation of his most intimate spaces.

"Relax," Lilith instructs, her voice carrying notes of gentle admonishment. "Tensing only makes it more difficult."

Easier said than endured, he thinks bitterly. The brush continues its journey, moving to the rounded curve of his rear, the bristles sending unwelcome tingles across flesh still tender from his earlier punishment. The sensation hovers in that maddening space between pain and pleasure, neither fully one nor the other, and all the more discomfiting for its ambiguity.

His hands fist in the bedding on either side of his body, claws piercing the expensive fabric as he fights to maintain control. Just endure, he tells himself, a mantra repeated with each stroke of the brush. This will end. Everything ends. This humiliation is temporary. My revenge will be eternal.

The thought provides cold comfort as Lilith moves to his calf, the brush now traveling in long sweeps from ankle to knee. The fur there is shorter, the sensation less intrusive but no less unwelcome. His hoofed feet twitch with the urge to kick, to lash out, to reclaim some measure of control through violence. Yet he restrains himself, knowing that such rebellion would only result in further punishment, in deeper degradation.

Just as Lilith shifts her attention to his other leg, the massive doors to the royal bedchamber swing open with theatrical flair. Lucifer strides into the room, a leather-bound book clutched in one hand, his smile widening as he takes in the scene before him.

"My, my," the King of Hell exclaims, voice bright with amused delight. "Have I interrupted an intimate grooming session? Should I come back when you've finished preening our little stag?"

The interruption brings no relief, only a fresh layer of humiliation as another pair of eyes witnesses his degradation. Alastor's ears twitch, his smile stretching wider with strain as he struggles to maintain his composure beneath the dual gaze of his captors.

Lilith glances up, her ministrations never pausing despite the distraction. "Did you find something good to read, darling?" she inquires, her voice warm with genuine affection that stands in stark contrast to the maternal tone she adopts with Alastor.

"Indeed I did," Lucifer replies, holding up the book so that its embossed cover catches the light. "A fascinating treatise on the evolution of soul corruption through the ages. I thought it might make for pleasant bedtime reading."

Pleasant for whom? Alastor thinks acidly, though he keeps the thought locked behind his teeth. The royal couple's idea of pleasant reading would likely send most mortal minds spiraling into madness.

Lucifer moves toward a grand armoire, setting the book aside as he begins to disrobe with casual unconcern for his audience. Alastor averts his eyes, fixing his gaze on a distant corner of the ceiling as the King of Hell changes into night clothes of crimson silk that match his wife's pale lavender ensemble.

The brush continues its relentless journey across Alastor's second leg, each stroke bringing him closer to the end of this particular torment while simultaneously reinforcing the reality of his captivity. No sooner has one humiliation concluded than another begins, an endless cycle of degradation designed to break his spirit and bend him to their will.

Finally, after what feels like hours but can only have been minutes, Lilith sets the brush aside. "All done," she announces, patting his thigh with proprietary satisfaction. "Smooth as silk, from ear to hoof."

Alastor rises immediately to a sitting position, desperate to reclaim some measure of dignity after being displayed like an object to be admired and groomed. "May I get dressed now?" he asks, the question emerging more harshly than intended, the words sharp with barely contained frustration.

Lilith's eyebrow arches, her expression cooling several degrees at his tone. She sets the brush aside on the nightstand with deliberate slowness, her movements precise and controlled. When she turns back to face him, her eyes have taken on that dangerous glint that precedes correction.

"Maybe," she suggests, her voice deceptively gentle, "instead of using such a harsh tone, you should ask nicely." Her head tilts slightly, bird-like in its precision. "Like a good omega."

The words cut deep, slicing through his defenses to the core of his being. Good omega. The very phrase is anathema to everything he has built himself to be, everything he has fought against since his arrival in Hell. The Radio Demon, feared, respected, powerful, reduced to begging for the privilege of covering his own body.

Yet pragmatism whispers insistently beneath the roar of his pride. The alternative, remaining exposed, vulnerable, half-naked in their presence, is worse. This small humiliation, performed in private, might spare him greater indignities. A tactical retreat, not a surrender.

With measured care, Alastor shifts onto his knees, the movement deliberate rather than fluid. His head dips, but the wrap binding his ears forces them upright, denying him the instinctive flattening that would have completed the gesture. He compensates where he can, tucking his chin toward his chest to bare the vulnerable line of his nape, rolling his shoulders inward until his frame begins to fold in on itself. The slight slump at his spine isn’t quite a slouch, but enough to collapse the proud silhouette he usually wears. His gaze drops to the floor, his hands settling on his thighs with fingers curled in loose, lifeless hooks. Every detail of the posture declares submission, yet to him it feels foreign, false, an insult to his nature. Still, he holds it, a marionette mimicking the part of an obedient omega, because sometimes performance is the only weapon left.

From deep in his chest, he attempts to produce the purring sound characteristic of contented omegas. The vibration feels unnatural, rusty from disuse and reluctance, catching in his throat like barbed wire. The sound emerges broken and halting, a poor imitation of the soothing rumble it should be.

"Please, alpha," he whispers, the words acid on his tongue, his eyelids lowered to half-mast in a parody of omega docility. "May I put my clothes back on?"

The final indignity comes as Lilith's hand rises to cup his cheek, her touch cool against his fur. Acting on instinct he didn't know he possessed, or perhaps on some half-remembered knowledge of proper omega etiquette, he parts his lips slightly, allowing his tongue to dart out in a small, quick lick against her knuckles. The taste of her skin floods his mouth with bitterness he struggles not to show.

Lilith's smile widens, genuine pleasure illuminating her features at his submission. Her hand moves to stroke his head, fingers trailing down to caress his ears before traveling the length of his spine to the base of his tail. The touch, though gentle, feels like a brand marking him as property.

"Good boy," she praises, the words falling between them like stones into still water. "Yes, you may put your clothes back on."

The permission, granted with such casual magnanimity, as though she bestows a great favor rather than returns a basic dignity, sends waves of humiliation burning through him. Yet he accepts it with outward gratitude, the performance not quite concluded until he has withdrawn from her presence.

Lilith steps away, her movement creating a small pocket of blessed space between them, the first respite Alastor has experienced since this evening's grooming ritual began. Without hesitation, he snaps his fingers, crimson magic crackling around his form as night clothes materialize over his exposed fur. The silk pajamas similar to those he wore that morning settle against his body like armor, each button and seam a small fortification against their unwanted gaze. The return of this barrier, however insubstantial, restores some fraction of his dignity, allows him to reclaim some small measure of the self that has been systematically stripped away since his capture.

His hands move instinctively over the fabric, palms skimming across his chest and down his arms, a compulsive reassurance that the protection, minimal though it may be, is real and not some desperate hallucination born of prolonged humiliation. The sensation is both comforting and disconcerting, comforting in the return of coverage, yet disconcerting as the silk slides across his newly groomed fur with unexpected sensitivity. Each brush of fabric sends tiny shivers racing across his skin, the sensation almost ticklish against fur rendered unnaturally soft and smooth by Lilith's ministrations. He stops the movement abruptly, disliking this reminder of their alteration of his body, their presumptuous grooming that leaves even his own touch feeling foreign and invasive.

Seated on the edge of the colossal bed, Alastor feels the weight of the royal chamber pressing in on him, a gilded cage masquerading as luxury. Shadows pool in the corners, thick and restless, while the silken drapes seem to whisper secrets in the hush of the night. Every surface glimmers with opulence, yet all he sees are the bars of his captivity, the velvet and gold transformed into instruments of silent mockery.

The night yawns before him, a suffocating expanse of dread. He is acutely aware of what awaits: the slow, inescapable approach of bedtime, when he will be forced to lie between his captors in their obscene nest of silk and feathers. The prospect is a slow poison, each minute stretching into an eternity of anticipated humiliation. His mind claws for escape routes, perhaps if he feigns exhaustion, they’ll let him sleep undisturbed? Or could he invent some menial task, anything to buy a few precious moments of solitude?

Before his thoughts can crystallize into a coherent plan, Lilith returns to his side. Her presence is a paradox: every movement is languid, feline, yet beneath the surface there is something predatory, something that makes Alastor’s skin crawl. She moves with the assurance of a creature who has never known fear. Her fingers, cold and possessive, hook under his chin, forcing his gaze upward. The touch is gentle, but the intent is unmistakable, ownership, not affection.

Her eyes bore into him, their unnatural warmth more terrifying than any threat. “Poor Lucifer looks so lonely reading his book all by himself,” she purrs, the mock-concern in her voice twisting like a knife. Alastor follows her gaze to where Lucifer reclines against the headboard, golden eyes flickering over ancient pages. The king’s indifference is a performance; Alastor can feel the weight of his attention, silent and expectant.

“Why don’t you go snuggle with him and read together?” Lilith’s words are honeyed, but the command beneath is ironclad. The word, snuggle, reduces him to something less than a man, child or a pet. Rage and humiliation war within him, but he forces his features into a mask of polite compliance.

"Perhaps instead," he begins, voice projecting reasonable consideration rather than the revulsion churning beneath, "I could—"

Lilith’s expression shifts. Her eyes narrow, her head cocks with avian precision, a silent warning. The air thickens, charged with the unspoken threat that has haunted him since his capture: there is no room for negotiation here.

The words die in his throat, replaced by a bitter, metallic taste. He swallows hard, pride shriveling beneath the cold logic of survival. “I’ll do it,” he says, the syllables clipped, each one a small surrender.

Lilith’s smile returns, softer now, but it feels like a velvet noose. Her hand cups his cheek, the gesture outwardly tender, yet Alastor feels the chill of possession in her touch. “This isn’t a punishment, darling,” she croons, her tone that of a queen bestowing a gift. “Think of it as bonding with your mate.”

Not mates, he thinks fiercely. Captors. Tormentors. Never mates.

His ears twitch trying to lower slightly, an involuntary display of distress he cannot entirely suppress. "I don't—" he begins, the protest forming before strategy can silence it.

Lilith's finger presses against his lips, stilling the words before they can fully emerge. The contact is gentle yet inexorable, a physical reminder of his subordinate position in this twisted hierarchy they seek to establish.

"Go lay with Lucifer and read before bedtime," she instructs, her voice soft yet carrying unmistakable command beneath its velvet surface. Her finger withdraws from his lips, hand extending toward the bed where her husband continues his reading, seemingly oblivious to the exchange occurring mere feet away.

Alastor's gaze follows her gesture, landing on the King of Hell with reluctant consideration. Lucifer appears absorbed in his book, golden eyes scanning the pages with casual interest, one leg crossed over the other in a pose of relaxed comfort. The sight of such ease, such contentment, when Alastor's own existence has been reduced to a series of humiliations and forced submissions, creates a rise of resentment to burn through him.

Yet refusal is not an option, not without consequences he cannot afford in his current vulnerable state. Tactical compliance, he reminds himself. Strategic submission to secure better positioning for the inevitable moment when opportunity presents itself.

His body heavy with dread, Alastor pivots toward the devil. He crosses the vast expanse of silk sheets on hands and knees, each inch traversed a fresh surrender. The mattress dips beneath his weight as he approaches Lucifer, the distance between them shrinking with an inexorable finality that tastes like ash in his mouth. His smile strains with the effort of maintaining his facade as he approaches the alpha who, along with Lilith, has orchestrated his captivity and degradation.

The static around him intensifies slightly, a physical manifestation of his displeasure that does nothing to deter his forward progress. His eyes remain fixed on Lucifer, narrowed with barely concealed animosity as he moves toward the inevitable confrontation, his body a study in reluctant obedience while his mind catalogs each indignity to be repaid when freedom finally comes.

Alastor stops at the edge of Lucifer's space, his tall frame hovering above the reclining devil like a guillotine blade suspended before the fall. The space between them, mere inches of expensive silk bedding, feels charged with tension, a minefield of potential contact he must now navigate under Lilith's watchful eye.

Lucifer glances up from his book, golden eyes widening with feigned innocence as he takes in Alastor's rigid posture. His own smile curves wider, the expression carrying notes of amusement at the Radio Demon's obvious discomfort.

"Does my omega need something?" he inquires, voice dripping with affection that scrapes against Alastor's nerves like nails on a chalkboard. That word, omega, curdles in Alastor's stomach like milk left too long in summer heat.

A sneer flickers briefly across his features before he can suppress it, the momentary crack in his mask revealing the depth of his contempt. Tactical compliance, he reminds himself. Strategic submission. The mantra rings hollow after days of captivity, yet he clings to it nonetheless, a life raft in the ocean of indignity threatening to drown him.

With mechanical precision, Alastor lowers himself to the mattress, every movement stiff and deliberate. He stretches out beside Lucifer, careful to arrange himself so that only the barest edge of his shoulder brushes against the King of Hell’s silk-clad arm. Even this minimal contact sends a wave of revulsion crawling across his skin, but he holds the position, a fragile compromise between Lilith’s demand for closeness and his own desperate need to preserve some boundary, however small.

A sharp, disapproving cough cuts through the silence. Alastor's ears swivel toward the sound, finding Lilith watching from her vanity, her reflection fractured across the triple mirrors as she observes their interaction with hawkish intensity. Her eyes narrow fractionally, disappointment evident in the set of her mouth.

"That's not what I meant by cuddling," she admonishes, turning on her stool to face them directly. Her fingers tap against the brush still clutched in her hand, the same instrument used for his grooming now serving as a silent reminder of her authority. "I want to see you on top of or below Lucifer, properly sharing space. That position barely counts as contact."

The directive lands like a slap, stripping Alastor of even the illusion of choice. His smile frays so thin it becomes almost spectral, a rictus beneath which every muscle in his jaw spasms with the urge to snarl. To be on top of or beneath Lucifer: either scenario is intolerable, an affront to every fortress of selfhood Alastor has laboriously constructed since his damnation. Yet tactical retreat is the only card left in his hand.

Lucifer's delight is obvious, his face splitting into a grin as he sets the book aside, patting his thigh with exaggerated invitation. “You heard the lady,” he says quietly, barely above a purr. “Come closer, sweetheart.”

Humiliation blooms hot and sharp inside Alastor, even sharper for the way his traitor body responds: the low-grade pulse of his own biology, the phantom tug that makes his spine lock with remembered instinct. He despises this part of himself, the way the urge to please an alpha—any alpha—remains, even after decades spent suppressing and sublimating it.

How to approach this, how to position himself in a way that satisfies Lilith's demand while preserving what scraps of dignity remain to him? The question circles his mind like a vulture over dying prey, offering no satisfactory answer. Every position seems equally intimate, equally degrading, a lose-lose situation designed specifically to break down his resistance through forced physical proximity.

He moves with the deliberate grace of a condemned man mounting the scaffold, each motion precise, bereft of wasted energy or hope. After only the briefest pause for effect, he flings himself over Lucifer’s outstretched body, arranging his own slender frame along the King of Hell’s chest. His limbs are angular, stiff as he perches atop Lucifer, knees bracketing the alpha’s silk-robed hips with as much distance as the position allows.

“Oho!” Lucifer chortles, the low rumble of amusement vibrating up through Alastor’s knees and into the seat of his resentment. “That’s more like it. Now, was that so hard?” His hands come to rest at Alastor’s hips, fingers drumming a slow, proprietary rhythm through the delicate silk. The touch is neither rough nor lewd, if anything, it is infuriatingly casual, as though the King of Hell expects this intimacy and has already grown bored of its novelty.

Alastor forces his weight to settle, bones and muscles locking into unnatural stillness to prevent even the smallest sign of comfort from escaping him. The pose is meant to be ridiculous, humiliating, and so he exaggerates it: throwing one arm over his forehead in a parody of theatrical despair, angling his head away so he will not have to meet Lucifer’s gaze. If he is to be their toy, he will at least control the manner of his play-acting.

Lucifer does not rise to the bait, instead he simply sighs with the serene patience of a man expecting to be courted. “You’re a quick study,” Lucifer says, his tone half-appreciative, half-mocking. "I know you hate this, but it suits you."

Alastor grits his teeth, refusing to dignify the comment with a reply. He stares up at the ceiling, cataloguing the elaborate knotwork and trompe-l'œil angels with obsessive focus, anything to avoid the intimacy of Lucifer’s gaze or the warmth of his body. The king’s chest is broad and oddly comforting in its stability, and the silk pajamas beneath his cheek are warmer than expected. Too warm. He can feel the slow, measured thump of Lucifer’s heart, a living metronome, and the pulse of it begins to synchronize with his own, which is somehow worse than the humiliation itself.

After a minute or two of this excruciating scene, Lucifer hums to himself, flips a page, and says without looking up, “If you’re going to be dead weight, love, then at least make it comfortable for both of us.” A hand slides up along Alastor’s back, mapping the new slope of his spine where it’s held taut by satin and tight braids. The devil’s touch is expert, not groping but simply arranging, kneading him down till their bodies slot together perfectly chest to chest, hip to hip.

A hand slides to the back of his neck, fingers threading through the hair at the nape. Those fingers begin a gentle massage against his scalp, each circular motion both soothing and deeply violating in its unwanted intimacy. Trapped by circumstance and the threat of punishment, Alastor holds back his retorts, his entire body a study in controlled tension as he endures this newest indignity.

Yet beneath the mask of compliance, beneath the eternal smile and careful posture, rage continues to simmer, a slow-burning flame that neither time nor humiliation can extinguish. Each touch, each degradation, each moment of forced intimacy becomes another entry in the ledger of grievances to be repaid when opportunity finally presents itself. And it will present itself, eventually. Of this, if nothing else, Alastor remains absolutely certain.

Chapter Text

The boredom presses in on him, as stifling as the pheromones his supposed alphas breathe into the room, an invisible fog he cannot escape. The royal bedroom, for all its opulence and grandeur, has become nothing more than an elaborate cage, gold-leafed bars and silk-draped walls that hem him in just as effectively as iron and stone. He shifts in the plush chair before the fireplace, the flames casting elongated shadows that mock him with their freedom to dance and leap while he remains trapped in luxury's suffocating embrace.

The robe they've "gifted" him lies heavy across his shoulders, a second layer over the silk pajamas that have become his unwanted uniform. Without shoes, his hooved feet press against the cool carpet, one of the few sensations that brings any relief from the monotony of his captivity. The books they've left, pitiful offerings of royal biographies and romantic drivel, lie scattered across the floor, consumed and discarded in desperate gulps rather than savored as intended. Even reading at his most leisurely pace, the meager library lasted mere hours, leaving the remainder of the day an endless expanse of nothingness.

He drums his claws against the armrest, the rhythm growing increasingly erratic as his thoughts spiral toward violent fantasies. The static around him pulses in time with his mounting frustration, crackling softly in the otherwise silent room. Earlier, he tested the barriers of the bedroom door, locked, of course, and reinforced with magic that rejected his attempts at manipulation. The balcony doors yielded the same results, their apparent transparency another cruel joke, offering glimpses of freedom without granting access.

A world beyond glass, a life beyond control, both visible yet untouchable.

The sound of approaching footsteps draws his attention, though he refuses to grant the courtesy of turning toward the door. The massive portal swings open with that familiar, ponderous weight, admitting the royal couple in a wave of mingled scents and voices. Their conversation, something about judgments rendered during court proceedings, filters through the static of his disinterest.

"And then the Baron had the audacity to suggest we hadn't properly considered the territorial implications," Lucifer's voice carries a note of amused disbelief. "As if we haven't been managing border disputes since before his grandfather crawled out of the pit."

"Some demons believe age brings them authority rather than merely the opportunity to accumulate wisdom," Lilith responds, her tone carrying that cultured dismissal that makes Alastor's teeth clench behind his smile. "Clearly, he's chosen the former path."

Their laughter mingles in harmonious arrogance as they approach his chair, their shadows stretching across the floor to join his own. On the floor, Alastor's shadow recoils as the royal silhouettes encroach upon its edges. Its face contorts with revulsion before slithering beneath Alastor's feet, seeking refuge from their touch. Only then does Alastor grant them the barest acknowledgment, a flick of his eyes in their direction, the slightest tilt of his head that communicates recognition without respect.

"Good evening, little deer," Lilith purrs, her hand descending to brush across his shoulder in that proprietary way that makes his fur bristle beneath the robe. "How was your day?"

"How was my day?" Alastor repeats, his voice carefully modulated despite the static that crackles at its edges. "Oh, simply riveting. I particularly enjoyed the part where I counted all five hundred and seventy-eight diamonds in the chandelier. Twice. For accuracy, you understand."

His smile stretches wider, tight at the corners with suppressed rage. "Then I moved on to categorizing the threads in the carpet by color and thickness. Would you believe there are seventeen distinct shades of crimson alone? Fascinating stuff."

Rather than taking offense, Lucifer laughs—a melodious sound that somehow manages to feel both genuine and patronizing simultaneously. “We’re so pleased you’re using your time constructively,” Lucifer says, the glint in his eye suggesting he is anything but.

Lucifer gives a low, appreciative whistle. "We should have you audit the royal accountancy, darling. You'd catch embezzlement three centuries in the making."

Lilith rounds the chair, the train of her evening gown whispering against the carpet. "Boredom is the enemy of a healthy mind," she says, leaning over to slide the robe farther up his shoulders with a theatrical fuss. "We'll have fresh books brought in. Would you prefer poetry or philosophy?"

"Autopsy reports, if you have them," Alastor says, not missing a beat. "The more grotesque, the better." He picks at a loose thread on the armrest. "Or, failing that, perhaps a length of rope? The view from the balcony is ever so tempting, if you get my drift."

A sharp look from Lilith, a narrowing of those crimson eyes, not quite anger, but the cold flicker of warning. "You're not to step onto the balcony, not without us. Is that understood?" Her voice dropping to a note of threat that chills the marrow. "We can't risk the scent wafting out. You know the terms." As if he’s a fermentation vessel under constant threat of explosion, a live grenade with a very specific safety pin.

Alastor’s smile twitches, a pulse of static rippling up his antlers. "Of course, Your Majesty. I treasure my indoor privileges." He pulls the robe tighter, using the motion to disguise the tremor in his hands.

"Especially before we've had a season to parade you around," Lucifer adds, his smile twitching sharper at the edges.

A logos of chains, however silken, is still a chain. He drums the armrest again, faster and sharper. The robe shifts over his collarbone, a collar in all but name.

"Do you plan to keep me prisoner forever, or does this arrangement improve with time?" Alastor asks, his tone honeyed, acidic. "Or is the plan to illustrate the futility of escape so vividly I take to gnawing off my own limbs, like a proper animal?"

"Don't be so melodramatic, darling," Lilith chides, but not unkindly.

The king circles the chair, coming to stand before Alastor with that smile playing across his features. "Perhaps you need a hobby to occupy your time while we attend to royal duties. Painting, perhaps? Or crafting? Many omegas find knitting particularly soothing, something about the repetitive motion seems to satisfy instinctual nesting urges."

Each suggestion is an insult, another presumption about what he should want, should need, should be. Alastor's static intensifies, crackling around him in agitated bursts.

"What I would prefer," he counters, each word precisely enunciated despite the distortion that threatens to overtake his voice, "is the freedom to walk beyond these four walls. Surely the palace grounds could accommodate my presence without compromising your precious security concerns."

Lilith exchanges a glance with Lucifer, that silent communication passing between them that excludes Alastor entirely despite being about him. Her smile softens into something almost pitying, which somehow feels worse than outright cruelty.

"Come," she says, bypassing his request entirely as she moves toward the ornate dressing table across the room. "It's time for your grooming."

Alastor does not move at first. Command in Lilith's voice is blade-sharp, but nonurgent—a dagger sheathed at his throat, not thrown. He lets the moment stretch: a full three seconds of deliberate inertia, reading in the twitch of her shoulder, the cadence of Lucifer's almost-suppressed laugh, just how far this microscopic defiance might travel.

Only when Lilith turns to look at him—head tilted, one eyebrow cocked as if expecting a trick—does he push himself upright. The robe slips, pooling scarlet silk at his elbows. He stands at calculated half-height, just enough to make the transition awkward for all present. Then, with a theatrical flourish worthy of the radio days, he sweeps the robe from his shoulders, folding it in crisp rectangles and laying it over the back of the chair with the reverence reserved for burial shrouds.

He pads across the carpet on hoof and heel, hands folded neatly behind his back, and stands at the edge of the rug, refusing to advance a single step further until ordered. A dog on an invisible leash, but at least one with teeth.

The routine, established over days of captivity, hangs between them like an unspoken contract. Resistance would be futile, they would simply force him into compliance as they had before, adding further humiliation to an already degrading situation. Strategic compliance, on the other hand, offers at least the illusion of choice, of dignity preserved through selective cooperation.

Lilith gives him a look—her signature flat stare, equal parts patience and promise of violence that says there’s no point in prolonging the inevitable. He returns it with a smile so sharp it could incise diamonds from the chandelier.

The line of her mouth does not move. She does not nod, or flick her finger, or otherwise perform the gesture of command. She expects him to do what is required, to anticipate, to perform the correct steps in this nightly ritual as if he is not only her captive, but her accomplice. The invisible leash tightens by its own weight. Then, with the delicacy of a professional undertaker, he approaches the vanity.

He takes his time. Each drawer opens with a languid pull, the contents arrayed with the meticulousness of an embalmer’s kit. Bottles, jars, tins: creams, oils, things with indecipherable French labels, things that smell of wax, citrus, and always the underlying rot of money. He sets each item atop the mirrored glass with a click, a tiny act of percussion, as if he might rearrange the molecules of air with the right rhythm. Each item is placed on the tabletop with meticulous care, the arrangement a small act of control in a situation where he has precious little.

Alastor lines the glass bottles like chess pieces, the heavy ones balanced at the back, the delicate vials of essence and serum up front, a defensive barricade, a ritual of his own making. The small silver spatula, the brush with badger bristles, the tortoiseshell comb, each instrument receives its appointed place on the lacquered surface. When he glances up, Lilith is watching him in the mirror, her reflection unreadable. Only the barest tremor at the corner of her mouth betrays her satisfaction.

The next move belongs to him. Lilith expects the rest of the ritual: the disrobing, the offering of self to her ministrations. Every cell in his body rebels against the script, but the options are binary and prescribed: cooperate, or be made to cooperate. He unbuttons the pajama top with careful precision, undoing each fastening slowly, not in sensual defiance, but as a drawn-out act of resignation. soft click of each button on the silk pajama top is a metronome for his resentment. He exposes his chest with the same performative nonchalance a condemned man might bare his neck to the axe. The pajama shirt slips free, and he drapes it over the nearest arm of the vanity stool, a shroud for the body he is about to surrender. The pants follow, peeled off with a flick of the hoof, pooled at the base of the stool. There is nothing left between his flesh and the cold scrutiny of the Queen of Hell except the barest friction of his own fur. Alastor seats himself, upright and rigid, every muscle in his back refusing to slacken.

Lilith's reflection studies him as she closes the distance, her chin tipped to an angle that turns appraisal into act. She does not touch him at first, only surveys what now belongs, in every legal and metaphysical sense, to her. Alastor resists the urge to cover himself with his hands, instead resting them palm-down on his thighs, claws extended and digging in, his own private punctuation against the grammar of submission.

"You learn quickly," Lilith says.

He seats himself on the bench before the mirror, posture rigid with contained fury as he awaits Lilith's approach. Her reflection appears behind him, eyes gleaming with satisfaction at his compliance, hands reaching for the first of the grooming implements with practiced familiarity.

"You know," she begins, her voice carrying that terrible maternal gentleness that makes his skin crawl beneath his fur, "you could have this freedom you seek quite easily." The brush passes through his hair in long, smooth strokes, each one sending unwanted shivers down his spine. "All it would take is acceptance of our scent bond. A simple mark of protection that would allow you safe passage through the palace."

Alastor meets her gaze in the mirror. "I believe we've established my position on that particular suggestion. It remains unchanged."

Lilith's fingers pause briefly in his hair, a momentary stillness that somehow carries more threat than overt violence. When she resumes her grooming, her touch remains gentle, but the tenderness has acquired an edge of something colder, more calculating.

"Then you will remain in our bedroom," she states, the words falling between them like stones into still water. "The choice, as always, is yours."

The lie of choice, the pretense that his captivity is somehow self-imposed rather than forced upon him, gnaws at him worse than chains ever could. Yet he remains silent, allowing her to continue the grooming ritual while his mind churns with strategies, calculations, and the slow, steady accumulation of grievances to be settled when opportunity finally presents itself.

*********************************

The massive doors swing open with the precision of a metronome marking another day of captivity complete. Alastor doesn't bother looking up from his position by the window, where he's spent the last hour watching clouds drift across Hell's crimson sky, the only moving scenery available to him in this gilded prison. Their scents reach him first, Lilith's midnight roses and blood, Lucifer's burnt sugar and lightning, announcing their presence before their footsteps cross the threshold. Another day survived, another evening of forced intimacy to endure.

"There's our beautiful omega," Lucifer's voice carries across the room, dripping with an affection that makes Alastor's fur bristle beneath his robe. The king approaches with swift, eager strides, reaching Alastor before he can strategically relocate to a less accessible position.

Without warning or permission, Lucifer's hand cups the back of Alastor's neck, fingers pressing against the sensitive spot where fur meets skin. The contact sends unwelcome warmth spiraling down his spine, a biological response he cannot fully suppress despite his mental resistance. The king's other arm circles his waist, pulling him into an embrace that feels more like capture than affection.

"We missed you," Lucifer murmurs, breath warm and scented with spice. Before Alastor can formulate a suitably cutting response, Lilith appears at his other side, her cool fingers tilting his chin toward her.

"You look tired, dear heart," she observes, crimson eyes scanning his face with that terrible perception that seems to see beyond physical appearances to the fatigue of spirit beneath. "Was today particularly trying?"

Alastor extricates himself from their hold with careful movements that disguise his revulsion as mere restlessness.

"Oh, exceptionally stimulating," he replies, voice crackling with static undertones. "I've developed a fascinating new theory about the precise number of times one can pace the perimeter of this room before descending into madness. I believe the figure hovers somewhere around three hundred and forty-two, though further research is clearly needed."

Rather than taking offense, Lilith laughs, a musical sound that somehow manages to be both genuine and infuriating. "Such a sharp tongue," she comments, reaching out to trace a finger along his jawline. "I do adore your wit."

He retreats to the chair by the fireplace, creating distance between them as his mind works through possibilities, strategies, alternative approaches to this imprisonment. His claws drum against the armrest in a rhythm that betrays his agitation, tapping out the tempo of his racing thoughts. The hollow sound of bone against wood fills the silence as the royal couple exchange glances.

An idea crystallizes, not freedom, perhaps, but a compromise that might prove acceptable to all parties. A negotiation rather than continued defiance, a strategic concession to secure larger victories.

"I've been considering alternatives," Alastor says, his voice carefully modulated to project reasonable consideration rather than desperate bargaining. "Perhaps an omega collar would satisfy your concerns about my status when moving about the palace."

The suggestion surprises the royals for a moment creating a moment of silence in the chamber; a tentative bridge across the chasm of their opposing desires. Lucifer's eyebrows raise slightly, a flicker of interest crossing his features before his expression settles back into its usual amused confidence.

The suggestion of a collar, heretical and blasphemous all at once, but Alastor craves the sharp intake of breath that follows. Lilith’s lips part, blood-red and surprised, she recovers immediately, but he feels the ripple of disruption before she pins him with her gaze, as if recalibrating her expectations for him on the spot.

"That's not the tradition in this house," Lucifer says, voice mild, but his posture shifts: arms crossed, feet planted a little further apart. "We scent-bond, or nothing. Collars are for pets and playthings, not consorts of the royal family."

Alastor shrugs, the movement making a show of casualness, though the skin beneath his pajamas tingles with unease. "And yet you keep me locked here like one. Hard to see the distinction from my vantage."

"A collar," the queen repeats, testing the word as though sampling an unfamiliar wine. "That's an interesting proposal." Lilith moves to perch on the arm of Lucifer's chair, her expression thoughtful yet unmoved. "And what appeals to you about this alternative, dear heart?"

"It would clearly mark my status," Alastor explains, logic threading through his words like steel wire. "Any demon in the palace would recognize the royal insignia, understand my position, and behave accordingly. It would provide the protection you claim to be concerned about without the... invasiveness of scent bonding."

The queen tilts her head slightly, crimson eyes studying him with the patient attention of a predator assessing prey. "I appreciate your attempt at compromise," she begins, her voice gentle yet unyielding. "But I'm afraid a collar would be insufficient for several reasons."

Lilith launches into an explanation with a gentleness that rings false, the way undertakers soften their voices to deliver bad news. "First, a collar can be removed, can it not? By you, or by anyone with a sharp enough claw. Second, it invites the notion that you are 'play-acting' status, rather than wearing it in your blood and bones. That would make you, and by extension us, vulnerable to social challenge. It signals ownership to others, but not to the body, does not satisfy the instincts of those who might wish you harm, nor does it protect you from your own biology.” She trails her finger along the length of her throat, then rests it against her pulse point as if to illustrate. Her voice flows beneath the surface, a velvet undertow, "Second, a collar erases the beauty of the bond. We want you seen, not hidden. Yours is a rare elegance. A collar is a symbol of discipline and discipline alone, not of trust, not of legacy. Why would we obscure it behind a symbol of ownership suited for lesser creatures? We don't collar our betters." The logic rolls out with the inevitability of a guillotine blade. “A collar would make you a curiosity, not a consort. That’s not the message we intend."

Lucifer leans forward, elbows on knees, and for the first time his facade of patient amusement seems to crack. "You don't want to be a pet, and we don't want one. Nor to be seen as a 'mourner's curio.'" Lucifer's gaze fixes on Alastor with a sudden burst of raw authority, a crackling undertone that splits every word down the middle and wedges it somewhere under Alastor’s ribs. The King of Hell fixes him with a steady, pitiless stare. "We want you irrevocably ours, Alastor. Not accessorized for the court’s amusement."

Alastor waits for the inevitable next volley. Lilith and Lucifer share a glance, that silent flicker of accord that always precedes a united front. Then Lucifer leans in, voice shifting lower, almost sympathetic if such a thing were possible from the King of Hell. "And a collar wouldn't stop the rest of them," he says, gesturing towards the world beyond the doors. "A collar's just a target to an unbonded alpha. It might as well be a flag reading: try me."

Lilith nods, her gaze intent. "A scent bond is a line drawn in blood and memory, not just silk and metal," she says. "No one would dare touch you once the palace is perfumed with us. But a collar? That’s just a toy to be broken." She lets the last word dangle, an accusation or perhaps a prophecy.

"Your concern isn't truly for my safety," he challenges, static intensifying around his form. "It's your need to mark me as property in the most primitive, invasive way possible."

Lucifer's smile widens, showing teeth that seem sharper than moments before. "Our concern is absolutely your safety," he counters, voice carrying notes of steel beneath its silken surface. "Which is precisely why we insist on the most effective deterrent available."

"I have survived in Hell for decades without your protection," Alastor reminds them, each word precise despite the distortion crackling through his voice. "I have faced alphas of considerable power and walked away while they lay bleeding. I do not require your scent to defend myself."

"Against ordinary demons, certainly," Lilith agrees, her concession more patronizing than validating. "Your reputation and power are considerable. But you now reside in the palace, where every demon with ambition seeks advantage. An unscented omega with proximity to the crown would be seen as a potential weakness to exploit, a path to influence."

"You wouldn't just be fighting for yourself," Lucifer adds, his tone taking on a rare seriousness. "You would be defending our position, our authority. Any successful challenge against you would be perceived as a crack in our power."

The manipulation is so transparent it's almost insulting, appealing to his pride, his sense of autonomy, even as they use these very qualities to justify further control. Yet beneath the manipulation lies a kernel of truth he cannot entirely dismiss: the royal palace operates under different rules than the streets of Hell, with dangers more subtle and potentially more lethal.

Alastor holds Lucifer's stare, lets it become a tug-of-war across the table, neither blinking nor ceding an inch. He feels the pulse of it echo in his jaw, a bone-deep challenge. "If the concern is my safety, is it not more prudent to blend tradition with efficacy?" He gestures to his own throat, the pale fur exposed just above the pajama collar. "A visible symbol, universally understood. A collar with the royal seal. If you wish to prevent escalation, make it clear to every watcher that any contest would be met with… royal consequence."

Lilith’s mouth curves at the suggestion, but there is nothing of amusement in it. “You mistake the purpose, darling.”

Lucifer’s hand rises slicing the air in a gesture less dismissive than absolute. “A collar, even with our crest, is a joke to true power,” he says, and his voice cracks through the staticky air. “It means you’re not sanctified—you’re off-limits by decree, not by nature. You don’t wield our authority, you wear it like a costume.”

“Symbols are for those who cannot command respect with truth,” Lilith adds. “Royalty, true royalty, is not a matter of costume jewelry, darling. A collar would indeed mark you as ours, but only at the skin. We are not merchants to brand cattle, nor are you a household pet to be leashed for display. You must bear our mark where it cannot be removed.”

She pivots, the brush poised in midair. “You are not a showpiece,” she says, each word slow, deliberate, as if explaining the concept to a recalcitrant child. “You are legacy in flesh. Your children…” The word catches in her throat like a fishbone. “Your children will not inherit a world where power is measured by leash and chain.”

He wonders, briefly, if she sees the same thing he does: the bleak, iron lattice of inevitability, the prison that walled him off from himself long before her and the Devil took up the project. Familial legacy, seeded in violence and disappointment and watered daily with the sweat of generations. The words “your children” echo in his skull, a sledge to the soft tissue of his present, a hard echo over the hush of his own memory. No children. That had always been the great safety in his own body, the dry joke behind the act: Sinners can’t reproduce.

…children… The phrase sticks in the air like a gnawed bone, and Alastor waits, certain the Queen’s next word will choke her as surely as it does him. His body is a grave, incapable of such legacy—everyone knows “sinner” is synonymous with sterile, a cosmic joke for which no one ever laughs. The whole grotesque pageant of courtly expectation, the line of succession, the half-whispered prophecies about royal heirs—none of it ever applied to him, and yet here she is, knitting him into the tapestry of lineage as if he were just another thread.

“If legacy is the concern,” he says, voice steady as a metronome, “then perhaps the search should be broadened. There are an abundance of omegas in Hell—many with the temperament and disposition more suited for the sort of dynastic project you seem so keen to pursue. Surely one of them would—"

"None are you." The interruption slices through his pitch, abrupt and final.

“Surely you have the reach to locate a candidate with fewer… complications. Why not divert your search outside the current perimeter?”

The stillness from Lilith and Lucifer is so absolute it vibrates, a wire strung to the breaking point. He continues, leaning into the silence. "If you wish, I could assist in the search. Surely there are demons who would be thrilled to—"

"Stop." Lilith's voice is a blade, honed to a single syllable.

“That’s rich,” Lucifer laughs, voice full of a delight so pure Alastor wants to reach up and claw it from his mouth. “You believe we haven’t looked? We’ve been in Hell since its inception. We've watched every omega, every anomaly, every failed experiment roll through these gates. None have measured up to you.”

"That can't possibly be—" Alastor starts, but Lilith's hand presses cool against his wrist, halting the words midstream.

"Stop trying to barter yourself away, darling," she says, her voice low and, for a moment, almost kind. "If it were merely about lineage or rivalry, another omega would suffice. But it isn’t. Not for us, not for Hell, and not for you. There are millions of omegas, Alastor, but none of them can do what you do.”

Lucifer leans back in the chair, the posture loose, but in his gaze is a dare combined with an invitation. “We want you for you. Not as a broodmare, not as a trophy, not as another name in the ledger. If you think it’s possible for us to just let go—” The King of Hell lets the sentence trail, the implication heavier than any threat. "—you’re vastly underestimating the scope of our attention span."

“What-” Alastor tries again.

"Our terms remain unchanged," Lilith states, rising from her perch with fluid grace. "Freedom with a scent bond, or continued confinement without."

She approaches the vanity with measured steps, her hand gesturing toward it in silent command. The evening ritual awaits, another small surrender in the ongoing war of wills between them.

With reluctant compliance born of strategic calculation rather than submission, Alastor rises from his chair and moves to the vanity. The familiar dance begins, retrieving the implements, arranging them in precise order, removing the robe that has been his armor throughout the day. As Lilith's fingers work through his hair with practiced efficiency, her head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing in contemplation.

"I've been thinking," she muses, turning his face slightly to examine his features in the mirror. "Perhaps we should incorporate eyeliner into our routine. Or brow gel. Your features are already striking, but a touch of enhancement would accentuate those beautiful eyes."

The suggestion, so trivial, so domestic, so presumptuous in its planning for a future he has not agreed to, burns like salt in the wound of his captivity. Yet he remains silent, allowing her to continue her grooming while his mind churns with strategies, calculations, and the slow, steady accumulation of grievances to be settled when opportunity finally presents itself.

*******************************************

The monotony of confinement begins to scrape against Alastor's sanity like dull blades against bone. Days bleed into one another, marked only by the royal couple's comings and goings, their persistent attempts at domestication, and the slow erosion of his patience. The walls of the opulent bedroom seem to contract with each passing hour, luxury transformed into suffocation as the same gilded fixtures and silk draperies become so familiar he could trace their patterns blindfolded.

Instead, he turns inward, retrieving skills from his mortal life that once brought him both income and joy. Standing before the ornate mirror, he adjusts an imaginary bowtie, clears a throat, and begins.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!" His voice drops into that performative register that once captivated audiences across the airwaves. "This is Alastor broadcasting live from the most exclusive prison in Hell, the royal bedchamber!" Static crackles around him, an audience's phantom applause. "Today's weather forecast: oppressively sunny with a chance of unwanted physical contact and a high probability of patronizing comments."

His footsteps trace a perfect rectangle around the room's edge, each heel-toe percussion punctuating his monologue, until his fingers snap and the familiar weight of his microphone materializes in his waiting palm. "Our top story: local deer demon discovers new depth of boredom previously thought impossible! Scientists baffled as captivity reaches day seven with no sign of subject's sanity crumbling. Royal observers speculate that his remarkable resilience may be due to an impressive reservoir of spite."

The imaginary broadcast continues for hours, a lifeline to identity that exists beyond these walls and their imposed roles. He reports on fictional turf wars, interviews himself playing various characters from his past, and even performs commercial breaks for products that would horrify his captors: "Scruffing Repellent: Because No One Touches Your Neck Without Permission" and "Alpha-B-Gone: One Spray and Watch Them Scatter!"

The performance sustains him through another endless day, but when the royal couple returns that evening, he ensures his radio persona is neatly tucked away, hidden behind his usual mask of sardonic compliance.

***********************************

By the fourth day of his second week, the original arrangement of furniture has become another aspect of his captivity, a silent reminder that nothing here is truly his. He waits until the royal couple has departed for their daily duties before beginning his work.

The massive bed, centerpiece of their unwanted intimacy, remains immovable, anchored by both weight and symbolic importance. But the rest shifts under his direction. The reading chairs migrate from their conversational grouping near the fireplace to strategic positions facing the door and balcony, vantage points rather than cozy corners. The dressing table rotates forty-five degrees, angled to provide better sightlines to all entrances while seated for their forced grooming rituals.

Smaller items follow: lamps repositioned for optimal shadow casting, rugs shifted to cover portions of floor that creak under pressure, decorative items rearranged in deliberate patterns that please his eye rather than following their original aesthetic. Nothing damaged, nothing obvious enough to provoke immediate correction, just enough alteration to transform the space from theirs to something approaching neutral territory.

When they return that evening, Lucifer pauses at the threshold, golden eyes scanning the altered landscape with obvious recognition of the changes. Rather than commenting directly, he merely raises an eyebrow, his smile curving slightly deeper at one corner.

"Redecorating, darling?" he asks, voice light with amusement rather than annoyance.

"Improving," Alastor corrects, his own smile sharp-edged and unrepentant. "The previous arrangement offended my sensibilities."

"Of course it did," Lucifer responds, exchanging a glance with Lilith that carries meaning Alastor deliberately chooses not to interpret.

**********************************

The next act of rebellion comes through meticulous organization. The royal wardrobe, a cavernous space filled with centuries of accumulated finery, becomes his target. He sorts garments by color, then fabric, then occasion, creating a taxonomy of apparel that satisfies his need for order while allowing him to pass judgment on their sartorial choices.

"Lilac and vermillion," he mutters, hanging two of Lucifer's waistcoats as far apart as physically possible. "A crime against both eyes and taste." Lilith's gowns receive similar scrutiny, cataloged by neckline and transparency rather than any conventional system. "Practically begging for strangulation with these collar designs," he observes, separating high-necked creations from their more revealing counterparts.

When the royal couple discovers his handiwork, Lilith's fingers trail across the newly organized sections with appreciative precision. "How thoughtful," she murmurs, turning to offer a smile that carries genuine pleasure rather than the mockery he anticipated. "I've been meaning to sort through these for decades."

The gratitude stings worse than outrage would have.

**********************************

The bathroom incident occurs on day twelve. Lilith sends Alastor to the bathroom for his bath before grooming. Alastor turns both faucets to their maximum flow, adds the entire bottle of bath oil, some floral concoction that costs more than most demons earn in a year, and leaves the room with elaborate casualness. He feigns distraction while keeping one ear trained on the growing aquatic catastrophe behind the bathroom door. Steam billows from the doorway within minutes, followed by a creeping tide of iridescent bubbles that advance across the marble floor like a perfumed invasion force.

By the time he "notices" the disaster, foam has reached the priceless carpet, spreading in fragrant waves across antique fibers. His performance of dismay convinces no one, least of all himself, but the satisfaction of creating chaos within order sustains him through the clean-up process and subsequent lecture on "appropriate use of bath products."

The following night, he systematically depletes their collection of imported soaps, slicing some into decorative but unusable spirals, dissolving others in hot water for "cleaning purposes," and using the remainder to create elaborate sculptures that he places throughout the bathroom like artifacts in a gallery of wastefulness.

"An artistic statement," he explains when questioned, gesturing toward a particularly ambitious construction that vaguely resembles Lucifer's face rendered in sandalwood-scented suds. "About the ephemerality of luxury and the futility of attachment to material possessions."

************************************

Dusk settles across the palace grounds, visible through the balcony doors that still refuse to open despite his daily attempts. Alastor sits before the fireplace, a book open but unread in his lap as he contemplates his next minor rebellion. The mattress of options grows thin, he's already adjusted every adjustable object, depleted most consumable supplies, and created enough small inconveniences to fill a catalog of petty vengeance.

The door opens without warning, admitting Lucifer alone, unusual, as the royal couple typically arrives together after court sessions. The King of Hell moves with casual confidence to where Alastor sits, settling onto the arm of his chair without invitation or hesitation.

"Reading anything interesting?" he inquires, golden eyes scanning the open page with genuine curiosity.

"A treatise on the cultivation of patience," Alastor replies, closing the book with deliberate care. "Apparently, it's a virtue. I remain unconvinced."

Lucifer laughs, that melodious sound that somehow manages to be both genuine and infuriating, before his arm slides across Alastor's shoulders with practiced ease. Before he can formulate an appropriately cutting response, Alastor finds himself lifted and repositioned, guided from chair to lap in one fluid motion that leaves him cradled against Lucifer's chest like a child's doll. Lucifer claims the armchair like a throne, arranging Alastor across his lap in a position that leaves the Radio Demon's limbs feeling suddenly foreign and unwieldy.

Static crackles around him in agitated bursts, his body instinctively tensing against the unwanted intimacy. "I don't recall requesting relocation," he observes, voice tight with controlled irritation.

"Indulge me," Lucifer responds, his arms tightening slightly as Alastor attempts to extract himself from the embrace. "It's been a trying day of negotiations with the gluttons' guild. Their representative literally tried to eat the contract rather than sign it."

Despite himself, Alastor feels a flicker of reluctant amusement at the image. The tension in his frame remains, but strategic calculation keeps him from escalating the situation into physical struggle. Better to endure this temporary indignity than provoke a more permanent restriction of his already limited freedoms.

They sit in silence broken only by the crackling fire and the soft static that surrounds Alastor like an aura of discontent. Lucifer's chest rises and falls against his back in steady rhythm, the sensation unnervingly similar to comfort despite its unwelcome nature. Just as the silence stretches toward something approaching tolerable, Alastor feels a change in the body supporting his, a subtle tremor that travels through Lucifer's frame.

Turning slightly, he catches sight of the king's expression, eyes crinkled at the corners, mouth curved in unmistakable mirth. A soft chuckle escapes those smiling lips, the sound carrying notes of genuine amusement rather than mockery.

"What exactly do you find so amusing?" Alastor demands, suspicion narrowing his eyes as his ears flatten against his skull.

"I was just thinking about your little rebellions lately," Lucifer admits, making no attempt to disguise his amusement. "The soap sculptures were particularly inspired. And the bubble flood, classic in its simplicity yet magnificent in execution." His arms tighten fractionally around Alastor's waist, an affectionate squeeze that feels more patronizing than threatening. "They're absolutely adorable."

The king using the word, adorable, deflates his built up frustration, reducing his calculated rebellions to childish tantrums and stripping the dignity from his actions intended as defiance. The realization burns through him, hot and bitter as acid: his carefully orchestrated acts of rebellion have been nothing more than entertainment for his captors, the equivalent of a kitten's antics viewed with indulgent amusement rather than concern.

"I'm so pleased to have provided suitable amusement," Alastor responds, each syllable precisely enunciated despite the static that threatens to overtake his voice entirely. "Perhaps next I'll try something more substantive, like decorating the walls with your entrails. Would that qualify as 'adorable' as well?"

Rather than taking offense, Lucifer laughs again, the sound washing over Alastor in waves that somehow manage to be both warm and deeply infuriating. "That would certainly be creative," the king acknowledges, one hand rising to brush a strand of hair from Alastor's face with unwelcome intimacy. "But I think we both know you're far too strategic for such direct approaches. It's one of the many qualities we adore about you."

The words twist like knives between Alastor's ribs, their gentle affection somehow more devastating than outright cruelty. His rebellions, calculated, deliberate acts of defiance, have been recast as charming quirks to be enjoyed rather than challenges to be met. In trying to assert his autonomy, he has inadvertently provided them with exactly what they claim to want: an omega whose spirit remains unbroken despite captivity.

The irony settles across his shoulders like a physical weight, yet another layer added to the burden of his confinement. If even rebellion serves their narrative, what weapons remain in his arsenal?

********************************

Three weeks. Twenty-one days of gilded captivity that stretch before Alastor's memory like an endless corridor of identical doors, each one opening to the same scene of forced domesticity and unwanted intimacy. The walls of the royal bedchamber, once merely the boundaries of his prison, now seem to pulse with malicious intent, closing in fractionally with each passing hour until the opulent space feels no larger than a coffin lined with silk. His footsteps trace familiar paths, hooves muffled on the bedroom carpet and clicking sharp across the marble of the bathroom, pacing from balcony to bath to bookshelf in circuits so repetitive they have worn grooves into his consciousness, if not into the floors themselves.

The static surrounding him has become a constant companion, crackling in waves that intensify with his emotional state, occasionally strong enough to interfere with the electrical systems in adjacent rooms. Servants no longer knock to offer refreshments, his last outburst shattered every piece of crystal within a ten-foot radius, leaving a mess of glittering shards that took hours to properly clean.

He pauses before the massive windows, pressing his palm against the invisible barrier that prevents him from stepping onto the balcony. Beyond the glass, Hell continues its eternal business, demons moving through their afterlives with the freedom he has been denied, unaware or uncaring of his predicament. The palace grounds spread below in meticulous patterns, pathways weaving between sculptured gardens where courtiers engage in their petty power plays and meaningless socializing.

Freedom. So close he can see it, separated by barriers both physical and metaphysical, yet increasingly distant with each passing day of confinement. His body feels heavier somehow, sluggish with inactivity and forced indulgence. The royal couple continues to ply him with sweets and comforts, as though luxury might somehow compensate for liberty denied.

The calculation forms slowly in his mind, numbers and variables sliding into place with reluctant precision. If this continues, weeks stretching into months, potentially years, what remains of Alastor will be gradually eroded, replaced by something domesticated and diminished. The small rebellions that once sustained him have been reframed as entertainment for his captors, his defiance transformed into a charming quality rather than meaningful resistance.

A strategic retreat, then. A tactical concession to secure greater mobility, to preserve what remains of his autonomy while creating opportunities for future action. The thought brings no pleasure, only the cold comfort of necessity recognized and addressed. He turns from the window, decision crystallizing into reluctant resolve.

The massive doors swing open precisely on schedule, admitting the royal couple in a wave of mingled scents and soft conversation. Their voices fade into silence as they register his posture, rigid with contained fury, antlers extended slightly with agitation, static surrounding him in visible waves that make the air taste of ozone and darkness.

"Well," Lucifer observes, his smile curving slightly deeper at one corner, "someone's in a mood this evening."

Rather than retreating to his usual position by the fireplace, Alastor advances toward them with deliberate steps, each movement precise despite the tremor of rage that runs through his frame. The distance between them closes rapidly, until he stands close enough to see the subtle shift in their expressions, surprise mingled with something that might be concern, or perhaps merely curiosity.

"I will accept your scent bonding," he announces, each word sharp-edged and precise despite the static that crackles through his voice. There is no preamble, no softening of the declaration with explanation or excuse.

Confusion flickers across their perfect features, this abrupt surrender after weeks of resistance clearly unexpected. Lilith recovers first, her crimson eyes narrowing slightly as she studies his face with that terrible perception that seems to see beyond physical appearances to the calculations beneath.

"What brought about this change of heart, dear one?" she inquires, voice gentle yet carrying notes of genuine curiosity rather than mockery.

"There is no change of heart," Alastor clarifies, his smile stretching wider, tight at the corners with suppressed rage. "Merely a strategic reassessment of available options. This captivity has become... untenable. I choose the lesser violation to avoid the greater one."

Understanding dawns in their expressions, followed by something that makes his fur bristle beneath his clothing, not anger at his characterization of their offer as violation, but something closer to approval, even pride. Lucifer's hand rises toward his face, only to be intercepted by Alastor's own, claws closing around the king's wrist with barely restrained violence.

"Do not mistake this for submission," he warns, static intensifying around his form until the very air seems to vibrate with his fury. "This is calculation, nothing more."

Rather than taking offense, Lucifer laughs. "Of course it is," the king agrees, making no attempt to free his wrist from Alastor's grip. "We would expect nothing less from our clever omega."

The declaration of their ownership of his mind and body causes a snarl to twitch across Alastor’s face, yet he forces himself to release Lucifer's wrist rather than escalate the confrontation further. Strategic concession requires strategic restraint, however difficult that might prove in practice.

"You've resisted admirably," Lilith observes, her voice carrying that maternal approval that makes his teeth clench behind his fixed smile. "Twenty-one days without yielding, despite every comfort and enticement we could provide. That resilience is precisely why you're perfect for us."

"I am not 'perfect for you,'" he counters, each word precisely enunciated despite the distortion that threatens to overtake his voice entirely. "I am not for you at all. I am for myself, making the best of an intolerable situation imposed without consent or consideration."

Rather than being offended, Lilith's expression softens further, something like adoration flickering across her perfect features. "And there it is," she murmurs, as though he has confirmed some long-held theory. "That fierce independence, that refusal to yield even when yielding is the only logical choice. Precisely the quality we sought in our mate."

"Most omegas," Lucifer elaborates, golden eyes gleaming with genuine appreciation, "would have broken within days—either truly surrendering to our will or fragmenting under the pressure of resistance. But you, Alastor—you calculated, strategized, and made a decision based on your own interests rather than emotional collapse."

"Even now," Lilith continues, her voice warm with admiration that feels more threatening than any anger could, "you maintain your dignity and autonomy while making the pragmatic choice. It's magnificent."

Understanding crashes through Alastor with terrible clarity—they had anticipated this all along, had expected his resistance, had even built it into their assessment of his suitability. His defiance, far from challenging their plans, has merely confirmed the qualities they sought in him. The realization burns through him, hot and bitter as poison.

"So my suffering was merely a test?" he demands, static exploding around him in violent waves that make the chandeliers sway overhead. "A screening process to ensure I met your exacting standards for forcible mating?"

"Not at all," Lucifer corrects, his expression growing serious despite the eternal smile that remains fixed in place. "Your resistance was inevitable given your nature, something we admire rather than seek to break. The test was ours, not yours."

"We needed only to show you an environment where resistance was possible without ruin," Lilith says, voice gentle but edged with certainty. "And in time, you would choose to remain by our side. We never meant to break you," Lilith murmurs, her tone warm enough to curdle. “Only about waiting until you realized the wisdom of belonging here. That moment has come.”

The twisted logic of their explanation winds through Alastor's consciousness like thorned vines, sharp-edged and suffocating. They have reframed even his capitulation as victory—not theirs over him, but his over circumstance. The narrative robs him of even the bitter satisfaction of defeat, transforming surrender into strategic alliance.

"I despise you both," he states, the words emerging with perfect clarity despite the static that surrounds him like a storm cloud. "Thoroughly and completely."

"For now," Lucifer acknowledges, his acceptance of this declaration somehow more infuriating than any argument could have been. "But eternity is long, and feelings evolve."

Chapter Text

Lucifer and Lilith directed Alastor to remove his clothing entirely before positioning himself on their bed. The unusual request should have triggered his suspicion, a silent alarm bell he chose to ignore. Never before had scent bonding required him to bare so much of himself, not with any of his previous companions.

Alastor sits rigid and exposed on the royal bed, his fur prickling under the cool air of the bedchamber. He draws his knees together and places his hands strategically over his exposed parts, a pitiful shield against their gaze. The thought of reaching for the blanket crosses his mind, but he dismisses it, such an obvious display of modesty would only invite them to strip away that final barrier, all while reminding him how omegas should embrace their vulnerability rather than hide from it.

Lucifer unbuttons his shirt, slender fingers working down the row of golden fasteners until the garment parts to reveal pale skin beneath. When he shrugs it from his shoulders, Alastor's confusion deepens. The king follows with his trousers, belt unbuckled and fabric sliding down lean legs until he steps free of them entirely. Beside him, Lilith unzips her gown with serpentine grace, the sound cutting through the silence like a blade. The dress pools at her feet in a puddle of expensive fabric, leaving her as bare as her husband.

The silk sheets beneath Alastor feel like quicksand, threatening to swallow him into their luxurious depths. His ears swivel nervously as he watches Lucifer and Lilith disrobe with casual grace, their movements betraying none of the hesitation that currently tightens his throat. Each article of clothing they remove falls to the floor with the finality of a prison door closing, and the realization that they are stripping completely, not just down to undergarments or nightclothes, creates a sense of confusion to ripple through him that momentarily displaces his dread.

Alastor's ears flatten, his smile stretching thin with discomfort. The royal couple stands before him now completely nude, their bodies pale and perfect in the gentle light of the bedchamber. His eyes dart between them, searching for some explanation for this unexpected development.

"I don't understand," he says finally, the static in his voice more pronounced with nervousness. "Why are you both undressing completely?"

Lilith and Lucifer exchange a glance, a flicker of something, confusion? concern?, passing between them. They turn back to him with identical expressions of mild bewilderment, as though he has asked why water is wet or why fire burns.

"For the scent bonding, of course," Lucifer replies, his voice carrying that infuriating tone of patient explanation one might use with a particularly slow child. "Did you expect us to do it clothed?"

Alastor's brow furrows, his smile becoming more strained with each passing second. "What exactly are we doing here?" he asks, the question emerging more sharply than intended, the words crackling with static interference. "What precisely does this... procedure entail?"

The royal couple exchanges another glance, longer this time. Lilith approaches the bed first, the mattress dipping slightly beneath her weight as she perches on its edge, still maintaining a small distance between them.

"Alastor," she begins, her voice gentler now, carrying notes of concern rather than the maternal condescension he has come to expect, "what do you think scent bonding entails?"

The question feels like an insult, suggesting ignorance where he has only ever displayed calculation and restraint. His ears flick forward in annoyance, antlers extending slightly with defensive pride.

"I'm not a fool," he snaps, static intensifying around his form. "It's merely an exchange of scents, a process that could be accomplished through proximity alone. Sleeping in the same bed for several nights would suffice. Wearing each other's clothing would accelerate the process." His hand gestures dismissively in the air between them. "At most, it might require some light physical contact, rubbing wrists or necks where scent glands are concentrated."

Another exchange of glances between the royal couple, this one carrying something that looks alarmingly like pity. This gesture now performed twice in a short period causes Alastor’s eye to twitch in irritation. Lucifer approaches the other side of the bed, creating a flanking position that sends Alastor's instincts into high alert.

"Those methods," Lilith explains, her voice measured and careful, "are for maintaining an established scent bond. They're insufficient for creating one, particularly with someone who has been suppressing their secondary gender as thoroughly as you have."

Alastor's stomach tightens, a cold weight settling in his core as the implications begin to take shape in his mind. "What kind of scents are you talking about, then?" he asks, the question emerging with forced casualness that does not match the sudden acceleration of his pulse.

Lucifer sits on the opposite edge of the bed, his golden eyes studying Alastor with an expression that mixes fondness and something darker, more predatory. "Oh, my poor naïve stag," he says, the pity in his voice grating on Alastor. "To establish a proper scent bond, particularly with an omega as resistant as yourself, we need the strongest scent markers available."

The king's hand reaches out, fingers hovering near Alastor's fur without quite making contact, as though giving him time to absorb what comes next. "We need to mark you with our sexual fluids," he explains, his voice dropping to a more intimate register. "Specifically, we'll need to ejaculate on your fur, work it in thoroughly, and allow it to sit long enough for the scent to properly take hold."

Alastor's ears flatten again, his smile frozen in a rictus of horror as the words penetrate his consciousness. The static around him intensifies, crackling with agitation that makes the air taste of ozone and darkness.

"After it's had time to set," Lilith adds, her voice carrying that terrible gentleness that makes his skin crawl beneath his fur, "we'll clean you up. You won't have to remain covered in our fluids indefinitely."

The clarification offers no comfort whatsoever. Alastor's mind reels, struggling to process this new information against the backdrop of his hasty agreement. Each breath becomes more difficult than the last, his chest tightening as though iron bands are constricting around his lungs.

A memory rises, sharp, cold, and jarringly out of place. Three faces come to mind: the alphas who had once scented him, their scent wrapping him in a cocoon of safety and comfort. They’d given him their clothes, which he wore in private, sometimes curling into them just to drink in the full effect. They never asked for more than he was willing to give. Not once had they suggested marking him with the grotesque intimacy now being described by the King and Queen of Hell. Warmth swells in his chest as he realizes they never proposed it because they understood it would cross a boundary he could not bear.

"That can't be necessary," he protests, voice climbing higher as panic begins to override his usual composure. "There must be alternatives, less intimate methods—"

"There are no shortcuts to proper bonding," Lucifer interrupts, his tone gentle yet firm. "The most potent scent markers come from sexual fluids. Nothing else penetrates deeply enough into an omega's awareness to create a lasting bond."

Horror rises in Alastor's throat, a tide of revulsion that threatens to drown him entirely. The bed beneath him no longer feels like quicksand but like an altar where some terrible sacrifice is about to take place, his dignity, his autonomy, his carefully maintained separation from the biological imperatives of his secondary gender.

"I didn't—" he begins, the words catching in his throat as realization crashes through him. "This isn't what I agreed to."

"It's the standard method of scent bonding," Lilith explains, her expression softening with something that looks distressingly like sympathy. "We thought you understood."

"That's a lie," Alastor spits, voice edged with static so intense it makes his own teeth rattle. The horror twists inward, hot and bright, a needle-thread panic that makes his hands clench fists at his thighs. "That is not standard and you know it! No omega would tolerate such... such degenerate excess." He can't keep the disgust out of his voice, the tremor, the crack, but he tries to stretch it back into rage before it fully breaks.

He expects indignation, maybe even anger, but instead Lilith tilts her head and regards him with that insufferable, knowing patience. “Perhaps your previous partners were simply less thorough,” she says. “Or perhaps they were not of a class that values permanence. This is the royal manner, Alastor. You are not just a concubine. You are to be our bonded omega, a permanent fixture in the royal household, bearing our combined scent as a mark of our protection and possession.”

“This is a very normal technique to perform a scent bond,” Lucifer explains.

“Normal?” Alastor repeats, voice pitching upward into incredulity.

Lucifer’s smile widens, patient in the way a cat might be with a particularly dim mouse. “Yes, normal. A standard technique for scent bonding.”

Lilith tilts her head, studying him like an odd specimen. “We assumed you knew. You had three alpha scents clinging to you when you came into our custody.”

Alastor’s brows knit, static rasping faintly through his voice. “Those alphas provided their clothes. Nothing more.”

Lucifer’s laugh rings out, rich and amused. “Ah, well, that would explain why it was so very weak.”

Alastor’s entire body trembles with the force of his horror, with the dawning comprehension of what he has unwittingly consented to. The royal couple watches him with matching expressions of patient understanding that only intensifies his panic.

This is not what he agreed to, not a symbolic ritual or a simple exchange of pheromones, but an intimate, visceral marking that will penetrate beyond fur and skin to rewire his very consciousness on a biological level. His mind already conjures the scent, sharp, musky, invasive, that would cling to his fur for days, perhaps weeks. Worse still is the treacherous thought that lurks beneath his disgust: after enough sessions, his omega biology might betray him, transforming revulsion into craving, dependence, need.

He has made a terrible mistake.

"No." The word tears from Alastor's throat with such force that static explodes around him, sending ripples of distortion across the chamber's air. He recoils from the royal couple as though they've transformed into something monstrous before his eyes, and perhaps they have, the true nature of their intentions now laid bare without the veneer of decorum that has masked their desires. His body becomes a live wire of panic, every muscle taut with the primitive urge to flee. "I've changed my mind. This is not—I do not consent to this."

He scrambles across the massive bed, putting distance between himself and their naked forms. His hooves catch in the silk sheets, tangling momentarily before he frees himself with a violent kick that sends pillows tumbling to the floor. Lucifer moves toward him, one hand extended in what might be intended as a calming gesture but registers to Alastor's heightened senses as nothing short of a threat.

Alastor bares his fangs in a wild, silent snarl. The air thickens with static, threads of ozone forming crosshatch patterns in his vision. His whole body wants to shift out of phase, go radio-invisible, but the palace’s infernal architecture is laced with magics even his wavelength can’t scramble.

Lucifer’s voice is low, meant for one retreating ear. “Alastor,” he says, not unkindly. “Come here.”

“No.” The refusal snaps out, so raw it strips what’s left of his composure. Alastor clutches the sheets. His eyes dart toward his discarded clothing, calculating distance and trajectory with desperate precision.

Lilith slides from the bed with fluid grace, moving to intercept his path to the garments. Her naked form is both beautiful and terrible. "Darling," she begins, her voice gentle yet firm, "this reaction is understandable but unnecessary. The process is—"

Alastor doesn't wait for her to finish. With a sharp gesture, his shadow detaches from the floor, stretching and warping until it forms tentacle-like appendages that shoot across the room. The shadowy limbs snatch his scattered clothing from the floor before either royal can intercept them, pulling the garments through the air and depositing them into his waiting arms.

The moment of triumph is short-lived as both Lucifer and Lilith lunge toward him. Alastor's shadow wraps around him like a cloak, and for a heartbeat he seems to melt into the darkness itself, reappearing across the room in a flicker of static and displaced air. The maneuver leaves him pressed against the far wall, clutching his clothes to his chest like armor while the royal couple stares at him from beside the now-empty bed.

"Enough of this nonsense," Lucifer snaps. "You're acting like a child. Return to the bed immediately."

"I am not a child," Alastor hisses, the words emerging from between clenched teeth as his smile stretches painfully wide. "And this is not a tantrum. This is a rational response to coercion and deception."

His form begins to shift, limbs elongating and joints acquiring new angles that shouldn't be possible. His neck cracks as it extends, gaining additional vertebrae that allow his head to twist at an unnatural angle. The transformation isn't complete, not the full demonic form he's capable of, but enough to signal his willingness to fight rather than submit.

"No one has deceived you, Alastor," Lucifer says, his voice smooth attempting to maintain calm in the room. "You simply misunderstood the nature of a proper scent bond. This overreaction is entirely—"

"Fuck off," Alastor spits, the crude language so unlike his usual affected politeness. His claws extend, sharp and black against the beige of his fur, and his antlers grow longer, more jagged, scraping against the ceiling as they reach their full extension.

Lilith steps forward, her own form beginning to shimmer with the first signs of transformation. Her eyes darken to crimson pools, and the air around her thickens with power. "This defiance has gone far enough," she begins, her voice dropping several octaves.

"No." Lucifer's arm extends, blocking her path with a gesture that brooks no argument. "I'll handle this."

The King of Hell turns toward Alastor, and the transformation that overtakes him makes Alastor's partial shift seem like a child's costume by comparison. Lucifer's form expands, skin glowing with internal light that burns too bright to look at directly. His six wings unfurl from his back, massive and terrible, scraping the ceiling and walls as they extend to their full span. Between his horns, an orb of fire materializes, casting harsh shadows across the chamber that dance and writhe with lives of their own.

"Last chance," Lucifer says, his voice no longer melodious but a rumbling bass that vibrates through the floor and up into Alastor's bones. "Return to the bed willingly."

Alastor's legs tremble traitorously beneath him, his body recognizing a predator far more dangerous than himself even as his mind rebels against submission. He forces himself to stand taller, to meet that terrible gaze directly despite the instinct screaming at him to lower his eyes, to bare his throat, to submit.

"No," he answers, the single syllable crackling with static and defiance.

Lucifer moves quickly crossing the room in what appears to be a single step. His hand stretches toward Alastor's throat, fingers elongated into talons that could tear flesh from bone with minimal effort. Alastor ducks at the last possible moment, dropping into a crouch that sends Lucifer's arm sailing over his head to strike the wall behind him.

The impact creates a crater in the ornate plaster, sending fragments raining down on Alastor's shoulders as he rolls to the side. His clothing falls forgotten to the floor as he uses both hands to propel himself upright, spinning to face Lucifer with claws extended and teeth bared.

Alastor strikes with vicious precision, claws aiming for Lucifer's throat in a move that would disembowel any ordinary demon. His hand meets flesh with a sound like steel striking granite, and pain ricochets up his arm as his claws fail to penetrate Lucifer's skin. The king merely laughs, a terrible sound that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, before swatting Alastor aside with casual strength that sends him tumbling across the floor.

The impact knocks the breath from his lungs, stars exploding behind his eyes as his head strikes the floor. Before he can regain his footing, Lucifer is upon him again, moving with that impossible speed that makes Alastor's own reflexes seem sluggish by comparison. The king's hand closes around his ankle, yanking him backward across the floor with such force that friction burns bloom across his skin.

Desperation lends Alastor strength he didn't know he possessed. His shadow erupts from beneath him, forming razor-sharp talons that lash at Lucifer's face and arms with frenzied intensity. The king bats it aside like an annoying insect, his expression betraying nothing more than mild irritation at the delay.

"You cannot win this," Lucifer states, the words falling like lead weights into the space between them. "You merely postpone the inevitable and exhaust yourself in the process."

"Then I'll postpone it indefinitely," Alastor snarls. His shadow rises behind Lucifer and grips Lucifer’s wrists to pull them off of the deer’s ankle. As Lucifer turns to swat away the sentient shadow, Alastor's fingers twist in a quick, desperate gesture. Green light flares between his claws before erupting into a concussive burst of emerald smoke that explodes inches from Lucifer's face. The king flinches, just barely, a soft gasp escaping his lips as his fingers release their hold.

For a heartbeat, hope flares in Alastor's chest, perhaps he has created enough of a distraction to escape, to reach the door, to find some sanctuary within the palace where he can regroup and plan his next move. He scrambles to his feet, lunging toward the chamber doors with desperate speed.

His hope dies as Lucifer emerges from the smoke unscathed, not a single feather out of place on his massive wings. The king's hand shoots forward, fingers closing around Alastor's throat with precise pressure that restricts without crushing. Alastor finds himself lifted slightly from the floor, legs kicking uselessly as Lucifer holds him at arm's length.

"Enough," Lucifer declares, his voice carrying notes of finality that brook no argument. "This display has been entertaining, but my patience wears thin."

With casual strength that makes Alastor's continued resistance seem pathetically inadequate, Lucifer carries him back to the bed. Alastor claws at the hand around his throat, kicks at the king's torso, summons what remains of his energy to form shadow weapons that shatter uselessly against Lucifer's impenetrable skin. None of it makes the slightest difference.

As they reach the bed, Lucifer tosses him onto the mattress with enough force to bounce him against the silken surface. Before Alastor can roll away, the king is upon him, massive form pinning him in place with terrible efficiency.

"Let me GO!" Alastor screams, the words distorted by static so thick it momentarily obscures his features entirely. His hands push against Lucifer's chest, claws scoring the perfect skin without leaving so much as a scratch. "GET OFF ME!"

Lucifer merely smiles, the expression terrible in its beauty and completely devoid of mercy. "No," he says simply. "I don't think I will."

With a single fluid motion, Lucifer flips Alastor onto his stomach, the movement so swift and practiced that Alastor has no time to counter it. His face presses into the silk sheets, the expensive fabric cool against his burning cheek as his arms are wrenched behind his back. Lucifer's grip encircles both wrists in one hand, pinning them at the small of Alastor's back with effortless strength that makes his continued struggles feel like a gnat battling a hurricane. The position is as humiliating as it is effective, leaving him splayed and vulnerable, his dignity stripped away along with his last vestiges of control.

"Get OFF me!" Alastor snarls, the words muffled against the bedding as he thrashes beneath Lucifer's weight. His legs kick out uselessly, hooves catching in the silk sheets and tearing them in his desperation. The royal's body presses down on him like an anvil, heavy and immovable, each point of contact between their naked skin sending revulsion crawling through him.

Lucifer leans forward, his breath hot against Alastor's ear. "You need to relax," he says, his voice carrying notes of forced patience strained to its limits. "Stop fighting and this will be over quickly."

"Fuck you," Alastor spits, the crude phrase tasting foreign on his tongue yet perfectly capturing the depth of his rage and desperation. Static crackles around him in agitated bursts, the air thickening with ozone and darkness as his power responds to his emotional state. "I'll never stop fighting. Not now, not ever."

Beneath him, his shadow twists and contorts, its features stretched into a grotesque mask of rage and terror. It expands against the bedframe, growing larger in a desperate attempt to appear threatening, but Lucifer doesn't so much as blink at the display. The effort drains what remains of his energy reserves, already depleted from the earlier confrontation.

"You leave me no choice," Lucifer sighs, the sound carrying genuine regret that somehow makes what follows more terrible. The king shifts his weight, his free hand moving to grip the back of Alastor's neck in that vulnerable spot where fur meets skin. The contact sends unwelcome warmth spiraling down Alastor's spine, a biological response he cannot suppress despite his mental resistance.

Lucifer draws a deep breath, and when he speaks again, his voice has transformed. The words emerge layered with harmonic undertones that bypass conscious thought to resonate directly with the most primitive parts of Alastor's brain. "RELAX," he commands, the alpha voice striking Alastor like a wave of cold water.

The command vibrates through Alastor’s skull, bypassing reason and slamming straight into the meat of his nervous system. It’s an ancient trick he’s felt before, in flashes, but always distant, always with enough buffer to resist, to twist and sidestep the blunt force of alpha compulsion. Now it pierces him, unmediated and raw: relax, relax, RELAX, sinking into his bones with impossible authority.

He fights. He digs his teeth into the command and tries to spit it out, throws up every mental barricade he’s built over decades, pictures every alpha he’s outlasted or outwitted. Normally, it would work. Normally, he’d let the voice slither against his mind and then laugh as it skittered uselessly off the steel of his will. But Lucifer’s hand is at his neck, not just touching, the grip is perfect, surgical, on the precise spot his biology designed for submission.

The effect is immediate and horrifying. Alastor's muscles go slack against his will, his body surrendering even as his mind rages in rebellion. The sensation is like drowning in honey, sweet suffocation that pins him more effectively than any physical restraint. He can feel his limbs grow heavy, unresponsive to his desperate internal commands to move, to fight, to resist.

A sound erupts from his throat, primal and uncontrolled, a sharp, angry yip that morphs into a barking snarl. The omega vocalization is considered the height of rudeness when directed at an alpha, particularly a claimed mate, and Alastor has never in his existence allowed such a sound to escape him. Yet now it tears from his throat unbidden, a raw expression of the rage and violation that words cannot adequately convey.

Lucifer releases his wrists, the restraint no longer necessary with the alpha command in effect. Alastor's arms fall limply to his sides, useless as broken wings. He tries to clench his fists, to raise his head, to regain any measure of control over his body. The best he manages is a slight twitching of his fingers, a minor flicking of his ears, small rebellions that do nothing to improve his situation.

"There," Lucifer says, satisfaction evident in his tone as he shifts his weight to straddle Alastor's thighs more comfortably. "Isn't that better? Now we can proceed without you hurting yourself unnecessarily."

His hand strokes down Alastor's spine in what might be intended as a soothing gesture, each touch sending shivers of revulsion crawling across Alastor's skin. "I know this seems overwhelming," Lucifer continues, his voice returned to its normal melodious cadence now that the alpha command has taken effect. "But this truly is for your own good. The bond will protect you, mark you as ours so that no demon in Hell would dare harm what belongs to the crown."

"Don't touch me," Alastor manages to grit out between clenched teeth, the words emerging slurred and weak despite the fury behind them. His mind remains his own, a small mercy in this sea of humiliation, but the disconnect between thought and action creates a nauseating vertigo that makes each second stretch into infinity.

The mattress dips as Lilith joins them, her cool presence registered first as a shift in the air before her fingers find his ears. She strokes the sensitive appendages with practiced precision, each touch sending unwanted tingles down his spine.

A growl builds in Alastor's throat, the only form of protest his subdued body will currently allow. The sound rumbles through the silence, low and threatening despite his compromised position.

Lucifer's hand descends without warning, landing on Alastor's exposed rear with a sharp crack that echoes through the chamber. The pain blooms hot and immediate, more shocking than truly severe, yet the humiliation of being swatted like an errant child burns through him.

"Behave," Lucifer admonishes, his tone reverting to that of a parent correcting a misbehaving youngster. "Growling at your alpha is unacceptable, particularly when we're showing such patience with your adjustment period."

"You are not my alpha," Alastor insists, each word a struggle to articulate through the honey-thick paralysis of the command. "You….will never…be my alpha."

A second strike lands, the sting doubling back through bone and marrow, lighting his nerves with humiliation redder and hotter than any pain. “You’re ours,” Lucifer says, and in that moment, the phrase is not a promise, nor a threat, but a bland inevitability, like gravity. “When the bond is sealed, you’ll feel it as well.”

Lilith's fingers continue their maddening caress of his ears, occasionally traveling down to stroke his cheek or jawline. "The bond will help align your thoughts with your biology," she explains, her voice gentle yet carrying unmistakable notes of certainty. "The discord you feel now will gradually harmonize once our scents become part of you."

Alastor grits his teeth to fight the shiver threatening to expose his fear, his mind holding in the horror what her statement means for his future. To be remade from within, his very perceptions altered by their scent, it's a violation more profound than any physical act could be.

Lucifer shifts above him, rising slightly before settling into a new position that sends ice crawling through Alastor's veins. The king now straddles him directly, his weight centered over Alastor's thighs, and there's no mistaking the hard length that presses against the curve of his buttocks. The contact sends revulsion crashing through him with such force that a small, strangled sound escapes his throat despite his best efforts to remain silent.

"Now then," Lucifer murmurs, his hips beginning a slow, deliberate rocking motion that makes the contact between their bodies impossible to ignore. "I believe it's time we got started with the actual bonding process."

His hands settle on Alastor's hips, thumbs tracing small circles against fur that bristles with horror beneath his touch. "This first part may be uncomfortable for you," he acknowledges, voice carrying notes of anticipation that makes Alastor's skin crawl. "But I promise the discomfort will be temporary."

What does Lucifer know of discomfort? How does he know that it will be temporary? The unspoken words about how this process will etched into his body and continued to be maintained with more scenting sessions echoes through Alastor's consciousness like a death knell, each repetition driving home the permanence of what's about to occur. Not just a temporary humiliation to be endured and eventually avenged, but a fundamental alteration of his being that can never be undone, a violation that will remake him from the inside out into something he has spent decades refusing to become.

His ears flatten completely against his skull, the only physical expression of terror his subdued body will currently allow. Above him, Lucifer continues his slow, rhythmic movements, the hard length sliding against Alastor's fur in preparation for the marking that will bind them together in ways that transcend the merely physical.

Lucifer shifts his weight, settling more firmly against Alastor's thighs. The king's arousal presses insistently against the curve of his buttocks, hot and unmistakable. Revulsion crawls up Alastor's spine, pooling at the base of his skull where it transforms into static-laced nausea. The alpha command still grips his muscles in treacle-slow paralysis, but he forces his hips to wiggle, a pathetic resistance against the inevitable violation about to unfold.

"Stop," Alastor hisses between clenched teeth, the single word fighting through the honey-thick restraint of Lucifer's command. His ears twitch uselessly against his skull, a silent flag of distress he cannot fully suppress.

Lucifer laughs, the sound rich with anticipation. His hips rock forward in deliberate circles, dragging the hard length across the fur of Alastor's lower back. "Your resistance only heightens the experience, dear heart." His breath comes closer, hot against Alastor's ear. "The bond will be stronger for it."

The mattress dips as Lucifer shifts his weight, leaning forward until his chest presses against Alastor's back. The contact of skin against fur sends a violent shudder through Alastor's frame. A moment later, something wet and warm touches the nape of his neck, Lucifer's tongue, tracing the sensitive spot where fur transitions to skin.

Alastor stiffens, his entire body going rigid despite the command's influence. "Don't." The word tears from his throat, raw with genuine fear. That spot, the vulnerability of it is too much.

"Relax," Lucifer murmurs against his skin, the vibration of his voice traveling through Alastor's vertebrae like electric current. "I won't claim-bite you. Not yet." His teeth graze the scruff, a promise or a threat. "Just marking you properly."

The king's mouth opens wider, teeth closing around the tender flesh at Alastor's nape. Not biting down, not breaking skin, but holding him there, like a predator with prey. His tongue works against the trapped skin, lapping in rhythmic strokes while his teeth maintain their gentle but unmistakable pressure.

A tremor races through Alastor's limbs, his body responding to stimuli his mind violently rejects. The scruffing area, an omega's ultimate vulnerability, betrays him with a rush of tingling warmth that travels down his spine to his tailbone. His ears twist forward then back, caught between instinctive submission and desperate resistance.

Lucifer grinds harder against him, hips driving forward in insistent waves. Something wet smears across Alastor's lower back, pre-ejaculate marking him even before the main event. The sensation of it, slick and alien against his fur, draws a strangled sound from his throat, half-whimper, half-growl.

Alastor bites his own tongue to hold back the noise, tasting copper and static. His shadow writhes beneath him, stretching thin and desperate across the silk sheets.

Lucifer's mouth releases his nape, leaving the skin there cool and damp. "You taste amazing, my omega," he murmurs, satisfaction thick in his voice. “And being so good for me.”

With fluid grace, Lucifer repositions himself. He shifts upward, knees bracketing Alastor's ribs as he reaches for Alastor's wrists. He repositions both hands and pins them above Alastor's head, stretched out on the silk sheets like a sacrifice on an altar.

The alpha command doesn't stop Alastor from testing the restraint, his fingers flexing weakly against Lucifer's grip. The resistance is more symbolic than effective, a refusal to yield internally even as his body is forced into submission.

"There we go," Lucifer says, his free hand moving between their bodies. The rhythmic movement of his arm leaves no question about what he's doing. The king's breath shortens, quickening with each stroke. "Now we begin making you truly ours."

Alastor twists beneath him, a burst of energy fighting through the command's hold. His spine arches in protest, legs kicking weakly against the mattress. "Let me go," he demands, his voice crackling with static interference that reflects his emotional state more clearly than words ever could.

Lucifer ignores him entirely, lost in his own pleasure. His breathing grows more ragged, the pace of his strokes increasing. The scent of his arousal thickens the air, musk and lightning and something ancient that makes Alastor's instincts scream with conflicting signals, run, submit, fight, yield.

"This is disgusting," Alastor spits, desperate to break through Lucifer's concentration with verbal barbs when physical resistance fails. "Is this how the mighty King of Hell marks his territory? Like a common alley cat?"

Lucifer's only response is a low laugh that vibrates through both their bodies. His grip on Alastor's wrists tightens, fingers digging into flesh with bruising pressure. The movements of his other hand grow more erratic, his hips jerking forward to meet each stroke.

"Mine," Lucifer growls, the single word tearing from his throat as his body tenses. Hot wetness splashes across Alastor's back, splattering in thick ropes that land from his shoulder blades to the small of his back. The sensation is revolting, warm, viscous fluid seeping into his fur, carrying Lucifer's scent at its most potent and primal.

Alastor's stomach turns, bile rising in his throat. The smell hits him a moment later, sharp and overwhelming, flooding his senses with Lucifer's essence. His nostrils flare involuntarily, biology forcing him to process the scent markers now defiling his body.

"That is vile," Alastor snarls, revulsion dripping from each syllable as static crackles around his head like a broken halo.

Lucifer releases his wrists, but only to use both hands for the next phase of the violation. His palms press against Alastor's back, fingers working the semen deep into fur and skin. He massages with methodical precision.

"The most effective bonds require the deepest connection," Lucifer explains, his voice still breathless from his climax. His fingers dig into Alastor's fur, working the fluid in circular motions that cover every inch of exposed skin. "Our scent needs to penetrate beyond the surface."

Each stroke of those fingers feels like a brand, marking him from the outside in. Alastor grits his teeth, hatred crystallizing in his chest into something hard and cold that even Lucifer's alpha command cannot touch.

Cool fingers press into the flesh of Alastor's buttocks, the touch firm and possessive. Lilith's hands cup and squeeze, her thumbs digging into the muscle with appraising pressure. The sensation triggers an instantaneous, humiliating response, his tail shoots upward of its own accord.

Lucifer's weight lifts from Alastor's back, the sudden absence of pressure almost dizzying. Before Alastor can even consider moving, Lucifer's fingers clamp around his wrists, maintaining control while creating space for Lilith to take her position. The shifting of the mattress telegraphs her movements as she settles behind him.

"Are you going to be good for me, little deer?" Lilith's voice floats down, melodious and deceptively gentle. Her hand strokes along his raised tail, a touch that makes his spine arch involuntarily. The alpha command has weakened him just enough to make resistance possible, if futile.

"This is unnecessary," Alastor mutters, his voice scraping against his throat like sandpaper. The fur on his back is already sticky and matted with Lucifer's marking, the scent embedding itself into his pores with each passing second. "You've made your point quite effectively already."

The queen's weight settles across his thighs, pinning him with delicate precision. Her knees dig into the mattress on either side of him, and he can feel the unmistakable hardness of her arousal brushing against the curve of his buttocks.

"I could always change my choice," Lilith muses, her finger tracing the length of his spine until it reaches his hair. "Your beautiful red locks would hold our scent quite wonderfully. Everyone who comes close would smell us in every strand." She tugs lightly at a lock near his ear. "Would you prefer that instead?"

The thought of their fluid matting his hair, clinging to the strands that frame his face, that he would have to smell with every breath and be reminded with every glance in the mirror. It'd bee too much. A shudder runs through him, his ears flattening completely against his skull.

"No," he whispers, the word barely audible even to his own ears. He shakes his head once, a minuscule movement that costs him more pride than he thought he had left to lose.

"I asked if you're going to be good," Lilith repeats, her voice firmer now, edged with warning. Her nails scrape lightly across his lower back, the promise of sharpness held in check.

Alastor closes his eyes, swallowing against the static that threatens to overtake his voice entirely. "Yes," he forces out, each letter tasting like ash. "I'll be... good." The words scrape his throat raw on their way out.

"There's my sweet omega," Lilith coos, the praise more degrading than any insult.

The rustle of movement above him, the quickening of her breath, she's beginning to touch herself. The distinct sound of flesh on flesh fills the silence, rhythmic and purposeful. Her free hand rests at the small of his back, a point of constant contact that keeps him acutely aware of her presence even as his face presses into the mattress.

"Lucifer," she calls, voice husky with arousal. "Come here, darling."

The grip on his wrists shifts, something smooth and strong replacing Lucifer's hands, his tail, Alastor realizes, wrapped tightly around both wrists to secure them above his head. Freed from the task of restraining him, Lucifer moves to straddle Alastor's lower back, his weight settling just below the sticky mess he's already left. The king faces away from Alastor, toward his wife.

“Yes, my love?” Lucifer’s voice light and teasing.

Lilith growls before Alastor feels Lucifer jerk forward towards her. Wet sounds fill the air, kissing, Alastor realizes with a twist of his stomach. Not content with merely using his body as a canvas for their marking, they're now engaging in their own intimate moment while he lies trapped beneath them. The humiliation burns hot beneath his fur, his ears twitching with the urge to block out the sounds of their passion.

Lilith growls into the kiss, the sound primitive and hungry. Lucifer responds with a matching rumble that vibrates through his body and into Alastor's back. The mattress shifts as they press closer together, their movements causing Alastor to rock helplessly beneath them.

“Yes, my King….more…” their moans fill the room.

Through peripheral vision, Alastor catches glimpses of Lucifer's arms reaching forward, presumably to touch Lilith as she continues pleasuring herself. The queen's breathing hitches, grows more ragged with each passing second.

"Yes," Lilith gasps, her voice pitched higher than her usual controlled tones. "Your hands—just like that…Yes, Lucifer….Oh! Your mouth…oh, you’re wicked.."

The pace of her movements increases, the sound of her stroking herself growing slicker, more urgent. Alastor squeezes his eyes shut, trying to retreat into his mind, to build walls between himself and what's happening to his body. But there's no escape, every sense remains painfully acute, trapping him in the present moment.

Lilith's fingers dig into the flesh of Alastor's backside, her nails leaving crescent indentations as she kneads and squeezes. A predatory growl vibrates from her throat. Her hips rock against him in an obscene rhythm while her other hand works frantically between her own legs. "The way you feel beneath me," she pants, her voice dropping to a husky register. Between sharp intakes of breath, she addresses her husband: "Lucifer—yes—there." A breathless laugh escapes her. "Careful with your teeth, darling," she admonishes softly, "though I wouldn't mind the mark. I'm nearly—" Her words dissolve into quickened breathing as her movements grow more desperate.

"Yes!" Lilith cries out, her voice breaking on the word. Warm wetness splashes across Alastor's backside, coating his buttocks and upper thighs with her release. The sensation is different from Lucifer's, slightly thinner, but no less revolting as it seeps into his fur.

Before the fluid can even begin to cool, Lilith's hands are on him again. Her fingers dig into the mess she's made, working it deep into his fur. Unlike Lucifer's broad strokes, Lilith uses her nails to part the fur, ensuring the marking reaches all the way to his skin. Her body still quivers against his back, small aftershocks of pleasure making her hips twitch and roll as soft, satisfied sounds escape her parted lips. The wet heat of her release cools between them, binding them together in the most degrading way possible.

The scrape of her nails against his flesh sends involuntary shivers through Alastor's frame. Each touch is meticulous, almost clinical in its thoroughness, yet carries an underlying possessiveness that makes his stomach churn. She works from the top of his buttocks down to his thighs, leaving no patch of fur untouched by her marking.

"Beautiful," she murmurs, her voice thick with satisfaction. Her fingers trace idle patterns through his now-slick fur, admiring her handiwork. "You wear our scent so well, little deer."

Alastor remains silent, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of a response. His flesh crawls beneath her touch, his entire being shrinking away internally from what his body cannot physically escape. The combined scent of both royals now clings to him, heavy and inescapable, seeping past his fur to mark him on a level that feels deeper than mere physical contact.

His shadow, stretched thin beneath him on the sheets, twists in silent agony, reflecting the turmoil his face refuses to show.

The weight lifts from Alastor's body as the royals shift away, the mattress dipping and rising with their movements. A flicker of relief sparks through him, perhaps the worst is over, the humiliation complete enough to satisfy even their excessive standards. He begins to inch away, muscles still sluggish from the alpha command but responding better now, only to feel their hands settle on his body once more. Lucifer's cool fingers wrap around his upper arm while Lilith's palm presses against his thigh, both touches gentle yet immovable.

"Stay still," Lucifer murmurs, his thumb tracing small circles against Alastor's fur. "The semen needs to dry before we do your other side."

The words hit Alastor like ice water, shocking his system fully awake. His eyes widen, pupils contracting to pinpricks as he twists his head to stare at them. "What do you mean?" he asks, voice tight with dawning horror. "Other side?"

"The session isn't complete," Lilith explains, her voice carrying that terrible maternal gentleness. "We need to spread our scent to your front as well. A proper bonding requires complete coverage."

"To ensure it's clear to anyone who scents you that you belong to us," Lucifer adds, his fingers trailing along Alastor's arm in a possessive caress. "Half-measures would suggest a weak claim."

Alastor's stomach twists, a fresh wave of revulsion washing through him at the prospect of more. What they've already done feels like sufficient degradation for several lifetimes, his back and buttocks coated with their fluids, the scent of them seeping into his pores. The thought of his chest and stomach receiving the same treatment sends panic skittering through his veins.

"That's too much," he protests, pushing himself up onto his elbows despite the lingering heaviness in his limbs. "You don't need to do that much. I can smell from what you've already done that it's... strong enough." The admission costs him, acknowledging the potency of their marking, but it's a small sacrifice if it might spare him further humiliation.

"Your nose is more sensitive than others," Lucifer points out, tapping Alastor's nose with a fingertip. "To you, it seems strong. To other demons, particularly alphas who might consider approaching you, it needs to be overwhelming."

"No challenge can be permitted," Lilith adds, her hand sliding up Alastor's back to his shoulder, where her thumb traces his collarbone. "Not when it comes to our royal omega."

Alastor's gaze drops lower, catching movement that sends fresh dread spiraling through him. Both royals are lightly stroking themselves, coaxing their bodies back to arousal with practiced ease. The sight of their hands on their own flesh, preparing for another round of marking, makes him flinch away, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth.

"Have some patience," Lilith chides, her fingers tightening on his shoulder. "It will be over soon."

"What you've done is enough," he snarls, the words distorted by interference that makes them sound like they're being broadcast through damaged speakers. "You don't need to do any more."

He pulls against their restraining hands, muscles straining against the last lingering effects of Lucifer's alpha command. His claws extend, digging into the silk sheets with enough force to tear the expensive fabric. The ripping sound is oddly satisfying, a small act of destruction in a situation where he has precious little control.

"I won't be your canvas," he continues, jerking his arm free from Lilith's grip with a violent twist. "Not again. Not anymore." The static intensifies, his outline becoming briefly fuzzy as his form threatens to shift into something more monstrous, more capable of resistance.

Lilith's expression cools, the maternal patience giving way to something harder, more regal. "Alastor," she says, his name a warning in itself. "Consider your behavior carefully. You agreed to this process."

"I agreed to be marked," he spits back, ignoring her warning entirely. "Not to be drenched in your fluids from head to toe like some kind of perverted trophy."

Lilith's eyes narrow, crimson darkening to the color of old blood. She turns to Lucifer, her voice carrying that terrible calm that precedes storms. "Restrain him," she commands, the words falling like stones into still water. "I've decided to ejaculate on his face."

The declaration freezes Alastor mid-struggle, horror washing through him in an icy wave. His ears flatten completely against his skull, his smile stretching painfully wide with shock and revulsion. "You wouldn't," he whispers, the static dropping from his voice as genuine fear overrides anger.

"I wouldn't have," Lilith corrects, rising to her knees on the mattress, her expression implacable as stone. "But your behavior has forced my hand. Perhaps this will help you understand the consequences of defiance."

Alastor looks to Lucifer, searching for some hint of mercy or intervention, but finds only amusement dancing in the king's golden eyes. There will be no help from that quarter, only the satisfaction of watching his mate assert dominance over their unwilling third.

Lucifer's smile widens, teeth gleaming in the soft light of the bedchamber. "You heard the queen," he says, voice light with anticipation. "It seems your lesson in obedience requires... escalation."

With languid strokes, Lilith pleasures herself while Lucifer advances toward Alastor. Desperate, Alastor lashes out—his claws barely scraping Lucifer's flesh before the king seizes his wrists with a low laugh. Though strength gradually returns to Alastor's limbs, his struggles prove futile against the Devil's iron grip. A throaty sound draws his gaze unwillingly to Lilith, who tips a vial of clear fluid onto her erection, her hand quickening its pace as she watches the struggle before her.

Lucifer moves sliding behind Alastor before he can mount any effective resistance. The king's legs wrap around Alastor's torso, thighs clamping against his sides like iron bands, pinning his arms in place. Lucifer's hands come up to frame Alastor's face, fingers splaying across his cheeks with precise pressure that allows no movement. The position leaves Alastor fully exposed, unable to turn away or shield himself from what's about to come. His heart hammers against his ribs, a trapped animal sensing the closing of a snare.

Lilith kneels before them, settling onto her haunches with regal poise that makes even this obscene act seem ceremonial. Her hand stroking out a rhythm that's both unhurried and deliberate. With her other hand, she caresses her breast, fingers circling the nipple. Each touch draws forth soft sounds of pleasure from her throat, a performance designed as much for Alastor's humiliation as for her own arousal.

Her eyes never leave his face as she pleasures herself, crimson gaze drinking in his discomfort with obvious satisfaction. Every stroke brings her closer to the precipice, her breathing growing more ragged with each passing moment. The scent of her arousal fills the space between them, musky and foreign and threatening.

Alastor watches her movements with mounting horror, the reality of what's about to happen crashing through his defenses. This will be a violation beyond anything he's experienced, his face, the part of himself he presents to the world, marked with their fluid. The thought sends panic spiraling through him, sharp enough to cut through pride and dignity.

"Lilith," he says, his voice stripped of its usual static, raw and uncharacteristically vulnerable. "Please reconsider. This isn't necessary."

She continues as if she hasn't heard him, her pace increasing slightly, her eyes half-lidded with approaching pleasure. Lilith’s hand works with ruthless efficiency, her eyes holding his in a silent power struggle that he is losing, and the rhythm of her strokes quickens. Her chest heaves, chin lifting, and her crimson gaze sharpens into a pinning focus that sets the warning hairs on his neck to bristle. “You brought this on yourself, darling,” she breathes, the words soft but unsparingly cold.

"You could use my chest," Alastor continues, desperation threading through each word. "The smell…it will be too much. I won't be able to focus on anything else." He strains against Lucifer's hold, but the king merely tightens his grip, fingers digging into Alastor's cheeks to keep his head immobile.

Lilith's lips curve into a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "That's rather the point, darling."

Alastor jerks his head to the side, desperate to escape the sight before him. Lucifer's lips brush against the velvet of his ear, words a heated whisper meant for him alone. "Look at her, little beast. This is the reward your defiance has earned you. Accept it as befits our cherished prize."

"This seems excessive," Alastor states, words tumbling out faster now. "It will interfere with our nightly routine, of course. The grooming, your careful work, it will all be for nothing." He's babbling now, grasping at straws, searching for any argument that might penetrate her determination.

Lilith’s smile sharpens, pitiless and glittering. “I assure you, darling, it won’t.” Her hand never slows. “We’ll touch up anything that needs it. I’ve used worse on finer faces than yours.” The implication makes his skin crawl, but she means what she says, he can tell, even in this, she wants him beautiful. “A facial is quite easy to clean, far less trouble than the rest of you. And perhaps you’ll appreciate it: our regime for your complexion will be twice as effective with a touch of protein.” The catch in her breath suggests she’s nearly there, the tempo of her hand frantic and practiced. "Consider this an exfoliation. I'll leave more than enough for you to admire in the mirror, but nothing a little warm water and cream can't soothe come bedtime."

Alastor stares, mesmerized and sickened. He’s caught in the moment before catastrophe, the split second of crystal clarity when a vase tips off a table but hasn’t yet hit the floor. The inevitability of what’s about to happen makes it surreal, slow-motion and hyperreal all at once.

Lilith rises to her knees, moving closer until her arousal is mere inches from his face. Alastor's ears flatten completely against his skull, his smile stretched painfully wide with terror. Lucifer's hands adjust their position, ensuring he can't turn away from what's coming.

"Please," Alastor whispers, the word foreign on his tongue. "I'll be good. I'll do whatever you want. Just….not this."

For a heartbeat, something flickers across Lilith's features, not quite mercy, but perhaps consideration. The moment passes as quickly as it came, her expression hardening into resolve once more. She's close now, her climax building visibly in the flush spreading across her pale skin, in the tension coiling through her frame.

Her free hand shoots out, fingers closing around one of his antlers in a grip that borders on painful. With a sharp jerk, she angles his face directly toward her arousal. Alastor squeezes his eyes shut, pressing his lips together in a tight line, a final, futile defense against the inevitable.

A strangled whine escapes him as the first splash of warm fluid hits his face. The sound is involuntary, torn from his throat by shock and revulsion as Lilith's release coats his closed eyelid, slides down his nose, and spatters across his cheek. The scent hits him an instant later, overwhelming in its potency, flooding his senses with her essence. The scent invades his senses, sharp and chemical like a swimming pool, yet underpinned by something animal and unmistakably intimate.

The texture revolts him, slick and hot against his skin, already beginning to cool and grow tacky where it first landed. It feels like a living thing crawling across his skin, each droplet a separate violation. His arms jerk reflexively against Lucifer's restraint, desperate to reach up and wipe away the filth, but the king's legs hold him securely in place, denying even this small mercy.

More splashes follow, catching in his eyebrows, sliding down to the corner of his mouth where he can taste it despite his best efforts to keep his lips sealed. His nostrils flare with disgust, but even this involuntary movement only draws the scent deeper into his awareness. His skin itches where the fluid touches it, a maddening sensation he cannot alleviate with Lucifer holding his arms pinned to his sides.

Lilith's breathing gradually steadies as she comes down from her climax, satisfaction evident in the languid way she moves closer. Her thumb traces his chin, tilting his face up toward her scrutiny. "Open your eyes," she commands softly. "Look at me, Alastor."

He hesitates, reluctant to obey, to acknowledge this new depth of humiliation. Her fingers tighten on his chin in warning, nails pressing into fur until he relents. One eyelid remains sealed shut beneath a layer of her release. He cautiously opens only his clean eye, unwilling to risk the sting should any fluid seep into his vision. The simple act of parting his eyelid somehow heightens every sensation—the cooling wetness on his face now impossibly more present as the room's air whispers across it. Lilith's soft laugh cuts through his humiliation as she notices his one-eyed gaze. Her smile holds something worse than cruelty as she regards him—a possessive tenderness that promises this degradation comes from a place of care.

"Beautiful," she murmurs, her free hand coming up to his face. Her fingers begin methodically spreading the fluid across his features, rubbing it into his skin with circular motions that ensure maximum absorption. She works it across his cheeks, into his eyebrows, along the sides of his face, and down under his chin and neck, leaving no part of his visage unmarked by her scent. "You wear our claim so well."

Alastor remains silent, refusing to grant her the satisfaction of a response, though his shadow writhes beneath him in mute agony.

"This was just in response to your lashing out," Lilith tells him, her voice carrying notes of instruction beneath the surface gentleness. "We will still be marking your front as planned." Her thumb traces his lower lip, smearing fluid across the sensitive skin. "Will you behave for this next part, little deer?"

Alastor hesitates, pride warring with self-preservation as fluid continues to drip down his skin, embedding Lilith's scent into his very being with each passing second.

Lilith's grip on his face tightens, her nails digging in just enough to promise pain. "If you won't behave," she continues, voice dropping to a silken whisper, "then the next thing I'll do is flip you over, force you to spread your cheeks, and fill your ass crack with my cum." She leans in, her breath painting a chemical heat across his cheek. "If you want to test me, I'll do it twice. I'll fill your ass with it and then my darling husband will have a go too. We'll flood you and leave it there all night, so you can feel the itch of it drying inside you. Would you like to be filled up and left to stew in it, so you can contemplate who owns you every time you shift in your seat? Is that what you need to get the message?" Her smile widens, showing teeth too sharp for comfort. "I have more delightfully sinful ideas to cover you in my scent, if you wish to continue down this line of behavior."

Revulsion pulses through Alastor, an electric wave that short-circuits even his ability to speak. Alastor stares at her, searching for any hint of bluff or hesitation, and finding none. She means every word—and worse, she would enjoy carrying out her threat.

With the last shreds of his dignity crumbling around him, Alastor nods once, a small, defeated movement that acknowledges his surrender without voicing it. The motion causes more fluid to slide down his cheek, a constant reminder of what has been done to him, and what still awaits.

Chapter Text

Dawn filters through the heavy curtains in thin golden ribbons that slice across the royal chamber, marking another day of Alastor's captivity, though perhaps the last confined solely to these walls. He stands fully dressed by the window, claws tapping an impatient rhythm against the sill as he watches the royal couple's languid morning preparations. His smile remains fixed in place, carefully calibrated to display neither the disgust crawling beneath his fur nor the desperate anticipation building in his chest. Freedom, even the limited version they've promised, tastes metallic on his tongue, a flavor so long absent he almost doesn't recognize its bitter edge.

His hand drifts unconsciously to his chest, claws scratching lightly at the fur where Lucifer's scent sits heaviest, before he forces it back to the windowsill. No. He will not give them the satisfaction of seeing him disturbed by their marks. Even now, hours after washing, after scrubbing until his skin burned raw beneath his fur, he swears he can feel their essence clinging to him, working its way deeper with each passing minute. The memory of last night's "bonding" rises unbidden, bringing acid to the back of his throat.

His ears twitch, picking up the soft rustle of silk as Lilith selects a gown from the wardrobe. His shadow grows momentarily jagged against the wall before he sends it a warning glance to calm before it smooths back into place. Strategic compliance, he reminds himself. The path to revenge begins with apparent acceptance.

"You're up early, dear heart." Lilith's voice cuts through his thoughts, carrying that maternal warmth that makes his fur bristle. "And already dressed. Eager for your first day beyond our chamber?"

"Merely adhering to proper timekeeping," Alastor replies. "Punctuality is the politeness of kings, after all."

He turns from the window with deliberate grace, crossing to the chair nearest the door with measured steps. Settling himself into the plush velvet, he crosses one leg over the other, the picture of relaxed patience while his heart hammers against his ribs. His ears remain upright, attentive, tracking the royals' movements with precision that contradicts his façade of indifference.

Lucifer emerges from the bathroom, golden hair still damp from his morning ablutions. His eyes find Alastor immediately, his smile widening as he notes the deer demon's strategic position near the exit.

"Someone's ready for breakfast," he observes, voice carrying notes of amusement that scrape against Alastor's nerves like nails on slate. "I hope you're hungry. I've instructed the kitchen to prepare a special spread for your first meal outside our chambers."

The thought of food, especially the sweets Lucifer favors, creates an unwelcome sensation of nausea to roll through Alastor's stomach, still uneasy from the lingering trauma of the previous night. Yet he merely inclines his head in acknowledgment, careful to keep his smile fixed in place.

"How thoughtful," he replies, the words emerging smoother than he feels inside. Another strategic concession in the ongoing war of wills between them.

Minutes stretch into eternity as the royal couple completes their morning routines. Alastor remains motionless in his chair, only his eyes betraying his impatience as they flick repeatedly toward the massive doors that have confined him for weeks. His ears swivel at each sound from the corridor beyond, servants passing, distant conversations, the normal bustle of palace life that has continued without him while he remained imprisoned in luxury.

Finally, Lucifer adjusts his bow tie one last time and extends his hand toward Lilith. She takes it with practiced grace, her other hand smoothing an invisible wrinkle from her gown. They turn as one toward the doors, and Alastor rises immediately, his movement too swift to properly disguise his eagerness.

"Let us proceed to the royal dining room," Lucifer announces, his voice carrying that infuriating tone of benevolent authority. "I believe the head chef has outdone himself this morning in anticipation of our omega joining us."

Alastor ignores Lucifer’s statement the best he can even though a cold certainty settles in his stomach that beyond these doors, the king's territorial display will only intensify, his ownership performed for all of Hell to witness. He moves to follow them, only to halt as Lilith raises a hand in gentle admonishment.

"Before we leave," she begins, her voice taking on that instructional cadence he has come to dread, "it's time for your first lesson in royal omega etiquette."

Of course. They wouldn't simply allow him freedom without attaching strings, more rules, more expectations, more ways to break him to their will.

"How to walk with your alphas," Lucifer elaborates, golden eyes studying Alastor's reaction with predatory attention. "Position is everything in the royal court. Symbolism matters."

Alastor allows the silence to linger just long enough to border on insolence. "Do enlighten me," he says, voice sharp despite his smile. With a flick of his wrist, he summons his microphone, twirling it once with theatrical flair before planting it firmly before him and leaning forward, both hands resting on the staff as he regards the royal couple. "Should I crawl on all fours? Do omegas in the palace walk upright these days, or is that a privilege I have yet to earn?"

A flash of irritation crosses Lucifer’s expression, but it only fuels Alastor’s resolve. His jaw tightens once, barely a flicker, and then he sweeps into the most elaborate bow he can summon, a parody of elegance so dripping with mockery it borders on theater. Every motion is an insult wrapped in barbwire.

“By all means,” he intones, voice rich and poisonous, “instruct me.”

He watches the way Lucifer basks in being obeyed, the way Lilith expects, after her night of triumph, to find him broken and pliant. Instead he straightens, squares his shoulders, and makes a silent bet with himself: how far can he push this without reprisal?

"A royal omega," Lilith continues, stepping closer to demonstrate, "walks behind and to the side of the king and queen." Her hand settles on Alastor's shoulder, guiding him into position with gentle pressure that feels like brands against his fur. "Not directly behind, that would suggest servitude rather than partnership. Not beside, that would imply equality with the crown."

Alastor feels Lilith's fingers on his shoulder, guiding him into position with the precision of a curator arranging a prized exhibit. He counts three heartbeats before shifting away from her touch, stepping exactly where instructed, behind and to Lucifer's left. His smile stretches wider as he settles into the designated space, not a centimeter too close or far. From this angle, he notes with bitter amusement, everyone they pass will have a perfect view of Hell's newest acquisition, displayed in his carefully crafted cage of royal favor.

“Well,” he says, “what’s the point of a crown if not to make the weight of it felt?” He pivots, chin up, and arranges himself precisely where Lilith's hand guides him, deliberately brushing her palm away with a theatrical little flourish as if shaking off a persistent bit of lint. The joke is for himself alone, but the flicker of irritation in Lilith’s eyes is a small, private triumph.

“If you require me to wear a leash, do let me know in advance,” he says, dropping the words like splinters on polished wood. “It would be a shame to clash with your ensemble.”

Lucifer laughs. “No need,” the king replies, voice syrupy. “You’re much too well-behaved for that.”

"When we stop," Lucifer adds, his hands clasped in front of him while holding a wide smile as if enjoying the sight of a pet learning a new trick, "you stop as well, maintaining your position. You wait for acknowledgment before speaking, and you address us with proper respect at all times."

"In public," Lilith clarifies, her crimson eyes softening with what might be genuine sympathy, "these formalities are essential. They communicate your status to others and protect you from those who might seek to challenge your position."

Or they broadcast my submission for all to witness, Alastor thinks bitterly, cementing my humiliation in the eyes of those who once feared me.

"How edifying," he says. The syllables come out smooth, almost languorous, as if he’s tasting each before letting it go. "Will there also be instruction in courtly greetings? I understand omegas in the palace perform a charming little curtsy for visiting dignitaries."

Lucifer's smile curls sharper, eyes glinting with a flash of genuine amusement. "Oh, you'll find our court is more progressive than you imagine," he says. "We don't require every tradition. The old greetings are for the dustbin, along with genuflecting and the kissing of sovereign rings. We've found it more effective to let power speak through presence, not pantomime." The king’s hand flicks in a dismissive arc, slicing the air as if to scatter every expectation of subservience into dust. “What matters here is the art of performance. Present yourself well. Make them look. Make them want.”

Alastor nods, lips pressed tight, as if swallowing a retort that might otherwise corrode the air between them. "How modern of you," he says, voice dry as scorched parchment. He can imagine, vividly, the crowd they’ll parade him before: the courtiers in their brocade and silver, the low-born servants permitted to observe, the other predators scenting the air for weakness or novelty. In this theater, every deviation from expectation is ammunition.

Lilith’s lips curve in feline satisfaction. “In this palace, darling, one displays one’s power, not one’s submission.” She leans in, her voice dropping to a velvet purr only Alastor’s ears could catch. “If you wish to disrupt tradition, I expect you to do it with style.”

Alastor’s laugh, when it comes, is a low, wolfish thing. “And if I refuse to play at deference?” A challenge disguised as a jest, but watches, always, for the tightening at the corners of Lucifer’s eyes. Only the king’s smile, fixed in molten gold, betrays the slightest irritation.

Lilith’s fingers settle at the crook of his elbow, a gentle but inescapable crozier. “You won’t,” she says, so softly it’s almost for him alone. He can taste her certainty on the air, bitter as feverfew. The hand stays there, decorative, but unyielding.

The royals move to their positions before walking towards the chamber’s doors. Lucifer and Lilith arrange themselves, a royal tableau preparing to process through the chamber doors. Alastor watches their movements, the subtle adjustments to crowns and collars, and finds his own hands rising unbidden to straighten his bow tie. His fingers linger at his throat as he prepares one final barb to launch before they enter the wider palace.

"If this is what passes for equality in Hell," he says, adjusting his lapels with a flick that would have played well on any stage, "I shudder to imagine what you do to the uncooperative." He catches Lilith noticing the mirror of their own preening with a slight smile to her lips and decides if he must play this part, he'll at least write his own lines.

"Exactly this," Lilith answers, missing not a beat. "But less breakfast."

The doors swing open at last, revealing the corridor beyond, his first glimpse of the world outside their chambers in weeks of captivity. The crystal chandeliers overhead cast prismatic light across marble floors, the air fresher here, carrying scents of distant kitchens and gardens that call to him like freedom's ghost. His hooves nearly stutter on the threshold, the vastness of the palace beyond momentarily overwhelming after so long in confinement.

"Remember your position," Lucifer murmurs, the reminder carrying thinly veiled warning beneath its surface.

With perfect posture and his eternal smile, Alastor steps through the doorway for the first time since his capture. He positions himself exactly as instructed, behind and to the side, the perfect picture of omega compliance, while inside, he catalogs every corridor, every doorway, every potential escape route with the cold precision of a predator merely biding his time.

********************************************

The royal dining room unfolds before Alastor like a theater stage prepared for some grotesque performance. Crystal chandeliers hang from vaulted ceilings, their light refracting across gold-leafed moldings and blood-red wallpaper in patterns that remind him of arterial spray. The table stretches longer than necessary for three diners, polished mahogany gleaming with an obsidian sheen that reflects distorted versions of the demons seated around it. Servants move with practiced efficiency, their eyes downcast as they arrange silver and china with mechanical precision that speaks of centuries of repetition. Alastor settles into the chair indicated for him, positioned to Lucifer's right, across from Lilith, noting with strategic interest that it places his back to a set of French doors that open onto a garden terrace.

The head servant approaches, a tall, gaunt demon with too many fingers and eyes that never quite focus on the same point. He carries a covered silver platter that he places before Alastor with a flourish that borders on theatrical. When the cover lifts, steam rises in fragrant curls, revealing a stack of pancakes drizzled with something red that's either syrup or blood, flanked by eggs and bacon arranged in a smiling face.

Alastor's smile tightens at the corners, stretched thin by the childish presentation. Before he can fully process this first insult, more servants materialize around him, each bearing additional plates that they arrange in a semicircle before him. Pastries dusted with powdered sugar. Waffles drowning in fruit compote. Chocolate-filled croissants leaking dark filling onto delicate china. A bowl of candied fruits glistening with sugar crystals. Each dish more sickeningly sweet than the last, creating a spread that would satisfy a dozen sugar-addicted imps.

His gaze flicks to the royals' settings, each with a single, reasonably portioned plate.

"Do you like it?" Lucifer asks, leaning forward with that terrible eagerness that makes Alastor's fur bristle. "I told the chef to prepare all our favorite breakfast sweets for your first meal outside our chambers."

Alastor reaches for his napkin, unfolding it with deliberate precision before laying it across his lap. The action buys precious seconds to compose his response, to bury the revulsion beneath layers of strategic pleasantry.

"How... comprehensive," he replies, voice projecting appreciative surprise rather than the horror churning in his stomach. His hand reaches deliberately for the fork beside the plate of eggs and bacon, bypassing the pastries entirely. "Quite the spread."

He cuts a precise piece of egg, lifting it to his mouth with the measured grace of someone who once dined with New Orleans' elite. His movements are deliberate, each gesture a performance of refined table manners that stands in stark contrast to Lucifer's approach to eating.

The King of Hell attacks his own food with gleeful abandon, tearing into a pastry that showers his plate with flakes of buttery crust. Sugar dusts his lips, tongue darting out to capture the sweetness in a display that Alastor finds utterly revolting. The contrast between their eating styles becomes another small battlefield in their ongoing war of wills—Alastor's precise, controlled bites versus Lucifer's enthusiastic consumption.

"You're not touching the pancakes," Lilith observes, her voice carrying that perceptive quality that makes Alastor's skin crawl beneath his fur. "They're made with the finest ingredients Hell has to offer."

"I find myself drawn to the savory options first," Alastor explains, his smile never wavering as he cuts another neat bite of egg. "A preference for proper sequencing of flavors, you understand."

His ears remain upright, attentive, projecting calm interest while he systematically avoids every sweet dish placed before him. A strategy forms with each bite, eat the minimum acceptable amount of the less offensive foods, praise them effusively, and perhaps they'll be satisfied without forcing him to consume the sugar-laden monstrosities.

"I have good news," Lilith announces, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with elegant precision. "We've decided that today will be your day of independence. You may explore the palace grounds, within certain boundaries, of course, while we attend to royal duties."

The prospect of solitude, of hours without their oppressive presence, sends a wave of relief through Alastor that he carefully masks behind another bite of bacon.

"Tomorrow," she continues, her tone shifting to something firmer, more instructional, "we begin your formal training in the ways of a royal omega. There's much to learn about court protocols, appropriate behavior, and your duties to the crown."

The momentary relief curdles in his stomach, future captivity souring the promise of temporary freedom. Yet he merely nods, swallowing both food and indignation with practiced ease.

"How fascinating," he responds, voice pitched to convey polite interest rather than the dread coiling in his chest. "I look forward to it."

He sets his fork down, having made strategic inroads on the eggs and bacon while leaving the pancakes untouched. A servant steps forward to refill his water glass, providing another welcome distraction from the expectant gazes of his captors.

"You haven't finished," Lucifer observes, golden eyes narrowing slightly as they survey the mostly untouched spread before Alastor. "In fact, you've barely started. The pancakes remain untouched, and you haven't even looked at the pastries."

"I believe I've had quite enough," Alastor counters, reaching for his napkin in a gesture that signals completion. "A satisfying first meal outside our chambers, to be sure."

Lilith's hand settles on the table, fingers splayed in a gesture that somehow freezes the air between them. "I'm afraid that's not how this works, dear heart," she explains, her voice gentle yet carrying unmistakable steel beneath its velvet surface. "What's placed before you must be finished. All of it."

"It's a matter of respect," Lucifer adds, licking a smear of chocolate from his thumb in a gesture that makes Alastor's stomach turn. "For the chef who prepared it, for the servants who brought it, and for us who requested it specifically for you."

The trap springs shut around him, another small humiliation disguised as etiquette. Eat the sickeningly sweet foods he despises or risk appearing rude, ungrateful, disobedient. The choice is no choice at all, merely another exercise in breaking his will through seemingly reasonable demands.

"Of course," Alastor replies, smile stretching wider as he reaches for the untouched pancakes. "How remiss of me. This spread is truly magnificent. A testament to your consideration and the chef's remarkable skill."

He cuts a minuscule piece of pancake, lifting it to his mouth with a flourish that draws attention to the performative nature of his compliance. When the sweetness hits his tongue, it is almost suffocating to his taste buds, cloying and overwhelming, but he maintains his smile through the ordeal of swallowing.

"Divine," he pronounces, the word dripping with such exaggerated praise that it borders on parody. "Absolutely transcendent. I can't imagine how I almost deprived myself of such pleasure."

Lucifer's eyes narrow fractionally, recognition of the mockery flickering across his features before his smile reasserts itself. "I'm pleased you're enjoying it. We have all day if necessary. I'm happy to rearrange my appointments to ensure you have time to properly appreciate every bite."

"No need to disrupt your schedule on my account," Alastor counters, selecting another microscopic portion with surgical precision. "Though your willingness to do so speaks volumes about your dedication to my... nutritional well-being."

He chews with deliberate slowness, each motion of his jaw calculated to extend the time between bites without appearing overtly defiant. His posture remains perfect, his manners impeccable, yet each tiny portion and prolonged chew communicates his resistance more clearly than words ever could.

"We insist," Lilith interjects, settling more comfortably into her chair with the air of someone prepared for a lengthy siege. "Your comfort and adjustment are our highest priorities today. Take all the time you need."

Lilith waves two fingers, a simple flick that summons a servant from the periphery. He approaches, head bowed, the rustle of his uniform crisp against marble. “Darling, could you please let the Chamberlain know we’ll be delayed in our appointments this morning?” she says, eyes still on Alastor. "We require additional time for our breakfast. His Highness is adjusting to new dietary expectations, and we don't wish to rush him." There's a glint to her smile that feels like reflected sunlight on a blade. The servant bows and slips away, her shoes making no sound at all on the marble. “His Highness finds the menu especially… rich.”

The servant nods before darting away. The click of his shoes recedes, swallowed by the vaulted ceiling. "How considerate," Alastor says, voice pitched so smooth it could slip through a cheesecloth. He stabs at a strawberry with unnecessary force, the tines of his fork punching through the fruit and clinking against the porcelain.

After another round of thorough mastication, Alastor's fork hovers above the plate, momentarily suspended between compliance and defiance. Then, with the careful precision of a watchmaker, he selects another minuscule bite, his eyes never leaving Lilith's as he lifts it to his mouth with glacial slowness.

"How fortunate I am," he murmurs between infinitesimal bites, "to have such patient and understanding alphas." The words emerge polished to a high sheen, each syllable a mirror that reflects his contempt while appearing to display gratitude.

The sweet assault continues for what feels like hours, each bite more difficult than the last as Alastor's stomach tightens in protest. Twenty-seven minutes by the ornate grandfather clock in the corner, he's been counting, and he's managed to reduce the mountain of food by perhaps a quarter through his strategy of microscopic portions. A dull ache spreads through his abdomen, pressing against his ribs and making each breath slightly shallower than the last. He shifts in his chair, a minor adjustment that he disguises as merely crossing his legs, though in truth he's seeking any position that might alleviate the growing pressure. His fork continues its mechanical journey from plate to mouth, the corners have smile have begun to twitch with the strain of maintaining his facade.

The chocolate croissant presents a particular challenge, the rich filling coats his tongue with overwhelming sweetness that makes his teeth ache. He suppresses a shudder as he swallows, reaching for his water glass to wash away the lingering taste.

Lucifer watches with undisguised amusement, clearly savoring this small torture disguised as indulgence. "The pastry chef will be delighted to hear how thoroughly you're enjoying his creations," he observes, voice dripping with false sincerity. "Perhaps we should have him prepare a special dessert course for dinner as well."

The suggestion threatens to send all the food Alastor has consumed to come back up, his ears twitching involuntarily before he can suppress the reaction. He places his fork down with precise control, folding his hands in his lap where the tremor in his fingers won't be visible.

"How thoughtful," he manages, voice steady despite the pressure building in his abdomen. "Though one shouldn't indulge too frequently in such... rich experiences."

His posture remains impeccable despite the discomfort, back straight against the chair while his internal organs seem to shift and compress with each passing minute. A bead of sweat forms at his temple, threatening to track down his face before he casually raises a hand to adjust his monocle, wiping away the evidence of his distress in the same motion.

Lilith's crimson eyes narrow slightly as they study him across the table, her head tilting with that perceptive quality that sees beyond physical appearances to the strain beneath. "You've gone quite pale," she observes, setting down her own fork with deliberate precision. "Are you feeling unwell?"

"Not at all," Alastor lies smoothly, even as another wave of discomfort rolls through him. "Merely pacing myself to fully appreciate this bountiful spread."

He selects another morsel, a sugar-crusted pastry that his stomach preemptively rejects, and lifts it toward his mouth with mechanical determination. Before it reaches his lips, Lilith's hand settles on the table between them, the gesture somehow arresting his movement more effectively than any spoken command.

"I think that's enough for today," she declares, her voice carrying notes of firm decision that brook no argument, even from Lucifer. "You've done admirably well for someone unaccustomed to our dining habits."

Lucifer's laugh ripples across the table. "Perhaps we should reconsider portion sizes going forward," he says, gesturing at the half-demolished spread with elegant fingers. "My enthusiasm clearly exceeded your capacity this morning. A mistake I won't repeat."

Relief washes through him, so profound it momentarily weakens his guard, allowing a small sigh to escape before he can prevent it. He disguises the slip with a light cough, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin to hide the momentary crack in his facade. The thought slithers through Alastor's mind: how many more of these force-feedings must he endure before they consider him properly fattened? His reflection in the silver serving tray distorts, showing a grotesque caricature of himself—bloated cheeks, multiple chins, fingers like sausages clutching fork after fork of syrup-drenched pancakes. His head twitches once, sharply, banishing the vision. The cold weight settling in his stomach has nothing to do with fear. Nothing whatsoever.

"May I be excused?" he asks, the question emerging more eagerly than intended, a rare glimpse of genuine emotion breaking through his carefully constructed mask of indifference.

"Yes," Lilith begins, her lips curving into a smile that carries genuine warmth rather than the mockery he's come to expect.

Alastor immediately places his napkin beside his plate, chair scraping softly against the marble floor as he begins to rise—

"Not yet," Lilith continues, halting his movement with nothing more than those two words. "There's one more lesson before you may explore the palace on your own."

His body freezes halfway between sitting and standing, suspended in an awkward position of arrested freedom. With careful control, he lowers himself back into the chair, smile stretching wider to cover the flash of frustration that threatens to break through.

"Of course," he replies, voice dripping with fabricated enthusiasm. "How could I possibly venture forth without completing my educational foundation?"

Lucifer laughs before leaning forward, elbows resting on the table in a casual breach of the etiquette he now seeks to enforce on Alastor.

"There's a proper protocol," he explains, golden eyes gleaming with enjoyment of this latest opportunity for control, "for an omega leaving the table without his alphas. Particularly in a royal context."

"Essential knowledge," Lilith adds, her tone gentler than her husband's but no less firm in its expectation of compliance. "The court watches everything, and proper observance of these small rituals communicates much about your standing and our harmony as a mated trio."

“Do share,” he says folding his hands atop the tablecloth as if in supplication. “I wouldn’t want to inadvertently scandalize the cutlery.”

Lucifer’s lips twitch, amused, but it’s Lilith who answers. “When rising from a table in the presence of your bonded alphas, standard is to request permission, yes, even for bodily needs, though we can be flexible in private.” Her eyes flick with meaning, a pointed reminder of the night before. “But more importantly, you must wait to be formally released. It is a matter of public decorum. It is how you show trust in the mate-bond.” She taps a single finger against the tablecloth. "Your status remains... incomplete. Until the claiming is finalized, we'll permit certain... allowances. Consider this period your opportunity to practice proper decorum before the bond becomes permanent."

Alastor cocks his head, feigning consideration as he turns the words over in his mind. The implication is obvious enough: every glance or gesture, every minuscule act of bodily autonomy, is now a public performance of their hierarchy. A single step out of line will be interpreted as rebellion, or as an opportunity for further ridicule.

"How clarifying," he says, rolling the phrase around his mouth as if sampling a new vintage of wine. "So if I wish to visit the lavatory, I must first petition the crown?"

"If the court is present," Lilith confirms, "yes. Even a brief absence is, in the eyes of protocol, a signal of the bond's stability."

Lucifer watches him over the rim of his teacup, the blood-red liquid steaming. “And, second, it’s also customary to thank your alphas for the meal, and their company, before you take your leave.” The king’s gaze settles on him, expectant and bright. “Always.”

Of course. The coup de grâce in a morning arrayed with indignities. Alastor feels the moment twist beneath his hands, a little trap springing shut with velvet teeth.

“The third rule,” Lilith adds, voice soft as velvet, “though this is less a formal rule and more an expectation of refined behavior, is to withdraw from the table without creating a disturbance, your chair must never scrape or scratch the floor, and rise with grace. You then offer the gesture.“

"The fourth rule," Lilith says. Her voice is gentle, almost co-conspiratorial, drawing Alastor's gaze back to her face. "Before you are released from the table, you must thank your alphas with a public gesture of affection. Nothing extravagant, a gentle display of affection. A gesture appropriate to the setting, of course.”

He feels the blood drain from his face. For a moment, even his shadow seems to recede from his chair, as if mortified on his behalf.

"Here in the private dining room," she continues, "a kiss to the cheek is customary. In formal settings, perhaps a hand to the shoulder, or a touch to the arm. Something discreet, but visible. Something the court can see. It reassures them of the bond’s harmony, and of your commitment to the crown."

A beat. The silence stretches, becomes unbearable. Alastor waits for the mockery to drop, for the smile to crack open into laughter, but the expectation hangs in the air, solid as the silver candelabra between the three of them. Alastor waits, a totem of politeness and venom, as if daring them to call the bluff of his submission.

"The last rule," Lilith says, folding her hands in her lap, "is the most visible and, therefore, the most important for the court. When you leave the table, you walk backward for the first two paces, never turning your back on your alphas until you've reached a respectful distance. Your head is slightly bowed, as a sign of acknowledgment—not submission, but respect. Only then do you turn and exit properly. This is nonnegotiable. It is, as they say, the mark of a well-bred omega."

Alastor processes this new humiliation with a stillness that shrinks the room around him. His mind sketches the scene as it will be, all the lesser nobles and sycophants craning their necks for a better look at the once-dreaded Radio Demon reversing out of rooms like a wind-up monkey. He pictures the hands covering laughter behind silken sleeves, the thousand tiny deaths of his dignity, and finds in the bitter kernel of victory that allows the smile on his face to be real, if only for a moment.

"Shall we rehearse, then?" he suggests, infusing the question with such enthusiastic charm that it borders on parody. "I'd hate to embarrass the crown through improper execution of such vital etiquette."

Lucifer leans back with a satisfied exhalation. "By all means," he says, "demonstrate for us."

Alastor straightens in his seat, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from his jacket. His smile shifts subtly, transforming from the strained rictus of forced politeness to something more theatrical, the Radio Host preparing for a public performance.

"May I be excused?" he asks again.

"You may," Lilith responds, her expression softening with what might be genuine approval of his quick adaptation.

Alastor places his napkin beside his plate with a flourish that manages to be both precise and slightly mocking in its exaggerated care. He stands with theatrical elegance, transforming the mundane act of tucking in his chair into a silent vaudeville, each movement deliberately overwrought.

He lifts his gaze, meeting Lucifer’s eyes with dazzling brightness. “Thank you, my alpha,” he says, letting the words ring in the space as if reciting sacred Mass. He turns to Lilith, “And thank you as well, Your Majesty, for the… extraordinary meal and the lessons in etiquette. And for your most enlightening company. I am truly fortunate to benefit from such... dedicated instruction."

Rising from his chair with silent grace, he moves first to Lilith's side, bending at the waist to bring his face level with hers. His lips brush against her cheek in a kiss so light it barely qualifies as contact, yet somehow still conveying a degree of genuine tolerance absent from his other interactions with the royals.

When he straightens and turns toward Lucifer, a nearly imperceptible change overtakes his posture, shoulders stiffening slightly, ears flattening a fraction of an inch, smile stretching just a hair too wide. He bends again, the movement precise yet mechanical, and with fingertips barely grazing Lucifer's sleeve, brushes his own cheek against the King of Hell's in a gesture as fleeting as it is frigid. The contact is revolting, but he maintains the facade of compliance with iron control, allowing no visible sign of his disgust to manifest.

Lucifer’s hand rises unexpectedly, fingers circling Alastor’s wrist as he begins to pull away. Lucifer’s gaze lingers, searching Alastor’s face, and a faint, unreadable smile flickers across his lips. “So careful, Alastor,” he murmurs, his tone lighter than his grip. “Always so eager to keep your distance, at least with me.”

There’s a tick, a pause, not the expected smugness but something else. Lucifer holds him there, gentle, not a threat but an inquisition, as if trying to reconcile a contradiction written on Alastor’s skin. The moment stretches, thin and odd, until Alastor senses exactly what the King is searching for: why the deer recoils from the Devil’s touch but not the queen’s, why his resistance is less performance and more a true, deep aversion. Alastor can almost hear the gears turning behind Lucifer’s smile, the fine-tuned antennae of the Devil’s pride picking up the frequency of his disgust. It would be almost funny, if it didn’t make Alastor’s stomach twist.

A flicker of something passes over Lucifer’s face, gone before it can register as hurt, disappointment, or perhaps just the recognition of a challenge unmet.

"Merely differing performance styles for different audiences," Alastor counters smoothly, extracting his wrist from Lucifer's grip with deliberate care rather than the violent jerk his instincts demand. Lucifer’s hand remains outstretched. "A professional hazard from my radio days. One tailors one's delivery to the listener."

“You’re ever the professional,” Lucifer’s voice is pitched low, careful, almost admiring. "An interesting preference for one who claims to despise us both equally." Lucifer's fingers curl into a loose fist against his cheek, his head tilting at an angle that seems both calculated and casual. His gaze slides downward, lingering on Alastor with an expression that hovers between curiosity and something more intimate. Alastor finds himself unable to decode this silent language, this royal cipher of posture and attention.

"Continue my omega. You are doing well," Lucifer instructs.

Alastor steps back, taking two small steps backward, head inclined just enough to satisfy protocol without displaying genuine submission. Only then does he turn, facing the exit with shoulders squared and spine straight.

"Perfect execution," Lilith praises, her voice warm with what sounds distressingly like genuine pride. "You may explore the palace grounds now, though mind the boundaries we discussed. The gardens, the main library, and the east wing galleries are available to you. The throne room and council chambers remain restricted without our accompaniment."

"Thank you," Alastor replies, the words emerging with surprising sincerity—not for their permission but for the prospect of solitude, however temporary or conditional. "I shall use the time wisely."

Alastor has barely taken his first step toward freedom when Lucifer's voice slices through the air behind him. "Omega." The title pierces the air between them like a leash being yanked taut. Alastor pivots, just enough to acknowledge the summons without fully surrendering the ground he's gained. Lucifer remains sprawled in his chair, one hand balancing a china plate while the other delicately pinches a jelly pastry between thumb and forefinger. The contrast is jarring. His posture suggests casual indulgence, but his eyes have gone winter-cold, promising consequences with the same nonchalance with which he might comment on the weather.

“While you have the freedom to explore the gardens, remember this: you may approach the palace walls only within the gardens, and only up to fifteen feet. Beyond that, and outside the gardens, you must keep your distance completely. I have wards in place, and if you trigger them by getting too close, I’ll know. I assure you, the consequences won’t be pleasant. Stay within your limits, Alastor, and enjoy your day without needlessly testing my patience.”

“Why, I’d never dream of causing a scene, Your Majesty. Heaven forbid I interrupt the peace.” Alastor bows and turns back to the doors.

He walks from the dining room with measured steps, careful to maintain dignity despite the discomfort still rolling through his overfull stomach and the desperate urge to run, to put as much distance as possible between himself and his captors. Only when the massive doors close behind him, granting a moment of precious privacy in the corridor beyond, does he allow his smile to shift from performative pleasantry to something sharper, more genuine in its predatory anticipation.

Freedom, limited, conditional, temporary, but freedom nonetheless. The first taste in weeks of captivity, the first opportunity to map the palace beyond their chambers, to search for weaknesses, to plan for eventual escape or vengeance or both. His shadow stretches before him, elongating with his renewed determination as he turns toward the gardens, every sense alert for information that might serve his ultimate goal: liberation from these golden chains they call partnership.

Chapter Text

The palace corridors feel like a cage with the door left ajar—not quite imprisonment, not quite freedom. Alastor maintains a deliberate pace, refusing to betray the thrill coursing through him with hasty steps. Ahead of him, his shadow tells a different story, stretching across marble floors with a grin that splits its darkness. At each turn, those inky claws reach greedily forward, the silhouette rippling with the excitement Alastor refuses to display as they sample this first morsel of conditional liberty.

Servants scurry along the periphery of his vision, each one pointedly avoiding direct eye contact while simultaneously tracking his every movement. A small imp scrubs at the marble floor with methodical precision, pausing only when Alastor's oxfords click past her position. The creature's shoulders hunch inward as if expecting a blow, tension radiating from her crimson frame like heat from burning coals. Interesting. His reputation clearly precedes him, despite his new... position.

"Good morning," Alastor offers, voice smooth as silk wrapped around a razor's edge. The imp flinches, her brush clattering to the floor in a splash of soapy water. "Oh my! Did I startle you?" His grin stretches wider, static crackling faintly around his words.

"N-no, Your Highness," the servant stutters, scrambling to retrieve her brush. "My deepest apologies for the disturbance."

Your Highness. The title slides against his skin like oil, unwelcome and impossible to simply brush away. He tilts his head, cataloging the imp's reaction for future reference. Fear is a currency that never devalues in Hell, and even leashed as he is, it seems his account remains well-funded.

He leans in, lowering his timbre just enough to be confidential. "Such dedicated effort at this hour! Is that standard for palace staff, or are you treating the floors to something special today?" He expects a nervous titter, perhaps a touch of the old deference that once followed him like a shadow, but the imp's hands only tighten around the brush, knuckles blanching beneath the crimson skin.

"It’s the regular schedule, Your Highness." The brush resumes its frenetic scrubbing, a focus so intense it borders on self-obliteration. "The Queen prefers guests to see their reflection before they see themselves."

"And does she?" He glances down to the marble, catching the warping of his own antlers in its glassy surface. "Marvelous work, if I may say so. You could shave with that shine."

The imp’s answer is a jerky nod, eyes fixed on the bubbling puddle creeping toward the wall.

He tries again, “Forgive my curiosity,” Alastor continues, tone pitched to a conspiratorial hush. “You must see the palace at every hour, from every angle. Which corridor has the best view of the grounds?” He crouches, unhurried, balancing on the balls of his feet to bring his gaze closer to the imp’s. “I’ve always admired the perspectives of those who keep the place running, rather than those who merely rule from above.” He expects a reciprocal smile, a shy glance upward, some flicker of recognition for the frat boy charm he’s dusted off for the occasion.

Instead, the imp recoils as if he’s threatened a lashing. “Your Highness, I’m not permitted to—” Her words congeal, eyes darting past his shoulder toward the corridor’s distant vanishing point. “I… I must keep to my work, sir. If you have a request, I can fetch my supervisor.”

Alastor feels the moment tighten, a skein of tension drawn taut across the marble. He leans back on his heels, studying her with genuine curiosity. He almost wants to laugh he’s not used to being the one who puts people on edge merely by talking to them. In his day, the household staff loved a bit of banter, a wink, a whispered complaint about their masters. The rules here must be different. He recognizes the particular shudder in her shoulders: not fear of his person, but fear of being seen with him. Perhaps there are protocols against conversing with the royal omega, or perhaps this imp has already been threatened with consequences should she stray from the party line.

He makes a show of dusting off his knees as he stands, careful to keep his posture relaxed, but the imp’s discomfort is infectious. The old rules were never like this; servants used to fawn or cower, sometimes both never this brittle, bureaucratic terror, as if the very act of speaking to him alone might trigger a silent alarm. Is this what the royals have done in his absence, remade even the smallest gestures into sources of suspicion?

“No need to trouble your supervisor,” Alastor says, voice pitched to soothe. “You’ve been a delight, Miss—?” He leaves the sentence dangling, an invitation she predictably refuses.

She ducks her head further, the curve of her horns nearly scraping the rim of her bucket. “It’s against protocol to give my personal name, Your Highness. We’re to address you as sir or by your title only.” The words are so rote she could be reciting from a manual. “If you have a message for Their Majesties, I’ll relay it.”

Not even permitted a name. The thought should amuse him, but it lands oddly sour on his tongue. For a moment, he considers pressing, just to see if the imp would break rank, but he recognizes the futility in the rigidness of her script. If anything is to be learned from this brief exchange, it’s that the palace is even more locked down than he’d believed and not merely against him.

He straightens, produces a courtly bow that might have been mocking if not for its polish. “Then let it be known the Queen’s dining corridor receives my highest compliments.” Static crackles faintly in his next words, a subtle prod to ensure she remembers this encounter. “As you were, then. I wouldn’t dream of disrupting such admirable efficiency.” He offers a mock salute, which infuriatingly fails to ruffle the imp, and she’s resumed her frantic scrubbing the moment his shadow passes beyond her periphery.

Alastor continues his exploration, mentally mapping each corridor, staircase, and chamber he passes. The palace unfolds before him like an architectural puzzle, each wing connected by hallways that curve and bend in ways that would disorient a less observant demon. A deliberate design choice, he suspects, to confuse potential intruders or prevent easy escape. His fingers trail along the wall, occasionally tapping out rhythms that correspond to the distances between doors, windows, and potential exit points.

A set of glass doors at the end of a high-ceilinged corridor opens onto a stone balcony. Sunlight, that artificial approximation that Hell produces, spills across the threshold in a puddle of crimson that almost seems solid enough to step around rather than through. Alastor moves forward, drawn by the prospect of a better vantage point to survey the grounds.

The balcony offers a sweeping view of the royal gardens, meticulously manicured into patterns that seem arbitrary until viewed from this height, where they reveal themselves as arcane sigils whose meaning eludes even his considerable knowledge. Beyond the verdant expanse, the palace walls rise like pale sentinels, their surfaces unnaturally smooth, devoid of the handholds or imperfections that might aid a climber. Patrols of guards move along the ramparts in patterns that appear random at first glance but reveal their calculated nature to his scrutinizing gaze.

He leans against the stone railing, deliberately casual, as if merely admiring the view rather than committing every detail of the guards' rotations to memory. Three minutes between each patrol passing the northwestern corner. A five-minute gap at the eastern gate when shifts change. The southern wall left unpatrolled for nearly seven minutes while a messenger delivers communications between stations. Each observation files neatly into his mental catalog, potential weaknesses to exploit when the moment is right.

Movement below catches his eye. A flash of crimson disappearing behind a marble column in the garden's eastern section. A female servant, her face obscured from this angle, peers around the stone with nervous frequency. She glances at a small timepiece clutched in her clawed hand, then back toward the palace entrance, her posture radiating anticipation mixed with fear.

A guard approaches from the opposite direction, his steps quickening as he nears the column. Unlike his fellows, whose gazes sweep constantly across their assigned territories, this one's attention remains fixed on a single point, the hidden servant whose presence should, by all professional standards, concern him. The guard checks over both shoulders before slipping behind the column, out of sight from the watchtowers but perfectly visible from Alastor's elevated position.

Their embrace unfolds with hungry desperation, months of longing compressed into seconds of stolen time. The guard's hands tangle in the servant's hair, her claws digging into the fabric of his uniform with enough force to tear. Their kiss speaks of something beyond mere physical desire, something dangerous in Hell's hierarchy, where attachments become vulnerabilities to be exploited.

"How scandalous," Alastor murmurs, amusement threading through his voice. His head tilts slightly, microphone materializing in his hand as if preparing to broadcast this little drama to an eager audience. But no, not yet. Information gathered is more valuable than information shared, at least for now. This illicit romance might prove useful leverage in the future, should he need to manipulate either party.

The lovers part reluctantly, exchanging whispered promises Alastor can't quite catch before the guard returns to his patrol, posture snapping back to professional alertness as if a switch has been flipped. The servant waits exactly sixty-seven seconds before emerging from her hiding place and hurrying toward the kitchen gardens, smoothing her uniform with trembling hands.

His attention shifts to the main gate, where an imp delivery driver waits beside a cart loaded with crates. The driver gestures animatedly toward a clipboard, apparently arguing with the guard stationed at the entrance. Alastor's ears swivel forward, straining to catch words that might reveal the protocol for entry, the verbal passcode or magical gesture that would allow passage through the wards Lucifer claimed surround the property.

Frustratingly, distance renders their conversation inaudible. The guard examines the clipboard, makes a notation, then simply steps aside. No obvious gesture. No incantation. No physical token exchanged. Either Lucifer lied about the wards or the system operates on principles not immediately observable from this distance.

Only one way to be certain.

Alastor straightens, brushing imaginary dust from his lapels before turning from the balcony with unhurried grace. He navigates back through the palace with purposeful steps, following corridors that lead to ground level and exterior doors. Servants scatter before him like autumn leaves in a gale, their fear a familiar perfume that almost makes him feel like himself again.

Once outside, surrounded by the perfumed air of the royal gardens, he allows his form to shift. His outline blurs at the edges, static crackling around him as his body dissolves into shadow, a technique that won't hide him completely from magical detection but might at least obscure his approach from ordinary observation. He glides across the manicured lawns, skirting the paths where guards might patrol, his substance flowing like oil across water.

As he nears the boundary Lucifer specified, Alastor reconstitutes his physical form. His smile tightens fractionally as he extends one hand toward the invisible barrier, fingers splayed like a pianist preparing to strike a complex chord. He doesn't push, not yet, merely extends his awareness, feeling for the texture of the magic that may or may not exist in the space before him.

The ward responds immediately, a subtle vibration against his fingertips that intensifies as he applies the slightest pressure. It feels like pressing against a membrane of static electricity, simultaneously solid and fluid, reacting to his probing with warning pulses that travel up his arm and settle like ice in the center of his chest. The magic bears Lucifer's unmistakable signature.

Alastor withdraws his hand with a soft hiss, frustration crackling through his aura in waves that make nearby flowers wilt. The king didn't lie, then. The ward exists precisely as described, powerful enough to alert Lucifer to any significant attempt at breach and likely capable of throwing Alastor backward with considerable force should he try to push through.

"Clever," he murmurs, genuine admiration mingling with annoyance. "Very clever indeed."

He turns away from the boundary, static still fizzing around his form as he contemplates this setback. One avenue closed, but others remain open. The day stretches before him, hours of relative freedom to explore, to observe, to gather the intelligence that will eventually, inevitably, lead to his liberation.

His smile resets to its default width, eyes scanning the grounds with renewed purpose. If he cannot leave today, he will ensure that when the moment comes, he'll be thoroughly prepared. Knowledge has always been his preferred weapon, after all, and even caged birds can study the locks that hold them.

The royal gardens unfold before Alastor in a display of botanical excess that would impress even the most jaded aristocrat. Flowers in impossible colors stretch toward Hell's artificial sun, their petals wider than dinner plates and sporting patterns that suggest consciousness rather than mere pigmentation. Hedges carved into the shapes of mythical beasts stand sentinel along gravel paths that wind through the landscape in deliberate patterns marking this territory as irrefutably royal. The initial awe lasts precisely three minutes before boredom settles across Alastor's shoulders like an ill-fitting jacket.

He strolls past a bed of roses whose thorns glisten with what appears to be actual venom. Beautiful, certainly, but ultimately meaningless, decorative distractions that serve no purpose beyond displaying the crown's wealth and power. His shadow stretches beside him, occasionally reaching to touch a blossom before he does, as if sharing his growing disinterest in these botanical wonders.

"Is this meant to impress me?" he murmurs to a particularly ostentatious orchid, its petals iridescent purple tinged with gold at the edges. "A pretty cage is still a cage, my dear."

His fingers brush against the flower, a deliberate caress that leaves destruction in its wake. The effect is immediate and deeply satisfying. Vibrant color leaches from the petals, edges curling inward as the bloom withers under his touch. The orchid collapses in on itself, reduced to a desiccated husk in seconds. Alastor's smile widens, genuine pleasure replacing his manufactured expression for a brief, unguarded moment.

He continues his path of strategic destruction, one finger trailing along a row of prized lilies. Each touch creates a line of death in the garden's perfection, like ink spilled across a pristine manuscript. The power is minimal compared to what he can typically command, but the small rebellion soothes something raw and restless beneath his skin. Let Lucifer discover later that his precious flowers have mysteriously withered in patterns too deliberate to be coincidence.

Alastor turns his attention to more practical matters, veering away from the central garden toward the outer edges where ornamental gives way to functional. His pace quickens slightly, purpose replacing idle wandering as he approaches the boundary where garden meets the wider palace grounds. Here, the first test of Lucifer's claim: do the wards truly encircle the entire property, or are there gaps in the magical barrier, weaknesses that might be exploited?

He extends one hand, fingers spread wide as if reaching for an invisible curtain. The ward responds exactly as it did earlier, that same electric resistance pushing back against his probing touch, the same magical signature unmistakably Lucifer's. Frustrating, but expected. Alastor withdraws his hand and continues walking the perimeter, testing every fifty paces, methodically documenting the barrier's consistency in his mental catalog.

The eastern boundary yields the same results, as does the southern edge near what appears to be servants' quarters. Each test confirms what he already suspects: the ward forms an unbroken barrier around the entire property, a dome of magical energy that would require significant power to breach without detection. His claws tap against his microphone in rhythmic irritation, the sound barely audible yet betraying his growing frustration.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickle suddenly, an instinctual awareness of being observed that predates his demonic existence. Alastor doesn't turn immediately, instead allowing his reflection in a nearby decorative pond to confirm what his senses already know. A guard has materialized some thirty paces behind him, following with what the fool probably believes is subtle vigilance.

For eight more minutes, Alastor pretends ignorance, continuing his circuit of the grounds while peripherally tracking his shadow. The guard maintains his distance with professional discipline but makes no attempt to conceal his presence. This isn't covert surveillance, then, but open monitoring, a message rather than mere precaution.

Alastor spins suddenly on his heel, the movement so swift it momentarily blurs his outline. His smile stretches to its fullest width, eyes crinkling at the corners in a parody of delight as he faces his pursuer directly.

"Well, hello there!" he calls, voice pitched to carry the precise distance between them. "What a lovely day for a stroll, wouldn't you agree? Though I typically prefer more stimulating conversation from my walking companions."

The guard stiffens, momentarily thrown by the direct acknowledgment. He's taller than most of Lucifer's security detail, with grey skin mottled by darker patches that suggest some aquatic lineage. His uniform bears additional insignia that mark him as higher-ranking than the standard patrolmen.

"Your Highness," the guard responds, voice carefully neutral, neither approaching nor retreating.

Alastor tilts his head, ears swiveling forward with exaggerated curiosity. "I do hope you're enjoying the view. I've been told I cut quite the dashing figure against Hell's landscape." His hand sweeps an elegant arc, encompassing both himself and the gardens in a theatrical gesture. "Though I must ask—will you be following me for the entirety of my constitutional today? I'd hate for you to grow fatigued."

The guard's expression remains impassive, but something in his posture suggests discomfort. "Only while you remain on the grounds outside the palace proper, Your Highness."

"Ah! A man of specificity. I appreciate clarity." Alastor steps closer, each movement deliberately casual. "Was this delightful arrangement suggested by our dear king? His Majesty does seem the type to provide a companion when one least desires it."

A muscle tightens in the guard's jaw. "I don't require His Majesty's instruction to observe a new omega to the palace acting suspiciously."

"Suspiciously?" Alastor laughs, the sound sharp-edged and accompanied by a burst of static that makes nearby insects fall dead from the air. "My good man, who exactly is acting suspiciously? I'm merely enjoying the amenities afforded to me by my... position." The last word emerges with just enough emphasis to carry a double meaning.

The guard's eyes narrow, lips pressing into a thin line as he studies Alastor with open assessment. He doesn't answer, doesn't need to, his stare communicates clearly that Alastor's behavior has been noted and deemed worthy of scrutiny. The walking the perimeter. The methodical testing of the wards. The strategic destruction of royal property. None of it has gone unobserved.

Silence stretches between them, taut as a tripwire. Alastor maintains his smile, unwilling to be the first to break eye contact in this small battle of wills. The guard holds his gaze with surprising resolve where most demons flinch away long before this point, unnerved by the unnatural fixity of Alastor's expression.

Finally, Alastor chuckles, the sound deliberately light and dismissive. "Well! Far be it from me to interfere with a demon simply doing his duty." He turns with theatrical flourish, continuing his path along the property's edge. "Do try to keep up, my taciturn friend. I'm told I set quite a pace when properly motivated."

The guard falls into step behind him, maintaining that same careful distance, close enough to intervene if necessary, far enough to avoid casual conversation. Alastor resumes his boundary testing, each touch against the invisible barrier more forceful than strictly necessary, a silent communication of his frustration that he knows will be dutifully reported.

The east wing of the palace rises before Alastor, its architecture shifting subtly from the ornate baroque excess of the main structure to something sleeker, more modern, an anachronism grafted onto ancient stones like a prosthetic limb. His steps slow as his eyes track upward, following the familiar silhouette that protrudes from the roofline: his radio tower, the spindly metal framework unmistakable despite its new setting. Something in his chest constricts, a pressure behind his ribs that might be relief at seeing this extension of himself still intact, or perhaps the first tremors of rage at finding it assimilated into the royal domain without his consent.

The tower stretches toward Hell's crimson sky, its metal skeleton familiar yet wrong somehow, like encountering a childhood friend whose features have been subtly rearranged. Alastor circles the base of the wing, neck craned upward, trying to identify what exactly feels off about this architectural integration. The antenna appears functional, the supporting struts maintain their original configuration, yet something has been altered in ways his mind registers before his conscious awareness can articulate.

His pace quickens as he rounds the corner of the building, heels clicking against stone with increasing urgency. Then he sees it, the royal insignia emblazoned on the side of the tower, gleaming gold against the dark metal framework, large enough to be visible from significant distance. The apple with six wings and two curled horns that represents Lucifer and Lilith, prominently displayed on his property like a brand seared into flesh.

Alastor freezes mid-step, smile fixed so rigidly it might shatter at the slightest impact. Static crackles around him, the air charged with his instinctive reaction before he can suppress it. His microphone materializes in his clenched fist, the familiar weight grounding him momentarily as he processes this visual violation.

"How dare they," he whispers, voice barely audible beneath the static interference that intensifies with each word. "How absolutely dare they."

He forces himself closer, eyes narrowed to better examine the details of the insignia. What he discovers sends a jolt of pure, incandescent rage through his system, at the center of the apple, where there should be nothing but smooth gold, sits a single deer hoofprint, etched with precise detail that can only have come from careful study of his own feet. The hoofprint is delicate against the larger symbol, almost apologetic in its placement, yet its meaning couldn't be clearer: his ownership has been subsumed into theirs, his identity reduced to a footnote in their heraldry.

The microphone creaks in his grip, wood splintering slightly beneath claws that have extended without conscious thought. At his feet, his shadow twists unnaturally, its usual grin inverted into a snarling frown as it stretches upward, hollow eyes blazing with fury as they fix upon the defiled tower. The urge to rip the insignia from the tower's framework, to tear it to pieces with his bare hands, pulses through him. The velvet nubs along his hairline stretch into sharp points as rage courses through him, his eyes igniting with crimson light casting the world in bloodied hues.

"Property," he hisses, the word saturated with contempt. "They think to mark me, to mark my creations, as their property."

The logical part of his mind, the cold calculator that has kept him alive and ascendant through decades in Hell, notes that destroying the symbol would accomplish nothing beyond momentary satisfaction. It would be replaced, and his rebellion would earn further restrictions rather than concessions. But logic struggles against the primal offense, the violated boundary that goes beyond his physical person to claim the tools of his power, the extension of his voice.

With rigid self-control, Alastor turns from the exterior view, determined to assess the full extent of this appropriation. He enters the palace through a side entrance, following corridors that lead deeper into the east wing. The architecture grows increasingly modern as he proceeds, the baroque trappings giving way to clean lines and functional spaces that remind him, with bitter irony, of the radio stations he frequented in life.

He finds the door easily enough, an instinctive pull drawing him through the labyrinth of hallways to the threshold of what was once his private domain. The entrance has been modified to match his aesthetic, dark wood carved with art deco patterns that spiral outward from the handle. An "On Air" sign glows softly above the frame, its gentle illumination shifting between crimson and green in slow pulses. Most striking are the antlers mounted above the sign, carved with such precision they could be casts of his own, their points gleaming with the same green luminescence that occasionally surrounds him when his powers manifest fully.

"They've made a shrine to my captivity," he observes, voice flat despite the static that crackles between syllables. His hand hovers over the doorknob, momentarily hesitant as he contemplates what further violations might await inside. "How very thoughtful of them."

The door swings open at his touch, unlocked and apparently unrestricted despite the magical barriers that have limited his movement elsewhere. The interior space unfolds before him in a wave of conflicting familiarity and wrongness, the basic layout matches his broadcasting booth, with vintage equipment arranged in configurations he recognizes instantly. The microphones, the turntables, the control panels, all appear functional at first glance, preserved with meticulous attention to detail.

Yet everywhere, subtle alterations betray the royal influence. The royal insignia appears again, embossed into the leather of the broadcasting chair, etched into the corner of each control panel, embedded in the base of the microphone stands. The hoofprint at the center of each symbol seems to mock him, a constant reminder of his new designation as royal consort rather than autonomous power.

"At least they've preserved the equipment," he mutters, running one finger along a control panel with professional assessment. "Small mercies, I suppose."

Alastor settles into the broadcasting chair. His fingers move automatically toward the controls, muscle memory guiding him through the startup sequence he could perform blindfolded. The familiar motions soothe something raw inside him, a momentary reconnection with his essence, with the power that has defined his afterlife.

The console lights flicker on, dials illuminating in response to his touch. For a heartbeat, hope flares in his chest, perhaps this space has been preserved not just in appearance but in function. Perhaps here, at least, he might still command his true power.

The hope dies as his fingers complete the final adjustment. The equipment hums to life, lights and meters indicating proper function, but when he reaches for the microphone, intending to test the broadcast capability, he encounters resistance. Not physical, but magical, an invisible barrier that prevents his power from flowing into the equipment, from extending his voice beyond this room. The sensation is akin to striking a glass wall at high speed, the jarring impact of unexpected limitation.

"No," he growls, trying again with greater force. His power crackles visibly around his hands, green energy dancing between his fingers as he attempts to override whatever enchantment restricts the equipment. "No, no, NO."

The magic holds firm, absorbing his efforts without yielding a millimeter. Lucifer's signature is unmistakable in the enchantment's texture, the same smug, immovable certainty that permeates the wards around the property. The message couldn't be clearer: Alastor may have access to the trappings of his former power, but only as a museum piece, a curated exhibit of what he once was.

Static explodes around him, sharp enough to shatter the glass face of the nearest meter. His shadow rears up, stretching to the ceiling in a jagged silhouette of rage. The microphone in his hand warps slightly, wood creaking as his grip threatens to crush it entirely.

This violation transcends the physical. They've claimed not just his body, but his voice, the essence of his power, the core of his identity. The radio host silenced, permitted only the appearance of broadcasting without the substance.

"Enough," he snarls, rising from the chair with such force it crashes against the control panel behind him. "This ends now."

His decision crystallizes with cold clarity: he will confront the royals immediately, demand explanation and restoration of function. The pretense of docile compliance has served its purpose in securing limited freedom; now that freedom will be leveraged for answers, for concessions, for the return of what is rightfully his.

Alastor strides from the room, door slamming behind him with enough force to crack the frame.

***********************************************************

The throne room doors loom at the end of the corridor like the gates to some infernal cathedral, twin slabs of ancient wood reinforced with bands of metal that gleam with a luster too rich to be mere gold. Demonic script curls across their surface in patterns that hurt the eye to follow directly, protection wards woven into decoration with such subtlety that most who pass never realize they've been scanned, assessed, and permitted entry based on criteria established millennia ago. Alastor approaches, the static surrounding his form contained but crackling at the edges of his silhouette like heat distortion. From behind these imposing barriers, the muffled cadence of royal voices carries, Lucifer and Lilith holding court, their tones rising and falling in the practiced rhythm of those accustomed to having every word heeded, every command obeyed.

Guards flank the entrance, positioned like living extensions of the doorframe rather than autonomous beings. Their armor bears the same insignia Alastor now finds so offensive, the apple and wings gleaming on breastplates forged from metals not found in Hell's natural strata. Their weapons, elegant halberds, rest at precisely the same angle, a mirror-perfect display of military precision.

Alastor's grin stretches wider as he draws nearer, a deliberate projection of amiability that contradicts the cold rage still flowing through his veins. His microphone taps against the floor with each second step, its rhythm just irregular enough to subtly disrupt the solemn atmosphere of the royal antechamber.

The guards' posture shifts almost imperceptibly as they register his approach, weight transferring to the balls of their feet, hands adjusting on weapon shafts to enable quicker response if needed. They've been warned about him, then. How flattering.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," Alastor greets, voice modulated to carry that radio-host charm that once captivated audiences across New Orleans. "Might I trouble you to announce my arrival to Their Majesties? I find myself in need of a royal audience."

The guard on the left, taller than his companion, with scales that shimmer blue-black beneath gaps in his armor, steps forward slightly. "His Highness is not permitted in the throne room today," he states, voice formal and devoid of inflection.

"His Highness," Alastor repeats, the title sliding from his tongue like something rotten. "How quaint. And who, pray tell, issued this particular prohibition?"

"Standing orders, Your Highness," the second guard responds, his features more avian, with feathers visible at his collar. "The king specified that you are to be granted freedom within the designated areas of the palace, which exclude the throne room and council chambers unless accompanied by Their Majesties."

Alastor's head tilts at a precise angle, his smile unchanging while something dangerous flickers in his eyes. "How fascinating," he observes, taking another step closer until he stands just beyond arm's reach of the guards. "You'll note, my observant friends, that I am not in the throne room." His microphone gestures toward the space between them and the closed doors. "I am merely in its vicinity, which our monarch specifically failed to prohibit."

The guards exchange a glance. The taller one's lips press into a thin line before he addresses Alastor again.

"The intent of His Majesty's order was clear, Your Highness. Testing the boundaries of his patience would not be advisable."

"Testing boundaries appears to be the sole entertainment available to me today," Alastor responds, his laughter carrying notes of genuine amusement despite the static interference that betrays his agitation. "Besides, I've already exhausted the more literal interpretation of that activity along the property's perimeter. Your colleague with the fascinating skin condition was kind enough to observe my efforts."

He steps closer still, infringing on the invisible boundary of personal space that even Hell's denizens instinctively maintain. His shadow stretches beneath him, its face contorted with cruel anticipation, Elongated antlers crown the darkness, while razor-sharp claws flex and curl, a silent promise of violence barely held in check.

"I assure you," Alastor continues, each word precisely enunciated despite the growing static, "I have no intention of causing a scene. I'm simply requesting the opportunity to speak with Their Majesties regarding a matter of some importance."

"They are currently engaged with a petitioner," the avian guard states, his tone suggesting this should end the conversation entirely. "Court business takes precedence over domestic matters."

"Domestic matters?" Alastor repeats, the phrase emerging with such sweet venom that both guards stiffen in response. "How charmingly reductive. I suppose the systematic appropriation and restriction of my powers could be classified as 'domestic' if one employs a sufficiently broad definition."

His smile stretches impossible wider, teeth gleaming in the corridor's dim light, while eerie green sutures illuminate the corners of his mouth and trace the contours where his limbs connect to his body. "Tell me, gentlemen, are you familiar with the concept of intellectual property rights? Hell seems woefully behind modern legal frameworks in that particular arena."

The taller guard shifts his stance slightly, halberd angling forward in a motion too subtle to be called threatening but too deliberate to be dismissed as adjustment. "Your Highness, it would be best if you returned to the permitted areas of the palace. Perhaps later this evening—"

"I don't recall requesting your assessment of what would be 'best,'" Alastor interrupts, voice dropping to a register that makes the air between them vibrate with unnatural frequencies. "I am here to request, formally and with all due respect to protocol, an audience with Their Majesties regarding an urgent matter. How you choose to convey that request is entirely at your discretion."

The guards exchange another glance, this one longer and weighted with unspoken assessment of the potential consequences in either direction. Deny the royal consort his request and risk his displeasure; interrupt the monarchs during formal court and risk theirs.

"It probably wouldn't be best to test the king's patience," the avian guard finally says, his tone softer than his companion's but no less firm. "The consequences could be... unfortunate."

"For whom?" Alastor inquires, head tilting to the opposite side with a crack. "I find myself increasingly comfortable with 'unfortunate consequences' these days. They've become something of a specialty."

The static surrounding him intensifies, crawling across the floor toward the guards' feet in tendrils of visual distortion. Not an attack, but a demonstration of the power still at his disposal despite the restrictions placed upon him.

"I will convey your request when Their Majesties have concluded their current audience," the taller guard concedes, clearly calculating that this compromise presents the path of least resistance. "However, I must insist that you withdraw to an appropriate distance from the throne room doors while waiting."

Alastor considers the offer, weighing his options with cold precision despite the anger still simmering beneath his skin. He could force the issue, these guards, while formidable by ordinary standards, pose no significant threat to a demon of his caliber. But such a display would almost certainly result in further restrictions on his movement, perhaps even a return to the complete confinement of the royal bedchambers.

Strategic retreat, then. A temporary concession to secure the audience he requires.

"Very well," he agrees, the words emerging with theatrical magnanimity. "I shall await Their Majesties' convenience." He steps back three precise paces, just enough to signal compliance without surrendering his position entirely. His microphone taps against the floor once.

"Do ensure that my request receives proper attention," Alastor adds, his eternal smile shifting subtly into something that promises consequences should his reasonable accommodation be met with dismissal. "I'd hate for this matter to require... escalation."

The taller guard nods stiffly, professional training warring with instinctive unease. "It will be conveyed, Your Highness."

"Splendid," Alastor replies, settling into a posture of patient waiting that nonetheless communicates absolute determination. "Then we understand each other perfectly."

Alastor turns on a dime, the momentum of his decision propelling him, almost giddily, through the air, and stalks to a heavy wooden bench that sits across from the throne room doors, as if it has been placed there precisely for this sort of purgatory. He folds himself onto the seat with the exaggerated care of someone taking a pew at a funeral he hopes will end in a resurrection. His shadow pools beneath him, spilling out as if it intends to trip the next guard who dares look at him too long.

He will have his audience, one way or another. The radio tower, his tower, will be restored to his control, or Lucifer and Lilith will discover precisely how dangerous a cornered stag can be, even one wearing their collar. Some violations transcend physical boundaries, striking at the core of identity itself.

His shadow stretches across the corridor floor, touching the base of the throne room doors despite his physical retreat. A small reminder that while his body may be constrained by their rules and wards, his influence extends beyond such primitive limitations. The guards notice but say nothing, their posture communicating the silent understanding that flows between predators, recognition of power temporarily held in check, but never truly contained.