Welcome To The Afterlife

Michael was never supposed to look at a sinner the way angels look at stars. But the moment he saw Alastor - the Radio Demon, Lucifer’s executioner, Hell’s nightmare made beautiful - something inside him cracked open.
He convinced himself it was divine purpose.
He convinced himself Alastor was misplaced, poisoned, stolen by Lucifer.
And with holy certainty, he took him, wanted to save him. To cleanse him. To love him the way only Heaven could.
What follows is a love story seen through the eyes of a monster who thinks himself holy.
But Lucifer notices when his executioner goes missing.
And when he finds Heaven’s gates closed to him, he tears them open.
Two angels of unimaginable power clash in Eden once more - and at the center of it all, trembling, broken, still fighting to live:
Alastor.
A story of obsession, delusion, and the lengths one devil will go to save the one person that should have never needed saving in the first place.

Notes:

For bakunawa_moon.

This story started with one tumblr post from @bakunawa_moon, about JusticeRadio then followed us into discord and now became this deranged 27k something monster.
I do hope everyone likes it though, especially you @bakunawa_moon, cause I wrote it for you.
I listened to this playlist while writing the story: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aUUT2YMFXQ8&t=1511s and especially the song "Welcome to the afterlife" at 22:02 min hit the vibes of the story so hard. So give it a listen.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Michael had never understood why Lucifer insisted on speaking of that sinner with such softness.

Alastor.

The name had slipped from Lucifer’s tongue more than once during their meetings - always wrapped in a strange, wistful fondness. He had talked about the demon’s musical taste, the way he played piano when he thought no one was listening, the dry humor they shared at Lucifer’s desk. Not the tone you used to describe a subordinate.

The tone you used to describe someone you liked.

Michael had ignored it, as he ignored all of Lucifer’s sordid indulgences. Heaven already knew their fallen prince consorted with every manner of filth; there was no point dwelling on how far he had sunk.

What had mattered - at least in the beginning - was the power attached to that name.
The exorcists whispered about the Radio Demon with trembling voices, describing horrors: a grotesque creature feeding on sinners, a monster capable of tearing entire battalions apart with a smile.

Michael had shuddered at that.

Not out of fear.

Out of disgust.

But now…

Now Michael stood in the chamber between the realms - that sterile, echoing bridge suspended between Heaven’s light and Hell’s shadows - waiting for another wretched diplomatic meeting with his fallen brother.

A formality.

More a leash Heaven used to tug at Hell’s neck, to ensure no rebellion brewed beneath the surface, than actual interest in Hell's wellbeing.

Lucifer knew that.

It was the only thing both brothers agreed on. The meetings where bullshit, but mandatory.

Lucifer appeared in a ripple of red flame, his posture loose, face drawn with boredom.
And behind him -

Michael’s breath caught.

He froze.

Another demon stepped through the infernal glow with a smooth, effortless grace that did not belong to any sinner Michael had ever seen. A smile stretched wide across his face - too wide, too sharp - but that wasn’t what froze Michael’s lungs.

It was the eyes.

Crimson.

Deep as fresh blood pooling under sunlight.

Shining like rubies polished by a jeweler’s hand.

They glimmered with an unsettling warmth, a brightness, a life that no soul damned to Hell should still possess.

And his features -

Soft cheekbones dusted with faint white freckles, glowing like stars scattered across warm skin.

Delicate antlers curled from his head, small and elegant, crowned by two furred appendages resembling deer ears - gentle, twitching things entirely at odds with the reputation of a nightmare.

Michael could see only pieces of the rest of the body, framed in long sleeves, high collars, and rich fabric.

But what he saw was… divine.

A prey animal.

Hell's most feared predator shaped like a doe.

The infamous Radio Demon named Alastor.

The one Lucifer spoke so fondly of.

He had often asked Lucifer to bring his executioner to the meeting. Not because he was interested, but to evaluate if he was a threat to heaven or not. Lucifer had often dismissed this, saying Alastor wasn't interested in boring meetings.

Michael didn't know what Lucifer did to finally bring him here. He didn't care.

Michael’s heart lurched - violently, confusingly - and for the first time in centuries, he forgot to breathe.

How could something so beautiful exist in Hell?

How could such a face belong to the grotesque creature the exorcists feared?

How could a being that looked like that stand beside Lucifer?

…How could Lucifer touch something so pure?

Lucifer’s voice cut through the air, slicing through Michael’s trance.

“Michael?”

He blinked, forcing composure back into his wings, into his face, into his breath.

The meeting began.

Words were exchanged.

Reports were offered.

Accusations softened by diplomacy.

Heaven pressed.

Hell deflected.

And Michael heard none of it.

He nodded at the right moments, spoke the right phrases, made the right demands - all while his mind circled back, again and again, to the silent figure standing just behind Lucifer’s shoulder like a crimson shadow.

Alastor hadn’t said a single word.

Not one.

He had only smiled politely in greeting, hands folded gracefully behind his back, eyes half-lidded - but always aware, watching, evaluating.

Michael felt that gaze on him throughout the entire meeting: patient, unreadable, almost curious.

It made his chest tighten.

When the meeting finally concluded, Lucifer turned on his heel without ceremony.

“We’re done here,” he muttered, not bothering with courtesy as he strode toward the exit.

Alastor followed, steps silent, head tipped in a respectful dip as he passed Michael.

But just before crossing the threshold back into Hell, he glanced over his shoulder.

A single look.

Sharp.

Glinting.

Impossible to read.

Not a threat - not quite.

Not interest - not exactly.

Something else.

Something that slid ice along Michael’s spine and heat through the center of his chest.

Michael shivered.

And then Alastor was gone.

A shadow slipping back into the flames.

Michael stood alone in the empty bridge chamber, pulse thrumming far too fast, staring at the space where the demon had disappeared.

Something had shifted.

He didn’t know what.

But the moment Alastor’s eyes met his, something inside Michael had stirred awake and stretched its wings.

Something restless.

Something dangerous.

Something hungry.

He told himself it was simply concern.

He told himself it was Heaven’s duty.

He told himself the meeting had unsettled him because the sinner was powerful.

He told himself many things.

But as he finally turned to leave, Michael found his thoughts circling back to the freckles, the antlers, the softness, the ruby-bright eyes, the whispered rumors, the way Lucifer’s voice had changed when speaking of him -

And Michael realized, with a creeping tightness in his chest:

He would not stop thinking about Alastor anytime soon.

Michael couldn't get him out of his head.

Heaven’s halls gleamed as they always did - white marble, soft gold, quiet light. Michael walked through them with the ease of routine, a stack of meeting notes tucked under one arm.

He tried to read as he walked.

He really did.

“ - territorial boundary adjustments to -”

But the line blurred.

His eyes drifted.

A flicker of red.

A soft curve of cheek.

White freckles like pressed starlight.

His hand tightened on the papers.

Damn it. You fool.

Ridiculous.

Irrelevant.

Focus.

He cleared his throat and kept moving.

“…Lucifer’s report on demonic activity in -”

The words dissolved again.

He saw antlers.

Little, delicate things.

And the pale, downy fur of those deerlike ears, twitching at some unheard sound.

They must be so soft.

His hand twitched.

Michael blinked hard, as though clearing dust from his vision, realizing he had moved his hand to an imaginary demon that wasn't here, and forced his attention back to the document.

But the parchment felt strangely warm in his hand, and his heartbeat - normally steady - had begun to tap a faint, irregular pattern beneath his ribs.

He reached the records wing without consciously deciding to go there.

Interesting.

An exorcist was cataloguing scrolls nearby, and Michael stepped toward him almost absently.

“Lieutenant,” he said, voice even. “A question.”

The exorcist straightened. “Commander?”

Michael’s eyes traced the shelves behind the soldier, but his mind was elsewhere - on ruby eyes catching the light like polished stone.

“Has Heaven ever…” He paused, as if searching for the right phrasing. “Misplaced a soul?”

The exorcist frowned. “Sir?”

“A mortal wrongly sent Below,” Michael clarified. “A misjudgment. A rare one.”

“Oh. Nearly unheard of, sir.”

The exorcist shifted a scroll into place. “But not impossible. There were a few cases in the archives.”

Michael’s gaze lingered a moment too long.

“I see.”

He nodded once, an elegant dismissal, and the soldier hurried back to work.

Michael turned, intending to go to his office - but his feet carried him in a slower, wandering arc through the corridor.

He wasn’t aware of the small inhale he took, nor the subtle tightening in his chest. He only knew that something - a thought, light as dust, sharp as glass - had lodged itself somewhere behind his ribs.

A rare mistake.

A soul sent to Hell that did not belong there.

He didn’t examine the thought.

He didn’t need to.

He only felt it - a soft pulse against his ribs, like the echo of a heartbeat that wasn’t his.

He lifted the meeting notes again as if to read, but the letters blurred once more, dissolving into the memory of a smile too sharp, too bright, too beautiful for Hell.

He closed the folder without realizing he’d done it.

And walked on.

The splinter stayed.

Michael couldn't stop thinking about him.

The Heaven Library was silent in a way few places were - a hush so deep that even Michael’s footsteps seemed to bow beneath it.

Rows of marble shelves stretched into infinity, lined with scrolls, ledgers, crystalline orbs, and delicate gold plates etched with the history of every life Heaven deemed worth recording. Soft light drifted overhead like a false, gentle dawn.

Michael stepped inside and felt the familiar calm settle over his wings.

This was where order lived.

Logic.

Truth.

That was all he needed.

He approached the archive of mortal judgment and pulled a ledger from the shelf - a thick volume bound in pale leather, humming faintly with celestial power.

He flipped it open.

Birth.

Life.

Death.

Judgment.

Assignment.

Simple. Clear.

He read mechanically, searching for… he wasn’t sure what.

Michael looked up from the book, blinked.

What was he looking for?

He only knew the thought that had lodged beneath his ribs earlier had begun to pulse again, faint and insistent.

A curiosity.

A possibility.

He scanned the entries of borderline souls - mortals whose corruption scales had hovered just shy of redemption.

Cases where the tribunal had argued.

Cases where the evidence had been imperfect.

A woman whose kindness outweighed her sins by a thread.

A man whose grief had driven him to a single violent act.

A child hardened by cruelty, softened by love too late.

Michael turned page after page.

His eyes drifted.

His mind… wandered.

Alastor had smiled so gently behind Lucifer.

Strange for a sinner so feared.

Stranger still that Lucifer spoke of him as if he were… good.

Good in some small, impossible way.

Michael’s fingers paused on the parchment.

He drew in a slow breath.

Absurd.

He turned another page.

And there -

A notation stamped in red.

ERROR CORRECTED (Year 72,345): Soul retrieved from Below, reassigned to Purgatory. Cause: Tribunal miscalculation.

Michael’s hand stilled.

He read the line again.

And again.

A mistake.

An actual mistake.

Rare.

Nearly impossible.

But here, carved in gold ink, was proof it had happened.

Michael closed the ledger slowly, palms pressing flat against the cover.

The idea unfurled smoothly in his mind - quiet, elegant, like silk unspooling across stone.

If it happened once, it could happen again.

He didn’t feel alarmed.

Not even surprised.

Only… thoughtful.

He selected another book - soul corruption scales.

Ran his gaze over the charts.

The subtle nuances.

The ways light could be misread as shadow.

The way innocence could be mistaken for cunning, or vice versa.

A small hum escaped him - almost a sigh.

“A being as divine-looking as that…” he murmured, barely aware he’d spoken, “one could easily misread his nature.”

He told himself it was a general observation.

A hypothetical.

But Alastor’s face flashed behind his eyes anyway - soft freckles, gentle antlers, ruby eyes too bright for a creature born of Hell.

Michael closed the book.

Not abruptly.

Not with any sign of emotion.

He simply closed it, hands slow and deliberate, as if concluding a minor calculation.

But something inside him settled.

Shifted.

Latched into place.

He returned the ledger to the shelf and walked deeper into the archive, selecting another text - not because he needed more information, but because the motion felt right.

The corridors glowed around him.

Calm.

Silent.

Holy.

And as he walked, the sensation behind his ribs - the splinter-thought from earlier - tightened, faint and sweet, like a thread pulling him gently forward.

The beginning of something that felt… inevitable.

Lucifer’s throne room was a furnace of stone and shadow, its heat settling beneath Michael’s feathers like an unwelcome hand.

He used to dislike these meetings - but today, as he stepped forward across the black marble floor, there was a faint quickness in his stride.

Ridiculous. Hold yourself together.

His heartbeat gave a small flip, thinking about the ruby eyes gleaming out of the dark that he had seen.

He ignored it.

Lucifer lounged on the throne in a posture that looked careless but was anything but. His expression was carved in boredom, irritation flickering beneath the surface.

A check-in meeting. Spontaneously made.

Another chain from Heaven to Hell. Keeping them under control.

“Let’s get this over with,” Lucifer muttered, waving a hand. “Reports, borders, whatever Heaven wants this time.”

Michael began the briefing, crisp and formal. Like always.

Lucifer responded with clipped sarcasm. Like always.

It was all routine -

Except Michael kept glancing behind Lucifer’s shoulder.

Just briefly.

Just enough to look like checking the perimeter.

But his gaze did it again.

And again.

Disappointment curling inside him, when the space remained empty.

Lucifer noticed, eyes narrowing.

“What,” he said flatly. “Expecting someone to jump me?”

Michael didn’t flinch. “I assumed your… associate might accompany you.”

Lucifer blinked, genuinely confused for half a beat.

Then his expression cooled.

“Alastor doesn’t come to these,” he said, tone flat and dismissive. “He hates diplomacy, I already told you. Gets twitchy. I thought when he comes one time you will finally see that he is no threat to Heaven and let it be.”

Michael felt something tighten low in his chest.

His fingers stilled against the parchment.

“Twitchy,” he repeated quietly. “From disinterest, or… restraint?”

Lucifer’s eyes flashed - a brief, sharp warning.

“What exactly are you implying?”

Michael lowered his gaze slightly, respectful, careful. “Nothing. Merely observing behavior.”

Lucifer scoffed. “Don’t observe him. He’ll bite back.”

Michael’s wings tightened, a controlled, subtle movement. It nearly sounded affectionate when he said 'He'll bite back'. As if Lucifer loved that about the demon.

Michael's fingers tightened into fists.

“Is he dangerous to you?”

The question was soft. Too soft.

Lucifer stared at him.

Then laughed - mirthless.

“Dangerous? Please. He does what he wants, but I am still the king of Hell. He is no threat to me and I don’t control him, if that’s what you’re fishing for.”

Michael’s breath hitched, so slight it barely existed.

He recast his tone into neutrality.

“So he remains close to you. Out of… loyalty?”

Lucifer snorted.

“Alastor isn’t loyal to anyone but his own entertainment. If he’s at Charlie's hotel, it’s because he feels like it.”

Hotel.

The word slid into Michael’s mind with quiet weight.

So the sinner wasn’t even here.

Allowed to roam?

Unsupervised.

Unsafeguarded.

That made no sense.

A being that looked like that - soft features, gentle symmetry, helpless prey-attributes -
loose in Hell?

Impossible.

But the hotel… he knew it was Charlie's attempt to redeem sinners. Something he thought impossible and dismissed. But maybe it was more than that. Maybe it was a way for the Morningstars to control sinners? Maybe thats why Alastor was there.

Lucifer waved a hand sharply. “If you’re done worrying about my staff, can we please finish this meeting?”

Michael inclined his head, composed as ever.

The topic dropped - outwardly.

Lucifer went on, muttering about border disputes, occasional skirmishes, and Heaven’s micromanagement. His voice was the same as always.

But Michael heard something else underneath it.

A faint ease when Lucifer had spoken of the sinner.

A casual acceptance.

Warmth disguised as apathy.

It lingered in Michael’s thoughts like smoke.

When the meeting ended, Lucifer gave a curt nod and vanished in red flame, too irritated to look back.

Michael remained still long after the room fell silent.

Alastor wasn’t here.

He wasn’t required to be.

Lucifer didn’t guard him.

Didn’t watch him.

Just let him stay.

Which meant -

He must be compelled to stay.

Afraid to leave.

Bound by something unspoken.

Michael turned slowly toward the exit, a faint tension humming under his skin.

He didn’t recognize it as hunger. Or anticipation. Or jealousy.

He only knew he wanted - no, needed - another look at those gentle eyes and impossible freckles.

Needed to understand.

Needed to fix what was clearly broken.

He walked out of Hell with steady strides.

But the splinter in his mind tightened again.

And this time, it hurt.

Lucifer cannot be allowed to corrupt such a pure creature. Michael has to do something.

The first angel he approached was polishing a spear, feathers ruffled in concentration.

“Report anything unusual from Hell lately?” Michael asked, tone light.

The angel blinked. “Unusual? No, Commander. Power signatures fluctuate all the time. Hell’s chaotic.”

Fluctuate.

Michael inclined his head, stepping away.

Chaos obscured truth.

Chaos masked light.

Alastor living there made perfect sense - Heaven’s radiance, drowned under Hell’s filth.

He walked on.

Two archivists whispered near a stairwell.

Michael stopped beside them.

“Do demons ever mask a Heaven-born aura?” he asked.

One archivist shifted. “Well… in theory? If a soul were pure enough, maybe the readout could confuse a few specters.”

Pure enough.

He absorbed the words like scripture.

He didn’t notice the archivist add, “But that’s only hypothetical -”

He was already walking away.

Near the training grounds, a young exorcist tightened straps on a blade holster.

“Tell me,” Michael said, as if asking for weather. “Encounters with the Radio Demon?”

The exorcist stiffened. “Horrifying, sir. Teeth, smiles, static… He was laughing while -”

Michael held up a hand. “That is Hell’s influence. The boy adapts to survive.”

“Boy?” the exorcist echoed, confused.

Michael ignored him.

Survival explained everything.

Lucifer’s shadow.

Alastor’s obedience.

His silence at the meeting.

The trembling smile that lingered at the corners of his mouth.

Forced. Conditioned. Manipulated.

Michael continued with a serene nod, leaving the soldier with a bewildered frown.

A pair of angels sorting soul charts murmured as he passed:

“…that sinner, the one with the symmetrical features -”

“Strange, right? Looks almost saintlike -”

Michael paused mid-step.

Saintlike.

He didn’t turn toward them.

He simply inhaled, slow and sharp, letting the word sink into him like a drop of holy fire.

Saintlike.

Of course.

A soul misplaced.

Buried.

Hidden.

He moved on, the edges of his mouth tightening in something dangerously close to satisfaction.

Later, alone in a quiet corridor, he leaned against a column and closed his eyes.

He saw Alastor again.

The last glance the sinner had given him as he followed Lucifer out of the meeting.

Not threatening. Not defiant.

Something else.

Soft. Fleeting. Wide-eyed.

A flicker that Michael had mistaken for composure earlier - now he saw it clearly.

Fear. Or a plea.

A silent, desperate plea trapped behind a smile.

Help me.

The thought struck with such clarity that Michael’s breath hitched.

He felt it - a prickle in his fingertips, a tightening in his chest, a rush of purpose that felt holy and sweet and terribly wrong.

Every angel he’d spoken to, every rumor, every whisper - all of it pointed to the same truth.

A Heaven-born soul living in Hell’s mouth.

A creature of softness forced into violence.

A captive, shaped by Lucifer’s hand.

Michael’s eyes opened slowly.

Bright. Cold. Certain.

He had enough “evidence.” Enough truth. Enough reason.

The urge to act - to intervene, to reclaim, to save - pulsed through him like a divine directive.

Subtle no longer.

He turned toward the upper halls of Heaven, steps calm, purposeful, almost serene.

A thought bloomed behind his ribs, poisonous and sweet:

He belongs to Heaven. He just doesn’t know it yet.

The meditation chamber was silent.

A perfect white dome, open to Heaven’s perpetual light, the air still and warm around the stone floor. Normally, the moment Michael stepped inside, the hum beneath his skin eased, his wings loosened, and clarity washed through him in cool, crystalline waves.

Not today.

He knelt in the center of the room, eyes closed, palms resting lightly on his thighs. He drew in a slow breath.

And the moment his mind opened -

Heat.

Flame.

A flicker of red behind his eyelids.

Michael exhaled sharply, but the vision unfurled anyway, unbidden, smooth as silk sliding across his consciousness.

Alastor.

Wrapped in Hellfire.

He stood with his head bowed, shoulders tight, the tips of his delicate antlers catching embers like burning constellations. His smile - always too wide - flickered, strained.

Behind him, a hand settled on his shoulder.

Lucifer’s hand.

Possessive. Heavy. Controlling.

Michael’s breath faltered. The image sharpened, pulling him deeper, as if the vision had hooked itself into the center of his mind and dragged.

The fire rose, curling around Alastor’s legs like chains. Lucifer leaned close, speaking into his ear - though Michael couldn’t hear the words, only feel the weight of them.

Alastor flinched.

Just slightly.

Just enough.

Michael’s hands curled into fists against his knees.

This wasn’t imagination. This wasn’t a wandering thought. This was an omen - a revelation.

Heaven spoke rarely. But when it did, it used symbols.

Fire. Chains. A bowed head.

A trapped soul.

Michael’s pulse quickened - not with fear, but with a cold, trembling certainty that wrapped itself gently around his ribs.

He whispered into the empty chamber:

“…he doesn’t belong there.”

The words were soft. Reverent.

A truth finally spoken aloud. A promise.

The vision shifted.

Alastor lifted his head - slowly - eyes catching a flicker of light through the flames. Not Hell’s light. Something brighter. Something like Heaven.

Like a plea.

Michael’s breath caught on a sharp inhale.

He reached out - an involuntary gesture - and the image dissolved the moment his fingers brushed the air.

He opened his eyes.

The chamber glowed exactly as it always did.

But Michael’s heart did not.

Something inside him had settled into place with terrifying clarity. A perfect, crystalline alignment of purpose.

Not jealousy. Not longing. Not confusion.

Duty.

Righteous duty.

Lucifer was not worthy of him. Lucifer used him - hid him - twisted him into silence.

A Heaven-born soul drowning in Hell’s flame. A creature of divine symmetry bound to the throne of the Fallen.

This couldn’t be allowed.

Michael stood.

Calm. Steady. Transformed.

He crossed the chamber to his writing desk - a narrow altar with parchment and quill waiting. He dipped the pen in ink and wrote:

POTENTIAL MISPLACED SOUL LOCATED IN HELL.
PARAMETERS SUGGEST PARTIAL HEAVEN-BORN OR DIVINE ORIGIN.
EVIDENCE OF MANIPULATION AND CONTAINMENT BY LUCIFER.
REQUEST AUTHORIZATION FOR LIMITED RECONNAISSANCE.
IMMEDIATE INVESTIGATION ADVISED FOR HEAVEN’S SECURITY.

His hand did not tremble.

When he finished, he sealed the scroll and sent it upward with a flick of grace. The parchment vanished into light.

He waited.

It returned moments later - glowing with golden approval sigils.

Permission granted.

Michael let out a slow breath, feeling the world shift around him. Heaven had spoken. Heaven had answered.

This was not delusion. This was mission.

A holy one.

He lowered his gaze, and for the first time since he’d seen Alastor’s ruby eyes, he allowed himself a single, unguarded thought:

I will save you.

Not for himself. Not for desire.

For Heaven.

For righteousness.

For the delicate soul trapped beneath Lucifer’s shadow.

Michael left the chamber, wings sweeping behind him, steps steady as marble.

Purpose burned in his chest like divine flame.

He didn’t look back.

He didn’t need to.

He had a mission now.

And nothing in Hell or Heaven would stop him.

Michael’s estate sat at the far edge of Heaven - a place few angels visited unless invited, a place woven from quiet corridors and pale gardens that opened into endless sky. It was built for solitude. Reflection. Purity of thought.

The gardens had once supposed to be the place humanity thrived.

Eden.

Stretched out in front of him.

Where Lucifer had spilled his poison once. And no one but Michael was allowed to step foot in anymore.

He walked its length now. Along his estate connected to that holy, divine place.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

His fingertips trailed along the smooth marble walls, the faint hum of Heaven’s grace vibrating under his skin. Everything here was peaceful. Safe.

A sanctuary.

And as he moved, a picture began to take shape in his mind - gentle, unbidden, sliding through him like warm light through stained glass.

Alastor, standing by the balcony, antlers catching morning sun. The freckles on his cheeks glowing faintly, unshadowed by Hell’s choking smoke. The soft twitch of his deerlike ears as a breeze swept over the gardens.

Michael’s steps slowed.

He imagined the sinner in robes of white silk - flowing, delicate, soft against the skin instead of those heavy, stiff coats Hell forced on him. He imagined Alastor’s posture relaxing for the first time, shoulders unknotted, smile unstrained.

He imagined -

Alastor looking back at him.

Not with that carefully carved smile. Not with Lucifer standing at his side.

But with softness. Openness.

Recognition.

Michael’s breath slipped out in a quiet sigh.

He stopped in the center of the main hall, light pouring down through the vaulted ceiling in shimmering beams.

“This,” he whispered, almost to himself, “is what you deserve.”

His voice echoed gently through the stone, warm and reverent.

“You were never meant for Hell’s filth,” Michael murmured, lifting a hand as though tracing a silhouette in the air. “Your light is not theirs to stain.”

He closed his eyes.

The visions came easily now:

Alastor walking barefoot in the gardens, trailing fingers over angelic lilies.

Laughing - a sound stripped of static and teeth.

Sitting at Michael’s table.

Sleeping in Michael’s chambers.

Moving through this estate as if it were what Heaven always intended for him.

A soul misplaced.

A jewel dropped into ash.

He could almost see it…

Alastor at his side.

Alastor in his home.

Alastor safe beneath his protection.

Michael’s mouth softened.

“Heaven will give you beauty,” he whispered. “Not fire.”

He moved deeper into the estate, envisioning the spaces Alastor would inhabit:

The sunlit atrium - where he would sit wrapped in silks. The private garden - Eden - where his antlers would gleam like carved ivory. The music room - where he would have a piano finer than anything Hell could offer. And Michael, beside him, always by his side, keeping watch.

Keeping him safe.

Keeping him.

Michael exhaled slowly, the air brushing through him like velvet.

“I will treat you like royalty,” he said softly. “The way Heaven intended. The way Lucifer never could.”

Lucifer. Even the thought soured the serenity around him.

That hand on Alastor’s shoulder in the vision. That forced stillness. That smile stretched tight.

A warning. A cry muffled beneath obedience.

“Your silence was not disinterest,” Michael murmured. “It was fear.”

A quiet conviction settled into the curve of his spine.

“And that smile… Hell carved that into you. Forced. Trained.”

He ran a hand along the back of a marble chair, fingers grazing the cold stone as though imagining another hand there. A smaller hand. A trembling one.

“You bow your head because he taught you to.”

The words spilled from him like scripture.

“Your power is not yours,” he breathed. “He stole it. He bound you to him.”

His tone shifted - warmer, sweeter, darker.

“But I will free you.”

He stood straighter now, wings lifting in a slow, reverent arc.

“Lucifer will never lay a hand on you again.”

The thought resonated through him like a chord struck in a cathedral.

Heaven had shown him the truth. Heaven had approved the mission. He was acting on divine instruction.

This was not desire. Not fixation.

This was salvation.

He moved to the tall window overlooking the gardens. The light caught the edges of his wings, turning them gold, brilliant, absolute.

“Alastor,” he whispered, almost tender, almost loving, “you will be safe here.”

His fingers brushed the glass.

“You will be mine to protect.”

The word mine drifted from his tongue like a blessing.

Sacred. Serene.

Soft as a noose.

And with that, the decision was sealed - silent, inevitable, holy.

Michael no longer merely wanted to save Alastor.

He was going to.

The summons was simple.

A pale scroll sealed with Heaven’s golden sigil, requesting a routine check-in on the state of the Redemption Program. Nothing unusual. Nothing suspicious.

Michael drafted it with the same elegant handwriting he used for border reports and security updates. Then he handed it to Sera with an unreadable smile.

“Deliver this to Lucifer,” he said, calm as still water. “Attend the meeting in my place. I’m occupied with an internal audit.”

Sera bowed, unquestioning - as he knew she would. Heaven trusted him implicitly.

Lucifer received the summons with a low growl, irritation flashing across his eyes.

“Again? Already?”

But the treaty forced his hand.

Charlie insisted on coming, because it entailed her hotel.

Sera smiled tightly and escorted them both toward the Heaven bridge, leaving the Hazbin Hotel nearly empty.

No Lucifer. No princess. No supervision.

Just a quiet building in the heart of Hell

… and a single sinner with ruby eyes inside it.

Exactly as Michael wanted.

The other part of his plan had started days earlier;

Michael standing alone in the silent gardens of Heaven, hands folded before him, eyes closed. Not praying. Listening.

At first there was nothing.

Then -

A tremor.

A crackle.

Static brushed against the inside of his skull like a breath.

Alastor.

Michael tuned in as easily as breathing. The frequency sharpened:

Distorted jazz leaking between planes. Laughter - bright, warped. A soft hum, a hum he remembered from the meeting hall. Cajun vowels clipped by static.

Michael inhaled slowly, reverently.

And then he began to whisper.

Not words of command. Not spells.

Prayers.

Hymns.

Soft, slow blessings drifting into the frequency like warm hands sliding under water.

The hymn he whispered was old - a cradle-song meant for frightened souls in passing. A melody Heaven had long forgotten.

“Do not fear… I am with you…
Do not wander… I will guide you…”

Holy words, laced through Alastor’s private channel like threads of gold drifting into dark water.

Alastor’s signal glitched violently.

A crackle. A stutter. A shaking breath caught between frequencies.

Michael’s lashes fluttered.

He could feel Alastor’s confusion, the flicker of panic beneath the hum - a trembling brightness that Michael understood for reaching.

For wanting.

“Shhh,” he whispered into the current, his voice a warm whisper of grace. “You are not alone.”

The signal trembled.

The jazz faltered.

A single, choked note slipped through - fear? pain? a plea?

And Michael knew.

Absolutely, unquestionably knew.

He wants to be saved.

The realization slid through him like honeyed fire, sweet and certain.

Michael opened his eyes.

Heaven glowed around him.

And in the flickering pulse of the stolen frequency, he heard it again - Alastor’s voice, fracturing into static, bending toward him.

Calling.

He head dipped into the freuqency the days following after as well. It strengthend the bond, the path that would be leading him directly towards Alastor. Lightening the way.

Today, Michael would follow the frequency to its destined endpoint.

Michael opened the portal with a touch of two fingers, splitting the air into a blade of brilliant white, golden script curling along its edges like a whispered hymn. He stepped through without hesitation.

Hell swallowed him in a rush of heat and shadow - yet no demon stirred, no eye blinked toward him.
An angel of his rank did not arrive in Hell so much as erase his presence from it; his grace scrambled demonic senses like static caught in a storm. They would not see him. They would not smell him. They would not even know he had passed.

Which suited him.

He breathed in, letting the darkness settle around him like a cloak, and listened.

There - a faint crackle. A pulse on a hidden frequency. Jazz warped by distance. A trembling hum that shivered down his spine.

Alastor.

Michael turned toward it, steps silent, certain.

The signal thrummed again - stronger this time, like a heartbeat in the dark.

He followed.

The signal drew him straight to the Hazbin Hotel’s kitchen - warm light spilling through the cracked doorway, the faint smell of herbs and something sweet curling into the hall.

Michael halted just outside the threshold, invisible to mortal and demon senses alike. He did not move. He only watched.

Alastor stood at the stove, humming a soft, lilting jazz melody under his breath. His heel tapped lightly against the tile, a rhythmic sway to his body as he stirred the pot with unhurried grace.

The scene was domestic. Ordinary. Beautiful.

Michael’s breath stilled in his chest.

The gentle slope of Alastor’s shoulders, relaxed and unaware. The way the warm kitchen light caught the freckles across his cheeks, turning them into faint constellations. The soft fur along his deerlike ears trembling in time with his humming. The subtle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

He had never looked more divine.

Michael felt it then - a quiet, aching swell behind his ribs. Admiration. Longing. Purpose sharpened to something almost tender.

He let himself feel it.

Just for a moment.

A fleeting, private worship of the creature Hell claimed as its own.

This was what Lucifer kept buried. This was the light smothered in shadows. This was the innocence twisted into a monster.

Michael’s fingers curled.

Alastor turned slightly, humming still, completely unaware of the angel standing just beyond the doorway - unseen, silent, devouring the sight of him with reverent hunger.

A fragile moment.

A tragic one.

Because Michael knew it could not last.

His wings lifted, feathers rustling with quiet, deadly purpose.

And in that breath of stillness before violence, he whispered - more to himself than to the sinner he watched:

“…I’ve found you.”

Michael moved.

A single step - silent, precise.

Like a serpent.

Lucifer would be proud.

Alastor barely had time to turn his head, confusion flickering across his face -

And then Michael was on him.

One hand clamped over his mouth, sealing off the startled inhale that rose in his throat. The other pressed two glowing fingers to the side of his neck, right over the delicate pulse fluttering beneath warm skin.

The spell ignited instantly.

A burst of holy static ripped through Alastor’s nerves - white, blinding, electric. His entire frame jolted. His knees buckled, slamming into the tile with a dull thud. The pot on the stove rattled violently as his elbow hit the counter, hard enough to spill over; metal clanged against metal.His soft hum cut off in a strangled glitch, half-static, half-silent scream.

Alastor’s ruby eyes flew wide - beautiful, startled, terrified.

Michael felt his own pulse accelerate.

How fragile he was in this moment. How breakable. How beautiful.

Alastor thrashed, claws slicing down Michael’s wrist in a frantic arc. He kicked back, shoulder jerking, strong enough to crack a mortal spine.

Michael barely budged.

“Shhh…” he whispered, voice soft as velvet, as if soothing a child waking from a nightmare.

The spell sank deeper.

Alastor’s breath shuddered against Michael’s palm, hot and frantic. His claws dug in harder, desperate. He tried to wrench free, to twist out of the angel’s grasp, to bite through the hand muzzling him.

Michael held him close, almost tenderly.

Such fight. Such fire.

Such unnecessary suffering.

“It’s all right,” Michael murmured, brushing his lips against the curve of Alastor’s ear as if delivering a blessing. “I won’t let him hurt you anymore.”

Alastor’s body jerked violently at that, confusion strangling the terror in his eyes.

The spell climbed his spine like creeping smoke.

His limbs began to lose strength. The power in his legs turned shaky. His elbows buckled, where they tried to pry Michaels hands off. His shoulders trembled under Michael’s grip. Michael could feel the power beneath that skin surge up, desperately trying to conjour the tentacles, the little imps, the shadow hiding inside his very core, but the spell on his throat prevented them from flying free.

Alastor sagged a little and Michael thought now he had him, but then Alastor forced himself upright again with a sudden surge of Radio Demon ferocity - teeth bared behind Michael’s hand, eyes blazing crimson static.

For a heartbeat, Michael admired the fury.

The strength. The defiance.

His stomach sumersaulting at the thought of what he had beneath his fingertips now, what would soon be his. His alone.

And then he whispered the final line of the incantation.

Ancient, rhythmic, deeply holy.

It slid into Alastor’s mind like honeyed poison.

His vision doubled. The kitchen swam in two hazy images. He gasped - or tried to - but the sound broke into crackling static under Michael’s palm.

His legs gave again. For the last time.

He sagged fully into Michael’s chest, hands slipping uselessly from the angel’s wrist. His knees hit the floor with a soft thud. Michael went down with him, pressed against the back, feeling the warmths of the sinner seep into his own body. A shiver running down his spine, stirring something down beneath his legs. Michael let out a soft gasp, as the beautiful round butt, rubbed along it in its movements. Something thicker at the top bumping it and giving such delightful friction.

A tiny, terrified whimper scraped out of Alastor - muffled, broken, heartbreaking.

Michael’s eyes softened.

“Oh… sweetheart,” he whispered, breath brushing Alastor’s temple. “I know. I know. You’ve been so brave.”

Alastor’s brows pinched together - the last, confused flicker of consciousness.

He tried to form a word, lips trembling under Michael’s palm.

Nothing came out but a dying buzz of static.

And then -

His body went limp.

Utterly. Beautifully. Limply.

Straight into Michael’s arms.

Michael breathed in sharply - a small, thrilled inhale he did not understand, did not question.

He simply caught the demon, held him in his arms, and shuddered again, at the closeness.

"So beautiful," he whispered, buried his head into that delicate throat, covered with cloth that was just in the way. Michael's hands trembled as he hurriedly moved his hand up to open it. In his haste he ripped the clothing a little, but gasped in delight when warm, fur covered, caramel-brown skin came into view.

Michael gasped again, as he saw this, burying his nose there, and breathing in, groaning a little at the scent. The warmths. The being in his hand limp and delicate, moving like Michael wanted it to.

He wasn't allowed to waste too much time. Needed to leave, needed to get Alastor to safety, but for just a moment he indulged himself, his limbs shuddering. Heat filling his body, his thoughts hazy, as he stroked over the delicate limbs in his arms, through the soft fur of the appendages on the head, the silky hair. Stroked along the soft cheekbones, traced the freckles, glided his thump along the full lips, plump and red and warm. He dipped his thump inside, and shuddered again at the image of something else inside these full lips.

He had him. He had him.

He was his. His alone. No one else could have him.

Michael nearly wept from joy.

Then he pulled himself together. Placed one arm under Alastor's knees, the other supporting his back, cradling him as though holding something sacred.

Something precious.

Something his.

He lifted him effortlessly, marveling at the lightness of the body draped against his chest. Ignored the strains in his pants. Alastor’s head lolled against his shoulder; his antlers brushed Michael’s jaw; the soft fur of his ears tickled against Michael’s neck.

Michael closed his eyes for a heartbeat.

Such a gentle creature. Such a delicate soul.

The fact that Hell had twisted this being into a monster? Unforgivable.

He pressed a faint kiss into Alastor’s soft hairline before he realized he’d even leaned down.

“You’re safe now,” he breathed, voice trembling with quiet, holy triumph. “I’ll take you home.”

The kitchen stood silent around them - spoon still slowly spinning on the counter from the struggle.

Michael stepped toward the portal.

And with Alastor limp and warm in his arms, he vanished into Heaven’s light.

The kitchen was left silent.

The spoon on the counter slowly stopped vibrating from the earlier struggle.

Alastor

Sound came first.

A high, distant ringing - thin as wire, sharp as glass - like a radio caught between dead stations. It scraped faintly at the edges of his consciousness, rising, falling, warping into a hollow choir that pulsed behind his skull.

Not Hell. Not anything he recognized.

Something cold pressed tight around his neck - metal biting into skin, restrictive, unyielding. He tried to swallow, but the pressure stole half the movement.

A collar.

His fingers twitched.

Metal clinked.

He couldn’t move his hands. Something held them - snug, glowing, biting into his wrists when he shifted.

His mind blurred.

Static buzzed between thoughts.

Where am I -? Why does the air… hurt? Why can’t I hear Hell? Why do I feel… light? What happened?

He inhaled - and choked. Coughing-

No sulfur. No smoke. No frying oil. No burning stone. None of Hell’s usual suffocating scents.

Only clean air.

Too clean. Sharp with purity. Like breathing in bleach.

It burned.

A pulse of panic throbbed through his limbs. Weak. Heavy. Distant.

He tried to shift onto his side - and felt softness under him.

Something soft.

Too soft.

A mattress. A pillow. Fabric that wasn’t his.

His cheek pressed into it, sinking slightly. His hair brushed against cotton sheets.

Cotton.

No coarse demon-woven fibers. No rough blankets. No filth.

Nothing familiar.

He forced his fingers to move.

The cuffs clinked - a chain tugged between them - and the sensation shot icy terror through his chest.

He was bound.

He breathed harder, lungs scraping against the collar, sparks of static buzzing in his throat.

He had to open his eyes.

He had to.

He pried them open. The lids feeling like heavy curtains, that refused to move.

When he finally managed, light exploded behind his retinas - blinding, pure, white-gold. He hissed, turning his head away, vision swimming.

His whole body felt heavy. Every movement thick, as if he was moving through tar. Every breath burned, choking him.

The ceiling above him came into focus in slow fragments:

White marble. Carved gold filigree. A sky mural painted in shimmering pastels.

His gaze drifted sideways - silk curtains in pale colors cascading from the canopy. Clean air flooded his lungs again and he coughed, body shaking.

This was not Hell.

This was -

He swallowed, throat scraping against the metal ring.

“…Heaven…?” The word cracked into static halfway out.

Not awe.

Dread.

Pure, primal dread.

Heaven did not welcome sinners. Heaven purified them. Stripped them. Erased them.

Why was he here?

His heartbeat tripped over itself, rabbit-fast. He forced his hands up - the cuffs cut the movement short - but he managed to reach his throat.

Cold metal. Unyielding.

He grabbed the collar and tried to yank it off -

Searing light ripped into his fingertips. He yelped - a sharp, broken cry - jerking his hands back.

The collar pulsed once with holy fire.

He gasped.

He tried again, weaker - Another lash of burning pain snapped down his spine, static bursting from his mouth in a warbling choke.

His body sagged.

Too tired.

Too drained.

He closed his eyes for a moment, shaking, breath wheezing around the unrelenting band of angelic steel.

His power.

He reached for it out of instinct - his static, his portal-tearing, the shifting glitch of his Radio Demon form -

A brutal backlash slammed through his skull.

He cried out, curling forward, forehead tapping the mattress. His vision fuzzed with snow.

He couldn’t change.

He couldn’t shift. Couldn’t teleport. Couldn’t summon anything.

He was powerless.

His wrists trembled violently as he lifted them again, testing the chain that kept them bound and connected to the bedframe.

The leash allowed inches. Not freedom.

He tugged harder - metal bit into his skin - but the chain barely rattled.

He wasn’t leaving the bed. He wasn’t even sitting up.

His breath came too fast. Too thin. Too tight.

Only then did he feel it - the fabric against his skin.

Wrong. Not his clothes.

He looked down.

An oversized white shirt swallowed him, slipping off one shoulder, hanging loose over a pair of soft, unfamiliar panties. So much skin exposed.

Air touched places no one should have touched.

A cold wave of realization slid under his ribs, sharp enough to steal his breath.

Someone changed him.

While he was unconscious.

Someone touched him.

His pulse spiked dangerously, panic bubbling up in a violent, helpless surge.

He kicked weakly, the sheet tangling around his legs.

Someone had seen him. All the things he had been hiding …

His limbs shook with the effort of moving.

He tried to sit up -

The world spun.

He collapsed back to the mattress hard, breath snagging, collar tightening with a cruel bite.

He let out a strangled sound, half static, half sob.

He scanned the room through blurry eyes:

A door etched with a glowing sigil - a lock. A window opening into endless white sky and drifting clouds. Celestial carvings lining the walls. The unmistakable hum of angelic wards.

No exits.

No Hell.

No Lucifer.

No safety.

Just Heaven.

And chains.

He swallowed again.

The collar tightened faintly, sensing his rising panic.

A whimper escaped him - humiliating, soft, torn from his raw throat.

He curled inward, wrists trembling in their cuffs.

“This is not Hell…” he whispered, static crackling painfully.

His chest tightened.

He hadn't prepared for this.

In all his preparations for the afterlife he had not once thought about the possibility of Heaven kidnapping him for … what exactly?

Why hadn't they just smited him? Destroyed him when they could?

Alastor was so confused.

And in pain.

Everything was hazy, sluggish. Even his usual sharp mind wasn't of any help right now. Everything muddled inside his brain.

It was the damn angelic steel around his throat.

A soft chime rang through the room and snapped him out of his thoughts in seconds.

The door opened without a sound.

Alastor flinched so hard the chain jerked his wrists, the collar biting into his throat. Static burst from his mouth in a glitching gasp as he pressed himself against the headboard, wrists trembling, legs dragging uselessly against the sheets. He panted heavily in exertion, as he dragged himself up to the headboard.

He was useless like this. Useleass and pathetic.

Alastor hated every moment of it.

His thoughts were still hazy. He needed to think about a way out of this. Needed to come up with a plan.

They were probably going to kill him now … or do something else.

Think, Alastor. Think. You need to get out of here. Fast.

And then someone stepped in, and all of Alastor's thoughts halted.

The thoughts flowing away like water through his fingers. He wasn't able to grasp anything.

The only thing he understood immediately was, that the angel that stepped in, wasn't some exorcist. He had only seen him one time. In the meeting that Lucifer had asked him to attend, because his stupid brother was worried about Alastor being a threat to heaven.

Michael.

Serene.

Smiling warmly.

Wings folded behind him like some holy sculpture stepping out of a mural.

He looked like salvation.

He looked like death.

Alastor's heart stuttered. Had they deemed him too dangerous to live when they had seen him? Want to kill him now?

But why not kill him on sight? Why make all the effort of taking him up here? It didn't make sense.

Michael carried a bowl of water, a folded cloth, a glowing script-key hanging from two fingers. A small wooden case dangled from his other hand - medical tools glinting faintly inside.

Alastor’s breath stuttered, terror spiking violently.

Torture. They wanted to torture him, before killing him. That must be it.

He bared his teeth, static crackling around them - a weak, broken threat.

Alastor hated it.

Michael’s expression shattered with heartbreak.

Alastor hated that even more.

“Alastor…” he whispered, voice soft with devastated concern, “you’re safe. I won’t hurt you.”

The sincerity in his tone made Alastor’s skin crawl and at the same time, it confused him because… what?!

Michael set the bowl and cloth on the bedside table with reverent care, as though approaching an injured animal he meant to nurse back to health.

Alastor pulled harder at the chain, panic clawing up his ribs, mind still fogged and heavy. “Wh -y? D–don’t,” he rasped, static shredding the word.

Michael only smiled sadly, sitting down on the edge of the bed - far too close. The mattress dipped under his weight, rolling Alastor helplessly toward him.

“I brought you food,” he murmured gently. “The doctor said you need it. You’re far too thin.”

Doctor.

The word stabbed straight into Alastor’s stomach.

He blinked, breath shivering.

“D–doctor?” His voice glitched. “Why -?”

Michael nodded, serene. “Yes. We examined you. Had to make sure you didn’t carry any diseases. Who knows what’s crawling around in Hell, right?”

Alastor recoiled so fast he nearly choked himself on the collar. His knees hit the headboard; his fingers scrambled backward for purchase; his vision fuzzed with white static.

They touched him.

While he was unconscious.

They -

What?

Alastor’s skin crawled.

His stomach lurched.

What was going on?

Confusion marred his thoughts and the angelic steel around his throat didn't help. Everything was so fuzzy.

Michael reached out instantly, palm open, soothing. “Alastor, sweetheart, breathe. You’re fine. You don’t need to hide anymore. You can live by your true gender now.”

Alastor froze, forgetting about the word 'sweetheart' instantly when the second part of the sentence hit him.

“…my… true… gender?” he echoed hoarsely, terror twisting the vowels.

Michael pointed to him with a gentle, devastating certainty.

“Yes. We discovered your female parts during the examination. I imagine you were afraid to show this side, or Lucifer’s twisted love made you hide it. But you don’t have to hide anymore.”

There were so many things wrong with that sentence Alastor couldn’t even begin to untangle it.

Lucifer’s twisted what? True gender? They examined -?

No.

His whole body began to shake.

Cold hands - phantom hands - crawled along his skin at the very thought. His mind recoiled, scrambling for solid ground that wasn’t there.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

He had to know.

“…did you…” the words barely formed, his voice cracking under static, “did you touch me?”

Michael looked hurt - truly hurt - at the suggestion, as though Alastor had accused him of cruelty.

For a split second, relief fluttered weakly in Alastor’s chest.

Until Michael answered.

“Only in the medical sense,” he said calmly, with perfect innocence. “We had to make sure Lucifer didn’t damage anything.”

Alastor had only a heartbeat of warning before his stomach revolted.

He twisted sideways, barely managing to clear the mattress before he vomited onto the floor, body convulsing, static ripping out of him in broken bursts, the collar pulling taught at his throat, nearyl choking him.

Michael was on his feet instantly.

“Oh -! Oh, Alastor -” Panic, genuine panic, flooded his voice. He called out sharply, “Doctor!”

The door opened again.

A bulky older angel strode in - beard, white hair, hands thick and steady like fucking santa clause - except for the cold professional detachment in his eyes.

He knelt beside the bed, placing a steadying palm on Alastor’s forehead while checking his pulse.

Alastor jerked back, trying to push him away with bound hands, but the effort sent another wave of weakness crashing through him.

“Likely shock,” the doctor said after a moment, as though diagnosing a fever. “Poor thing needs time to adjust to his surroundings.”

Poor thing.

The words snapped something deep and feral inside Alastor.

He lunged.

Weakly, shakily - but with teeth bared.

He managed to get his jaws on the doctor’s shoulder - not for long, not enough to do real damage, but enough to rip a chunk of fabric and flesh.

The doctor yelped, jerking away.

Alastor swallowed. Blood dripping down his chin. For a short second his energy spiked so he pulled agains the chains again, only to yelp when another shockwave surged through him and made everything fuzzy again.

Michael gasped, horrified. “Alastor!”

Alastor slumped back immediately, the collar punishing the exertion with a flare of burning energy that raked down his spine. He collapsed onto the pillow, breath wheezing, vision dimming around the edges.

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t escape.

Every inch of him shook.

The doctor clutched his shoulder, grimacing. “He’s frightened. And the restraints are still new to him. Let him rest.”

Rest.

Alastor could barely breathe.

Weak. Bound. Changed while unconscious. Examined. Claimed safe.

And Michael - serene, radiant, smiling softly with what looked like … Alastor shuddered and looked away - sat on the bed beside him like this was all completely normal.

Alastor curled slightly, wrists trembling in the angelic cuffs, shirt slipping off his shoulder, exposed and shaking.

This wasn’t salvation.

This wasn’t Heaven.

This was a nightmare.

And he had no idea how to wake up.

Michael

The moment the doctor left, Michael let out a long, trembling breath.

He should not have let the man near him. Not when Alastor was so fragile. So frightened. So hurt.

He turned back toward the bed.

Alastor was pressed against the headboard like a cornered animal, wrists bound, collar biting into his throat, static buzzing around him in sharp, broken bursts.

But there were no tears.

No pleading.

Only bared teeth and blistering terror masked as ferocity - claws flexing, legs tensed to spring though they could barely lift him.

Michael’s heart twisted.

Not in fear.

In ache.

He approached with slow, careful steps and sat on the mattress, the bed dipping under him.

“Alastor,” he whispered softly, “you’re safe now.”

Alastor snarled - an ugly, warbling sound ripped to shreds by the collar.

“Stay - a-away from me,” Alastor spat, voice glitching violently around the collar, words flickering between static and sound. “Don’t - touch - me.”

Michael flinched at the sound, not from fear but from pain at the rejection.

He reached out - fingers hovering near Alastor’s cheek.

Alastor lunged.

Not far - the chain jerked, dragging him back with a violent rattle - but enough that his teeth snapped just inches from Michael’s wrist.

Michael jerked back instinctively.

"I s-said don't t-touch me!", Alastor hissed again.

Michael smiled, heartbreak softening his features.

“Oh, darling… Hell taught you such terrible habits.”

Alastor spat static at him, eyes blazing.

“You - don’t - know - anything - ” Alastor hissed, claws digging into the headboard behind him

The noise scraped like barbed wire.

Michael’s wings fluttered in agitation.

Why does he fight me? Why does he not understand? Everything is different now. Everything is better.

He steadied himself.

He reached for the tray of food beside him - broth, bread, gentle nourishment - and lifted a spoon toward Alastor’s lips.

“You need strength,” he murmured. “Once you’ve eaten, you’ll feel so much better.”

Alastor kicked.

A weak, sloppy, furious kick - but it connected with Michael’s forearm with enough force to jolt the spoon from his hand and send it clattering across the sheets.

"Fuck you!", Alastor hissed. "I am n-not a p-pet to be fed!"

Michael froze.

The clattering spoon echoed.

The little crack inside him widened.

“…Alastor.”

His voice stayed soft, but a new tension curled beneath the syllables.

Alastor only snarled harder, chest heaving, static cutting in jagged bursts.

Michael reached for him - to steady him, to calm him - but his restraint faltered.

He grabbed Alastor’s wrists, meaning to hold them gently, but Alastor wouldn't have anything like this.

"Don't touch me!", he hissed. Kicking and struggling sluggishly.

"Relax," Michael said soothingly. "I am not trying to hurt you."

He continued reaching for Alastor's wrist, while Alastor shoved him away or at least tried to. Michael was so much stronger than Alastor though. He was one of the most powerful angels to exist, Alastor didn't stand a chance, but it was hard trying not to hurt him in the process. A hoof came up, nearly hitting Michael in the chest.

“Don’t - don’t restrain me -!” he choked, static lacing the syllables. “I’ll tear your throat out -!” Alastor hissed, body jolting from the force.

“Alastor… please -” Michael pleaded, tried to follow the movement, hands still open, still soft, trying to catch Alastor without frightening him further -

But Alastor moved like a feral deer cornered by a hunter, all instinct and speed and terror.

He twisted again, sharp and sudden. His shoulder nearly slipped out of Michael’s gentle grasp. His hooves thrashed - one narrowly missing Michael’s ribs with a force that would have shattered them if he’d hit a mortal.

Michael flinched, biting back a gasp.

“Alastor - ! You’re going to hurt yourself,” he pleaded, reaching again.

Alastor shoved him. Weak, shaking, off-balance - but with every ounce of ferocity he still had.

It didn’t move Michael an inch.

But Alastor didn’t stop. He writhed, clawed, kicked, jerked his head away as though expecting a blow.

His cuff chain rattled violently, metal scraping against metal in a frantic staccato rhythm.

Static crackled off him in wild bursts.

Michael kept reaching - kept trying to take his wrists in both hands, trying to soothe, trying to calm -

But Alastor was having none of it.

Every touch was met with a snarl. Every hand approaching him was met with thrashing legs and snapping teeth.

“Stop - fighting -” Michael urged, voice strained now, breath soft and desperate.
“You’re - you’re scaring yourself, sweetheart - just let me -”

“Don’t call me that!” Alastor spat, kicking again, twisting his upper body so violently the collar burned a streak of holy light across his throat. “Don’t touch me - don’t touch me -!”

Michael’s angelic patience thinned and then snapped like a rope that had been pulled too taught.

His hands shot forward.

Not gently.

Not slowly.

With angelic reflexes - impossible to match, impossible to dodge.

He grabbed Alastor’s wrists in both hands.

Not to hurt.

Just to stop the thrashing.

But his strength… his strength wasn’t meant for demons. His strength wasn’t meant for fragile bodies already weakened by steel and shock.

"STOP MOVING!", Michael ordered, sharp and angry, his wings flaring behind him, as he grabbed Alastor's wrists harder than inteded and pressed one knee onto that fragile chest.

Alastor gasped - sharp, broken - the sound of a wild creature caught in a trap.

The force jolted through him, pinning him to the mattress. His wrists bent at an awkward angle before Michael adjusted his grip, horrified at himself.

Alastor’s breath hitched, trembling, static sparking against Michael’s grip.

Michael froze.

Alastor froze. Looking at him, eyes wild and wide.

His heart lurched.

Michael blinked, startled at the strength he’d used.

“Oh - sweetheart - I didn’t mean -” He made the mistake of softening his grip.

Alastor immediately used this to twist like a wildcat, sharp, feral, teeth snapping. He dragged the chain until it cut into his skin, his entire body vibrating with furious, panicked static.

"I said - don't t-touch me!" Alastor hissed.

Michael had to tighten his grip again to keep him from hurting himself.

“Easy there -” Michael coaxed, voice calm while his hands held him with unyielding force. “You don’t need to fight anymore.”

Alastor writhed harder.

"Fuck y-you!"

Static flared. His legs trembled violently. He hissed through clenched teeth.

Michael’s patience strained.

His grip tightened another notch. Alastor gasped - shocked by the pressure, by the undeniable strength, by how little he could move.

Michael leaned close, breath brushing Alastor’s cheek.

“Stop,” he whispered gently.

It was a command disguised as comfort.

Alastor ignored it.

Michael exhaled, frustrated and heartbreakingly confused.

“Why would you reject safety?” he murmured. “You don’t need to hide anymore. Not your fear. Not your gender. Not your pain. Lucifer cannot force you -”

“Lucifer,” Alastor spat, static warping the name into something guttural, hateful. "What has he to do with this?!"

Michael’s eyes softened with pity.

“You poor thing,” he whispered. “He damaged you so deeply.”

Alastor lunged again - Michael caught him by the collar this time, guiding him back to the pillow with strength he didn’t even realize he’d used.

The movement was gentle in intention - violent in execution.

Alastor’s head hit the pillow. His breath cracked. The collar tightened painfully.

Michael stroked his hair back, fingers trembling.

“Shh… shh,” he murmured, voice silky. “You’re confused. Malnourished. Traumatized. This resistance isn’t you. It’s Hell.”

Alastor trembled under his touch.

But not with submission.

With rage. And fear. And the raw humiliation of being powerless.

"I am not s-some traumatized damsel in distress you a-asshole!" Alastor snarled.

Michael pressed a hand softly to his chest - a gesture meant to soothe - though it pinned him firmly to the mattress.

His eye twitched. Just once.

“I am trying,” he breathed. His voice was still tender. Still calm.

But the calm was tight now. Threadbare. Strained at the seams.

“You must let me help you.”

Alastor’s only answer was a ragged hiss.

And for the first time, Michael truly felt it -

The sting of being refused. Of being disobeyed. Of being… rejected.

The tenderness on his face did not fade.

But something colder settled underneath it.

A tiny, glinting fracture.

One that would widen soon.

Michael stepped out of the room only when Alastor’s thrashing became so frantic blood started dripping from where the cuffs and the collar were secured around Alastor's wrists and throat, because he was shaving it open.

Not because he feared Alastor. But because he feared hurting him again.

His chest tingled with annoyance and the urge to make Alastor see. Why was Alastor so difficult?

He closed the door gently behind him, wings trembling.

He leaned against the hallway wall, inhaling slowly.

The image replayed in his mind over and over:

Alastor snarling, fighting, kicking like a wounded stag. The wild panic in his eyes. The force Michael had used - unintentional, instinctive - too strong, too fast.

He hadn’t meant to scare him. He hadn’t meant to pin him so harshly.

He only wanted to hold his wrists. Stop the flailing. Keep him safe.

Why had Alastor fought so hard?

Why had he looked at Michael like he was the danger?

The disappointment gnawed at him. The hurt. The confusion.

He’s been twisted, Michael told himself. Lucifer conditioned him to equate kindness with harm. It isn’t his fault. He just needs guidance. Structure. A steady hand.

Michael breathed steadily out of his nose, then left to attend to his other duties. Maybe Alastor just needed a little bit more time. He would try later again.

After a few hours, Michael reentered the room.

Alastor had not calmed.

He glared at him from the headboard, shoulders heaving, static radiating off him in angry crackles. The oversized shirt had slipped off one shoulder entirely, exposing caramel-colored fur, white freckles splattered along the thin, delicate appendage. His wrists trembled in the cuffs, a little bit of blood trailing down to the bed.

Still feral. Still terrified.

Still beautiful.

Michael approached the bed with a soft smile. Tray in his hands.

“Alastor,” he murmured gently, “you need to eat.”

Alastor’s lip curled.

Michael lifted the spoon again, after he'd settled down on the bed - broth, warm, healing.

Alastor turned his face away sharply.

“I’m not eating your filth,” he hissed, static warping the words.

Michael steadied his grip on the tray.

“Please. You’re weak. You need -”

Alastor swatted the spoon aside. It clattered across the sheets.

Michael’s jaw tensed.

He picked it up again.

“Open your mouth.”

Alastor spat at his hand - a spray of glitching distortion.

Michael froze.

“…Alastor.”

“Burn in your own Light,” Alastor snarled, baring his teeth. “You sanctimonious puppet.”

Michael’s wings flared in a sharp, involuntary twitch.

He closed his eyes for a breath.

Then opened them - calm, serene, determined.

“Alastor,” he warned softly, “don’t force me to correct you.”

Alastor laughed - jagged, glitching, furious. “I fucking dare you.”

Michael pulled out a remote, touched the sigil at the base of it.

A faint pulse of holy light flared across his fingertips.

“Don’t,” Alastor snarled, eyes widening.

“You need to learn,” Michael murmured.

He pressed.

The collar detonated with holy energy.

Alastor arched off the bed violently, a choked cry breaking from his throat - static exploding into a wild, uncontrollable scream.

His muscles spasmed, legs kicking helplessly against the sheets. His fingers clawed at the cuffs, wrists shaking violently. Tears - involuntary, burning - welled at the corners of his eyes from the pain.

Not sobs. Not yielding.

Just the body’s weakness betraying him.

Michael’s expression crumpled with heartbreak.

When he let go of the remote button, Alastor sagged against the sheet in a half unconscious heap. Breathing heavily, eyes half lidded.

Michaels heart twisted at seeing him like that, while something inside of him tingled at seeing this beautiful being so utterly exhausted in front of him.

“Shh… shh… there, sweetheart,” he whispered, stroking Alastor’s cheek even as Alastor shook from the aftershocks. “I hate this. I hate hurting you. But you must learn.”

Alastor slumped sideways, trembling uncontrollably, breath wrecked and uneven.

Not broken.

Just exhausted.

Just in agony.

Michael gathered him before he could resist - sliding an arm beneath his shoulders, lifting him gently, carefully, lovingly into his lap, shifting because of the lengths of the chain restricting Alastor's movement.

Alastor weakly clawed at Michael’s forearm, but his limbs were too uncoordinated to push him away.

Michael pulled him closer, tucking Alastor’s shaking body against his chest. The soft deer ears brushing his cheeks. The antlers gleaming in the holy light of heaven.

“There you go,” he whispered, thumb stroking the back of Alastor’s hand. “Just breathe. Let me take care of you.”

Alastor trembled harder, static hissing faintly against Michael’s robes.

Michael stroked his hair - slow, reverent. He pressed his cheek to the top of Alastor’s head.

“You’ll understand in time,” he murmured. “I don’t want to punish you. I want to help you.”

Alastor’s body jerked in a final leftover spasm.

Michael held him through it.

Rocked him gently.

His hands wandering along the fur covered skin, revealing in the softness beneath his hands, the beauty. The slim body in his arms, so fragile, so delicate.

Michael pressed Alastor close to him, the little deer tail at the base of Alastor's spine pressing delightfully against his crotch at that. Michael gasped, turning his nose into Alastor's neck again, smelling the soft scent of spices and coffee.

“Please,” he whispered into Alastor’s hair, voice breaking in quiet longing, “just let me love you properly.”

And with Alastor limp, shaking, and trapped in his arms, Michael finally felt the first taste of the peace he’d been chasing.

He tipped Alastor's head back, looking at the crimson eyes, at the delicate features. The freckles on the face glowing like golden points in the sunlight. The eyes hazy and unfocused beneath the half fallen lids. The plump lips looking so invitingly warm and soft.

Michael stroked along the cheek with the back of his hand, before he leaned down and placed a soft, warm kiss onto Alastor's lips.

Alastor whimpered at that, wanting to pull away but not even managing an inch. Michael held his head in position, moving his lips sensually against Alastor's, tasting him, so divine, so sweet.

Needing more. Needing him.

Michaels tongue slipped out, licking through the wet cavity like a starving man, grabbing the jaw to keep the head rightfully angled.

Alastor grunted, twitching a little. Michael didn't care, as he let his other hand wander down, stroking along that beautiful body, slipping beneath the T-Shirt, stroking over the deer teats he had seen earlier in the examination.

Alastor gasped and Michael slipped his tongue in deeper, nearly hitting the back of Alastor's throat now, dipping in, just to hear Alastor gag a little, feeling the throat contract around his tongue.

Michael moaned at that feeling. His skin suddenly felt hot and flushed. Something tingling inside of him. He felt so good, pressing Alastor closer. The limb body moving fluidly just the way he wanted him to.

His hands wandering, roaming, the T-Shirt slipping up, as he stroked over the body beneath. He shifted, placing Alastor onto his lap, facing him without breaking the contact of their lips pressing against each other. Alastor's back arching, as Michael pushed Alastor's crotch forward, establishing contact between his cloth covered dick and Alastor's panties.

Groaning, at the feeling.

His breath heavier now, his movements more frantic.

Alastor was like an aphrodisiac for him. The more he touched, the more he tasted, the more Michael wanted.

His hands wandered to the edge of Alastor's panties, when suddenly something sharp pierced his tongue and Michael screeched, throwing Alastor off of him in a violent burst of energy, just for Alastor to be pulled back by the short lengths of the chain shackled to the bedframe.

Michael grunted when he stood up quickly from the bed, holding his bleeding tongue in pain, blood dripping down his chin.

Alastor was lying on the bed, sideways, facing him, still in the heap Michael had thrown him into. His gaze was locked onto Michael, fury and rage burning like fire inside of them.

"I s-said", he whispered, golden angelic blood dripping down his lips, where he had bitten Michael into the tongue. "D-don't touch me."

Michael stood before the mirror.

His reflection looked serene, composed… except for the faint red swelling on his tongue when he opened his mouth.

A bite mark.

Her bite mark.

Michael had decided to call Alastor with the true pronouns, now that he had seen the true gender. He decided Alastor doesn't need to hide this anymore so why not teach her what it meant to be a woman, starting with the right pronouns.

He touched the bitemark gingerly, inhaling through his nose as the sting flared.

Alastor had bitten him. Hard. Her small fangs drawing holy-tinted blood.

It didn’t anger him.

Not exactly.

It… disappointed him.

It pained him.

And - he swallowed - it confirmed something he’d been trying very hard not to acknowledge:

She’s hurting herself. She’s out of control. She needs guidance.

He closed his eyes.

And in the quiet of his chambers, a decision settled over him like falling petals.

If she bites… If she snaps… If she lashes out with those wounded instincts…

Then he must help her control herself.

Not punish her. Never that.

Just… guide her.

So he crafted something for her. Something that would help her with her impulsiveness.

A muzzle.

Not a crude device of iron and chains.

No - this one was beautiful.

White celestial leather, soft as dove feathers, shaped to cup a delicate jaw. Fine gold filigree traced along the sides like wedding embroidery. Loops and buckles glowed with warm halo-light. A slim central plate would press between her teeth and tongue, silencing radio magic, preventing biting, ensuring she could breathe but not scream. It was an angelic restraint.

A bridal gag.

Elegant.

Pure.

Michael lifted it reverently.

She would look beautiful in it.

The thought struck him with a soft ache.

He returned to her bedroom.Alastor was where he’d left her hours ago - curled against the headboard, panting through leftover tremors, but her eyes…

Her eyes burned.

Furious. Defiant. Alive.

Michael felt a twist of sadness at the sight.

He set the muzzle on the bed beside her.

Alastor’s entire body went rigid.

Michael raised his palms in a soothing gesture.

“Alastor,” he murmured, “I don’t want to do this. But you bit me. You hurt yourself. I can’t let that happen again.”

Alastor released a low, static-laced snarl. “You - don’t get - to touch me.”

She tried to pull away - but her weakened body betrayed her. Her legs trembled. Her arms shook beneath the weight of the cuffs.

Still, she launched at him.

Michael caught her easily.

He moved with controlled, devastating speed - an arm around her torso, pinning her arms beneath her body, where they were cuffed anyways, sliding his knee between hers to stop her thrashing.

Alastor hissed, twisted violently, kicked -

“Stop -!” she snarled, voice cracking into white noise. “I’ll tear your throat out - you sick - you deranged - angelic filth -!”

Michael swallowed against the sting of the words.

“You don’t mean that,” he whispered sadly. “Hell taught you to speak in cruelty.”

Alastor bucked viciously, head jerking forward in an attempt to bite him again -

Michael caught her jaw in one hand.

Firm. But not rough.

She snarled into his palm, teeth snapping uselessly.

Her whole body writhed - feral, panicked, furious - but she was too tired. Too weakened. Too drained.

He eased her down onto the mattress, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand.

Her breath hitched. The collar pulsed.

“Let - GO -!” she spat.

“I’m helping you,” he whispered.

He reached for the muzzle.

Alastor saw it coming and screamed - a jagged burst of static that cracked the air.

Michael pressed her gently but immovably into the pillows.

“Shhh,” he murmured. “Hush, darling… you’ll hurt your throat.”

“No -!” Alastor writhed, legs kicking, cuffs clinking violently. “Don’t you dare -!”

Michael straddled her hips to keep her still.

Her eyes flared with panic.

He cupped her cheek with his free hand.

“It’s all right,” he whispered. “Just breathe. I promise - this will make things easier.”

Alastor turned her head away -

Michael followed.

Gentle. Patient. Unyielding.

She tried again -

He held her jaw in place.

Her entire body trembled with effort, static flickering over her skin.

“Please,” Michael whispered, heartbreak thickening his voice. “Don’t make me hurt you again. Let me protect you.”

Her expression twisted.

Hate. Fear. Desperation.

But no surrender.

“Go to Hell,” she rasped.

“I already went,” he answered softly, lifting the muzzle, “and I brought you home.”

He slid the device over her mouth.

Alastor bucked once - a violent, full-bodied thrash of feral terror -

Michael tightened his grip, pressing her wrists harder into the mattress until she couldn’t move.

“Shhh…” he soothed, even as he buckled the straps behind her head. “There. There. That’s it. Almost done.”

The leather settled snugly against her jaw. The gold plate pressed gently between her teeth, forcing her mouth slightly open.

Alastor’s breath came in sharp, furious bursts through her nose.

Michael ran a thumb along the edge of the muzzle, adjusting it delicately.

“There…” he whispered, marveling. “Beautiful.”

Alastor growled - a broken, muffled sound caught behind the gag.

Michael’s chest ached with tenderness.

He brushed her hair back, stroking her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

“Now,” he murmured, voice dropping to something quiet and reverent, “you won’t harm yourself… or me.”

Alastor thrashed once more - weakly - before sagging back, panting behind the gag, eyes blazing with undiluted fury.

Still unbroken.

Michael smiled.

“Such spirit,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “I will tame it with love.”

Days passed.

Days of progress.

Then weeks.

Then months.

Small, stubborn progress… but progress nonetheless.

Alastor had stopped trying to gnaw through the gag on the second day. She still thrashed, still kicked, still spat static whenever he took the muzzle off to feed her - but each time she fought a little shorter, a little weaker.

The punishments worked.

Michael hated using them. Hated pressing the sigil. Hated seeing her convulse and collapse.

But every time he did, every time she trembled afterward, every time she sagged into his hands…

…she listened more.

She obeyed quicker.

She submitted longer.

He had hope for her.

Even if she refused to eat more than a few bites, even if she still snarled and fought, her body was yielding in small, beautiful ways. She was getting used to Heaven. To him.

But there was a problem.

The bed was a mess.

Food often ended up on the sheets, on her fur, smeared across her chest or thighs when she turned her face away or kicked the tray. The shackles rubbed her wrists raw from thrashing. Even healing spells couldn’t undo everything. And cleaning spells could only do so much.

Michael couldn’t bear to see her dirty. Or uncomfortably.

So today would be her bath.

A bonding moment.

A chance for her to feel cared for. A chance for her to notice that he meant no harm.

The adjoining bathroom was bright with morning light, marble and gold shimmering softly. Michael stepped inside and turned the taps. Warm water filled the tub, steam curling upward.

Alastor lay on the bed, watching.

Her crimson eyes followed him in silence; her muzzle muffled any sound she might have made. Her ears flattened to her skull, spots along her cheeks bright against her dark, trembling skin.

Beautiful, even in fear.

Especially in fear.

Michael returned to her.

She instinctively tried to pull away from his hand as he reached to touch her hair. He smiled sadly and leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to her temple despite the way she jerked.

She needed to learn that affection was safe.

That his touch meant comfort.

That she belonged in his arms.

“Hush…” he whispered. “I’m going to bathe you today. It will make you feel better. Clean. Comfortable. You deserve that.”

Alastor’s eyes widened. Her breath stuttered behind the muzzle. Her ears flattened even further.

Poor thing.

Still terrified of kindness.

Still conditioned to expect cruelty.

“It’s all right,” he murmured, running his fingers through her hair. “I’ll take care of everything.”

He reached for the chain linking her wrist cuffs to the bedframe.

Alastor jerked back violently.

Michael’s heart hurt at the sight.

He pressed the sigil on the remote for the collar.

A pulse of holy energy surged through her.

Alastor convulsed, body arching, static bursting out of her in a broken wail. Her limbs spasmed, hooves shaking, breath stuttering behind the muzzle.

Michael stroked her cheek through the tremor.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Please don’t fight me. You’ll only hurt yourself.”

The spasms weakened into trembles. Her breath grew ragged and thin.

He unclipped the chain.

Her wrists stayed bound.

Her body was loose, limp, dazed from the shock.

She raised her arms weakly when he touched them - not willingly, just reflexively.

He undressed her slowly.

Panties first.

Then the oversized shirt that had slipped off one shoulder.

And for a second bathed in the glory of her beauty. The breath caught in his throat. Michael flexed his fingers as his dick stirred between his legs at the sight.

Seeing her like this - trembling, exhausted, helpless in his hands - made something tingle in his insides.

He lifted her in his arms - bridal style.

She gave a soft, weak push against his chest with the tips of her claws.

Not a real fight.

Just a trembling, dazed refusal.

“I know, sweetheart,” he whispered, holding her tighter. “You don’t understand yet. You will.”

He carried her into the bathroom.

Steam curled around her caramel fur. The water’s glow illuminated the fawn spots along her shoulders, her back, her thighs. Her tail twitched once, a pitiful instinctive movement of fear.

Michael sat on the edge of the tub and slowly lowered her into the water.

Alastor flinched.

Her body jerked at the first touch of warmth.

Holy water stung her skin - not damaging, but purifying, overwhelming.

She made a muffled, panicked sound behind the muzzle.

Michael held her tighter.

“Shhh… you’re all right,” he murmured, stroking her arm. “It’s only a bath.”

When her legs were submerged, he clipped the chain from her wrist cuffs to a golden hook set into the wall.

Her arms stretched above her head.

Her spine bowed.

Her head fell forward limply, muzzle resting against her chest. Her breath hitched in short, frightened bursts.

She couldn’t fight. Couldn’t push. Couldn’t twist.

Perfect for bathing.

Michael stepped into the tub behind her.

Fully clothed at first - until he realized how soaked he would be. So he removed his robe and shirt, folding them neatly on a chair.

He sat behind her in the water.

Her back rested against his chest, trembling. Her butt pressed where his dick was already straining upwards in his arousal. Tail trapped between.

He wrapped an arm around her waist to keep her upright.

“Good girl,” he whispered. “You’re doing so well.”

Her claws tightened uselessly. Weak kicks stirred the water.

Michael dipped a cloth into the bath.

He began with her shoulders.

Slow, gentle circles.

Caramel fur slicked down beneath his touch. The fawn spots glimmered like tiny constellations. He breathed in her scent - a natural, warm musk underlying dust and fear.

“You see?” he murmured, washing down her arms. “It doesn’t hurt. You’re safe.”

Her head jerked away as he washed her neck, water running along her collar and dripping onto her heaving chest.

He bathed her carefully.

Her ribs. Her back. Her thighs.

Never lingering where he shouldn’t. But his admiration was palpable in every stroke.

He unbuckled the muzzle briefly to clean beneath it.

She gasped for air, coughed.

"P - please," she whispered. "I-i don't want - mmpf."

Michael calmly refastened it. Ignoring her words.

“There we go,” he whispered. “No more accidents.”

Her chest rose and fell too quickly. A low broken sound escaping her.

Michael sighed sadly. Feeling the tension lingering in her body.

She was just so tense. Maybe…

Michaels hands wandered down again, over her fluffy chest, his nose coming close to her neck, breathing her in again, before placing a soft nip there.

Alastor's breath hitched.

Michael took this as a sign that she liked it. His hand wandered down further, brushing over the teats again, down, down, down until he brushed over the glistening heat between her legs.

Alastor jolted, a choked whimper escaping him. The chains tightening in his movement, his legs shifting, trying to close, but being prevented from doing so, by Michaels own legs keeping them open.

Michael's heart stuttered at that, heat rushing through him. He nipped again on the delicate neck, scratching his teeth against the soft skin there. His finger brushing over the sensitive nub down there again, feeling Alastor strain and twitch in front of him.

"Yes", Michael whispered. "Let go. Yes." His head was getting all fuzzy. The heat rising, the excitement jolting through his body. His cock straining against his stomach, precum dripping from it, as he continued nipping on Alastor's delicate neck. His fingers circling the sensitive nub, the other hand coming up to twist and play with the teats.

Alastor grunted, straining, squirming against him. His butt rubbing against Michaels dick in beautiful friction.

"Fuck," Michael huffed as he felt the pleasant feeling filling his veins, his breath coming in short puffs. "You feel so good." Michael licked up the neck, tasting the sweet scent of Alastor on his tongue. "So beautiful. You are so beautiful."

He flicked his finger over Alastor's clit a little faster, held the waist of her down, when she tried to twist upwards, wrapping his legs around hers to keep her down and spread open, before he moved his other finger, that had been playing with her teats the whole time further downwards.

A screetch escaped through Alastor's muzzle, when he inserted a first digit inside the tight heat. And holy heaven was she tight. A virgin. Michael's heart fluttered excitedly.

"A virgin", he whispered out loud. "So Lucifer didn't manage to spoil you yet." Excitement rushed through Michaels veins, as he moved his digit deeper, Alastor huffing and panting atop of him, straining, pulling, moving, sobbing.

Michael licked up a tear that started trailing down Alastor's eyes, over the cheek, enjoyed the salty taste.

"Good girl," Michael smiled and couldn't help the happy giggle escaping him as he realized that this would all be his. His to claim. Just the thought made Michael's head fall back in exctasy as his dick twitched and spurted across his stomach.

When he came down from his rush, breathing heavily, he needed a moment to come back to the here and now. Felt Alastor trembling in front of him, his finger still inside her.

"Sorry my darling. You are just too beautiful for me," Michael smiled. "I couldn't hold myself back. But now I'll make you feel good, like you deserve it."

Alastor screetched loudly at that again, struggling a little harder, but Michael held her down with ease.

"Sssh," he said. "I know. I know. I should have made you come first. I'm sorry, but I'll fix that now."

Michael moved his finger again, in and out, in and out, until he felt the walls easing a little and inserted another one, stretching, scissoring, pulling open. Then another, searching for that one spot deep inside of her, that would make her see starts, while simulatenously rubbing along her clit, nipping at her shoulder, trying, tasting, finding all the sensitive spots, until finally, he hit something that made Alastor moan, muffled through the muzzle. But a moan nonetheless.

"Found it," Michael said proudly and then moved his fingers, angled them to pound into that spot over and over and over again, his other finger rubbing at the clit, faster and faster, until Alastor's whole body arched away from him, his eyes closed, straining against the rush filling his veins.

Michael continued moving his fingers, helping Alastor through it, until he finally slumbed back down against Michael. Head lolling to the side, breath heavy and loud, more tears trailing down the soft cheekbones, soaking the space between them.

Michael kissed her damp hair.

“You’re even lovelier when you’re clean.”

Her entire body trembled at that.

Michael hummed softly, as he removed his fingers, cleaned up the mess they made.

A lullaby.

A hymn.

Something slow, warm, and claiming.

Her trembling grew quieter.

But her eyes - when he turned her head gently to look at her - blazed with hatred and humiliation.

Michael smiled.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, cupping her cheek. “Just beautiful.”

Alastor

Alastor lay curled on the bed, shaking uncontrollably. Holy water stung his skin. The gag muffled every sob-like breath. His wrists throbbed in the cuffs. His thighs trembled. His mind felt hollowed out.

Michael sat at the edge of the mattress, stroking his hair with tender, devastating softness.

“You did so well,” he whispered. “I’m so proud of you.”

Alastor squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t stop trembling.

Michael kissed his forehead gently.

“You’ll understand soon,” he murmured. “This is love.”

Alastor felt the world closing in around him - soft hands, holy restraints, angelic humming, white walls, and no escape.

Michael

More weeks passed.

And Michael was pleased.

Alastor still fought - of course she did - but her resistance had changed.

Where she once lunged like a wild creature, now she hesitated first. Where she once kicked with every ounce of fury in her bruised body, now her leg trembled before lifting. Where she once snapped her teeth the moment the muzzle came off … now she stared.

Long, silent, hateful stares.

Quiet.

Numb.

Wounded.

Michael called it progress.

Healing.

Her body was softer against the restraints. Her trembling more confused than defiant. The punishment shocks needed only a second now before she sagged, breathless and obedient, in his hands.

He was proud of her.

So proud.

Enough to give her a reward.

She still couldn’t leave the room - of course not - but during the day she was allowed to roam within it, dragging the chain from her new ankle cuff in soft, defeated scrapes across the marble floor.

She explored cautiously at first. Michael had watched her through the angelic magic bound to the room. How she had at first been shy to look around, as if his gift was a trap, then frantically. Then in loops - pacing, searching the corners, the walls, the windows she could never open.

The muzzle stayed on. The collar stayed tight.

But she moved.

In the beginning, when Michael entered she had stood ready, tried to get past him, to run away from his healing hands, but Michael had been ready and stronger all the time. Just slammed her back, used the collar as punishment, until she learned. Until she stopped.

Michael took that as a sign she was ready.

So he brought her a gift.

He entered her room with an armful of fabrics - soft pastels, shimmering whites, silk that seemed to glow from within, lace embroidered with golden thread so fine it caught the light like spun sunlight.

He laid the dresses out on the bed - in a neat row, like bridal gowns waiting for a ceremony.

Alastor froze where she stood at the window, longing in her eyes.

Her crimson eyes widened in immediate distrust. Her ears flattened. Her tail tucked in close.

Michael smiled radiantly.

“You deserve beauty,” he told her, gesturing at the gowns. “You deserve to be celebrated.”

She shook her head violently, a strangled whine escaping behind the muzzle.

Michael stepped closer.

“These are gifts,” he explained, voice warm as honey. “Hell forced you to hide this side of yourself. But here… you can be who you truly are.”

Alastor made a fractured, glitching static noise - the closest she could get to “NO.”

Michael’s heart softened.

“You’re shy,” he murmured, touching her cheek. “That’s adorable.”

She recoiled so violently the chain snapped taut.

He chuckled gently.

“Silly thing.”

He selected a gown - soft ivory silk with delicate gold leaf filigree, flowing like water.

Perfect.

“Come here.”

Alastor shook her head harder, arms clutched to her chest.

Michael stepped forward.

“Don’t be difficult, sweetheart. I just want to dress you.”

She slapped his hands away.

Hard.

Michael froze.

The sting on his knuckles pulsed once.

Twice.

He tried again.

Same result.

"Stop this," he warned. His tone getting cold. But Alastor didn't stop, just pushed him further away the more he tried.

Michael could feel something dark squirming inside of him. How can she do this? After all he did for her? All the gifts he brought?!

His patience cracked.

The next time, he pushed him away, he struck her across the face.

Not with angelic fury - but with the force of a man whose disappointment had overflowed its vessel.

The sound was sharp. Alastor stumbled, hitting the floor with a muffled cry, her wrists barley holding her fall. The chain on the ankle clinking as she stumbled onto her knees, back bowed forward.

Michael’s heart shattered.

“Oh - oh, darling…” He dropped to his knees beside her instantly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry - I didn’t mean -”

She lay stiff, trembling, one cheek already reddening beneath the fur, eyes wide and wet.

Not crying loudly.

Not sobbing.

Silent tears.

Streaming.

Unstoppable.

She turned her face away from him in shame.

He cupped her cheek gently - the same cheek he had struck - and wiped the tears with his thumb.

“Shhh…” he whispered, kissing the damp fur. “My little doe… my darling…”

She flinched but did not pull away.

Her body was too stunned.

Too exhausted.

Too broken from the shock of the slap, of the days before, of the bath, of the collar’s punishments.

Michael lifted her chin with gentle fingers.

“My heaven-sent wife,” he murmured, stroking her jaw.

Her tears fell faster.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“There we go… Look at you. So soft. So delicate. So ready to be adored.”

He wiped the last tear beneath her eye.

Then he picked up the dress.

“Let me put this on you,” he said softly. “Let me show you what you are meant to be.”

She stood still.

Stiff.

Shaking.

Silent.

Michael undressed her slowly - gentle, methodical, reverent - and slipped the gown over her trembling frame.

The silk draped around her body like holy water poured over a sacrifice.

He moved around her, admired her, adjusted the collar here, pulled the zipper close there, stroked over the soft fabric, felt the curve of the beautiful body beneath it. His dick twitching in excitement.

He had done so much for her already. Maybe it was time she repayed a little bit of the favor. Just a little. After all she needed to learn what it meant to be a good wife as well, if she wanted to become Michaels partner. And Michael very much wanted that.

So he looked at the delicate hands and grabbed it, let his fingers slide between hers, closing his hand, stepping closer to Alastor. She looked away, eyes closed, eyebrows furrowed.

"You look beautiful like this," Michael whispered, leaning his head onto her shoulder, burying his nose into her neck, as he let the haze of arousal take over. He shifted.

"I guess you could say thank you to me now", Michael whispered, nipping at Alastor's neck, pulling a little at the delicate flesh there, huffing. "I'll show you how a wife pleases her husband."

Alastor jerked away at that, or wanted to. Michaels hand snapped so fast upwards, grabbing her neck, pulling her close again, the other tightening around her wrists. Alastor grunted, whimpered.

"Tsk tsk," Michael whispered. "No need to be afraid, I'll guide you." He pulled her hand forward, close to his pants. Helped her nimble fingers to push his pants down, slip into his underpants.

Michael moaned, as he felt her sweet, elegant fingers glide over his dick.

"Ah yes," he huffed.

Then he wrapped his hand around hers, helped her close her fingers around his cock. He twitched, shuddered.

"That's how you do it," Michael whispered, groaned as he moved her hands up and down. Shuddered. His forehead slipping from her neck to her shoulder, looking down where he saw her hand disappear inside his pants. His other hand clambing stronger around her neck, holding her, where he needed her. "Yes. Yes. Oh yes."

Up and down. Up and down. Precum slicking his dick, the only sound in the room the harsh slap, slap, slap, of Alastors hand moving along Michaels dick. Michael guiding her.

"And now around the top. Yes. Good girl. Just like that. yes." He moaned.

Faster. Faster. Faster.

Until.

"Alastor…" Michael gasped, as he spilled into her hands.

Shuddered.

Twitched.

Then stepped back. His grip loosening.

Alastor stepping away from him immediately, face turned sideways, burning holes into the bed.

Michael quelled the surge of anger at that. He was too high from his orgasm to care.

But in this position. A few steps away from her. He could catch her whole beauty in this beautiful dress. Her hand hanging loosely at her side, dripping his cum to the floor.

Michael Admired.

Breathed in.

“Perfect,” he whispered. “You’re perfect.”

Another few days passed.

And she was finally settling.

The fight remained - Michael could still feel it, a low simmer beneath her skin - but something had changed. Her resistance no longer came in wild bursts. No more lunging. No more thrashing.

Instead…

She waited.

She watched.

She obeyed.

Every morning, she stood still while he dressed her in angelic silk, her claws curled loosely at her sides. Until he guided her to do what a good wife needed to do. Every night, she accepted her washings with only a soft tremor and the occasional attempt to twist away. Michael rewarded her every time after, then carried her to bed exhausted and beautiful.

The food remained an issue - she still spat it out, still refused bites - but Michael was patient. He would teach her. He would help her.

She was healing.

He felt it.

He saw it in the way her shoulders slumped less, in the way her ears perked slightly when he entered the room. In the way her eyes softened - not trust, not yet, but confusion, exhaustion, and the faintest flicker of acceptance.

She was ready.

So after he dressed her that morning - a pale blue gown with gold-thread embroidery across the bodice - he reached for something new.

A leash.

Soft white leather, braided delicately, with a golden clasp shaped like a halo.

Alastor stiffened the moment she saw it.

Michael smiled, gentle as ever.

“You’ve been so good,” he said softly. “You deserve to leave this room.”

Her breath hitched behind the muzzle.

Her hands drew close to her chest, showing the angelic cuffs he had wrapped around them.

He clipped the leash to her collar.

She flinched.

But she didn’t fight.

Pride warmed his chest.

He stepped toward her ankles and unclipped the chain from her cuff.

She shifted her weight, uncertain - almost shy.

Michael’s heart fluttered.

“Come,” he murmured, giving the leash a soft tug.

Alastor stepped forward.

Hesitant. Fragile. Unsure.

A trembling fawn on unsteady legs.

He led her to the door.

She paused - eyes widening, breath catching in her throat, tail twitching with a nervous flick.

Michael stroked her hair.

“It’s all right. You’re safe with me.”

He opened the door. Guided her through the corridor, until they stopped in front of another door. A thicker one. Michael opened this one as well.

Light washed over them.

Eden.

Endless green stretching into soft hills. Trees heavy with fruit, shimmering with celestial glow. Flowers blooming in colors no mortal eye could comprehend. Birds singing in layered harmonies that vibrated like chords through the air.

Alastor froze at the threshold.

Her pupils dilated.

Her breath stuttered.

She didn’t move.

So Michael gently tugged the leash again and stepped forward into the soft grass.

She followed.

Her hooves landed on Eden’s soil.

And something inside her cracked open.

Her entire face softened. Her ears lifted. Her tail twitched slowly, rhythmically, in instinctive wonder. Her eyes - those furious, crimson eyes - widened with an emotion Michael had never seen in them before.

Awe.

He loosened the leash a little.

She took another step, looking around as though she had never seen a tree before.
Another step. A quiet, almost silent sound escaped her - a small whine, uncertain, confused, maybe even… grateful?

Michael felt his breath leave him.

This was it.

This was what he’d wanted for her.

Freedom.

Beauty.

Peace.

He walked behind her, keeping the leash short at first - not because he feared her running, but because he wanted her close.

She wandered a few feet ahead, sniffing the air, blinking up at the sky, shoulders relaxed for the first time since he brought her here.

Michael’s eyes softened.

He loosened the leash more.

She looked back once - startled, uncertain - as though asking silently if she was truly allowed.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Go on.”

She took another step.

The leash lengthened.

His chest tightened - painfully, beautifully - watching her tail swish, watching her gaze dance from flower to flower, watching her knees nearly buckle with the overwhelming sensory softness of Eden.

She was glowing.

She was luminous.

She was his.

Michael walked behind her slowly, admiring the way the silk dress flowed with her movements, the way the sunlight kissed her freckles, the way her trembling legs steadied as she continued exploring.

“You look like you belong here,” he murmured, though she couldn’t hear him from ahead.

When she turned again - this time with a soft, hesitant look - Michael felt something inside his ribcage flutter violently.

Trust?

No. Not trust.

Just a wounded animal beginning to hope again.

But for him, it was everything.

He lifted the leash gently.

She walked back toward him, obedient for the first time.

Michael smiled.

“My little doe,” he whispered, brushing a thumb over her cheek when she stood before him.

She leaned away -

But not as far.

Not as fiercely.

Progress.

He kissed her forehead softly.

“You see?” he whispered. “The world can be beautiful… when you let me guide you.”

Behind the muzzle, Alastor let out a quiet, trembling whine.

Michael interpreted it as agreement.

As love.

As submission.

And Eden, beautiful and bright, stood silent witness to the slow, awful blooming of Michael’s delusion.

They continued walking together through Eden.

Alastor’s steps were small, cautious, uncertain - yet she followed his lead, even when she went ahead of him. One tug and she moved. Always followed.

The leash swayed gently between them as they wove through whispering grass and soft patches of flowering moss. Birdsong shimmered overhead like chimes. Warm breezes combed through her red hair, lifting the silk of her dress.

Every now and then she glanced back at him - quick, flickering, instinctive. Michael’s heart leapt each time.

Connection. In his mind, it was connection.

At last he tugged the leash softly and guided her toward the center of the garden.

There, beneath the tallest tree in Eden, a blanket lay spread neatly across the grass - ivory and gold threads woven like halos. Beside it sat a basket of food: celestial peaches, nectar bread, small jars of glowing honey.

Alastor hesitated when she saw the setup.

She froze mid-step.

Her ears flattened again. Her tail tucked in. Her hands tightened around the cuffs.

Poor sweetheart.

Still expecting cruelty where there was only love.

Michael approached her slowly, brushing the back of his knuckles against her cheek.

“It’s all right,” he murmured. “Come sit with me.”

He led her to the blanket and eased her down onto it. She lowered herself stiffly, movements tentative, trembling. Her eyes darted between him and the towering tree above them.

Michael knelt behind her on the blanket, gathering the leash loosely in his lap, and looked up at the tree with reverence.

The trunk rose impossibly high, bark shimmering with faint traces of ancient magic. No fruit hung from its branches - not since the Fall.

But it was magnificent.

It was history.

“Do you know what this tree is?” he asked softly.

Alastor made a quiet, low sound through her muzzle - confusion or fear, he wasn’t sure.

Michael stroked her hair.

“This is the tree,” he said. “The tree where Lucifer hid in serpent form. The place where he whispered poison into the first woman’s ear.”

Alastor stiffened, breath catching.

Michael continued gently, reverently:

“He stood right where we are. Twisted God’s garden with lies. Corrupted innocence with his voice.”

He moved closer behind her, his hand settling softly on her shoulder.

Alastor shuddered beneath his touch.

“And now…” Michael whispered, leaning in close, lips brushing the crown of her head,
“…now we reclaim this place.”

She flinched - but did not pull away.

Michael’s hand slid down to her back, soothing.

“You, my darling, are living proof that Lucifer’s corruption can be undone,” he murmured. “That his poison can be cleansed.”

Alastor’s claws curled into the blanket. Michaels hand undid a clasp from her dress. The first patch of cloth coming loose.

She shook her head once, small and trembling.

Michael only smiled.

“You don’t need to deny it,” he whispered. “You’re healing. I see it every day.”

He lifted a lock of her red hair and kissed it. Opened another latch.

“You’re becoming free.”

The dress uncurling from her shoulders, slippind down her arms, curling at her waist.

She shuddered, a tiny, broken whine muffled against the muzzle.

Michael gathered her gently against his chest, supporting her stiff body as though she were delicate crystal. Started shoving the rest of the dress down her legs, lifted her a little to let it slip free.

“He can’t reach you anymore,” he whispered against her ear. “His lies can’t touch you. His darkness can’t claim you.”

The breeze stirred the branches above them. Light filtered down the way it might in a cathedral, casting Alastor in golden warmth.

Michael felt his breath catch.

His hand coming back to stroke across her flat stomach, twisting her teats again, the other one slipping inside her panties.

“There is no better place,” he said softly, “for you and me to show how far you’ve come.”

Alastor shifted rigidly in his hold - trapped between resisting and collapsing, between fear and exhaustion. A whimper escaping him.

Michael cupped the side of her face, with the other hand, turning her slightly toward him.

“Here,” he whispered, “under this very tree… we show Heaven that Lucifer has lost.”

He pressed a slow, reverent kiss to her temple. Moving his hand out from her panties and started shoving it down.

Alastor whimpered loudly, struggled a little, but Michael held her tight.

“And I have saved you.”

Alastor’s eyes filled. Silent tears rolled down her freckles.

Michael shoved down his own pants after, mistook the heartbreak for gratitude.

Moved her forward, so she was bend over her waist, her fully naked body gleaming under the sunlight in all its glory.

One hand was at her neck, pressing her forward, the other one at his own dick, guiding it to the glistening opening in front of him.

He smiled tenderly.

“Good girl,” he breathed. “You’re doing so well.”

Then, with one thrust, he sunk deep inside of her.

Alastor sobbed, her head falling forward, hair covering her face, fists clenched, where she was holding herself up on her underarms.

Michaels head fell back in exctacy, as the tight walls clambed around his thick length, the friction so good. With one hand he grabbed her hips to steady her, the other still pressing down her neck.

Deeper and deeper and deeper.

"Ah," he huffed. Panted, the rush racing through his veins as his dick filled up Alastor's pussy, further and further, until his crotch pressed against the butt.

He held there for a moment, breathing deeply and heavily. The hand clasped on Alastor's hips moved upwards, stroking through the silky fur on the back for a moment, steadying himself, before he moved it back down to her hips, curling his hands around the thin waist. His nails digging deep inside. Then he started moving.

Michael shuddered in awe at the fricition.

"Fuck," he hissed, as he slid out and then back in again. He panted heavily. Hissing through his teeth, as he moved all the way out and then with one sharp thrust in again.

Alastor grunted at that.

Michael did it again.

And again.

Until the holy garden was filled with his sharp pants and gasps, the slap of skin on skin, wet and filthy, squelching with every movement, as he fucked Alastor deep and hard and raw.

At one point he let go of her neck, placing both hands on her hips, moving her body back and forth along his sharp lengths, pushing impossible deep inside of her, that he could see the bulge where his cock slammed against her uterus on the inside.

"Fuck," Michael hissed, as he felt that. Then, in one swift movement, he flipped her around. Didn't give a fuck about the muzzle anymore. It needed to be gone. He needed to feel her lips.

Now.

He ripped the muzzle of Alastor's face, and now he was able to hear her gasps, her whimpers. Her little ah's, as he slammed into her over and over again.

"You are so beautiful," Michael huffed. "So beautiful!"

He kissed her, grabbed her neck and pressed her face up to his own, slamming their lips together, while his cock slammed into her pussy. Claiming it, all his, his, his, his alone.

Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap.

Alastor cried.

Whimpered, sobbed, and Michael knew it was love. Alastor loved it, loved him. He knew it, deep inside and that thought, made him spill over. His hips stuttered, at the deepest point, buried inside of his soon to be wife and filled her up.

Alastor gasped, as Michael groaned, her nimble hands pushing at his shoulders weakly, but Michael didn't even feel it. He pressed deeper, Alastor bit her lip so hard she drew blood. Tears spilling from beneath her pressed shut lids.

So beautiful.

So etheral.

Michael grabbed her and kissed her again, poured all the love he held for her inside the kiss.

And Alastor let him, his hands slipping from his shoulders, falling to the side, as the body beneath went slack, resistance falling away.

Michael had won. The last of Lucifer's poison had left his beautiful doe, just as he had hoped it would.

"I love you," Michael whispered, after he pulled back, pulled out of her, fell down beside her, cradled her sobbing body close. "I love you."

Alastor

The world felt… distant.

Not quiet. Not peaceful.

Just… far away.

Alastor lay against Michael’s chest beneath the great Tree, Michael’s arms wrapped loosely around him, holding him as though he were something fragile. Something treasured.

Something loved.

The blanket beneath them was soft. The breeze was warm. Eden hummed around them like a lullaby.

And Alastor felt nothing. Even the ache of what just had … it was dull.

Or maybe he felt too much - it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began.

His body was heavy. Too heavy. His limbs would not lift. His fingers twitched once, weakly, then stilled again. The holy collar pulsed faintly at his neck with a steady rhythm, draining what strength he might have had left.

Michael stroked a hand down his hair, slow and soothing, fingertips brushing his ear.

“Shh,” he murmured. “You’re safe.”

Alastor squeezed his eyes shut.

Safe.

That word twisted inside him like a thorn.

His cheek rested against Michael’s shoulder, breath shallow despite not wearing the muzzle anymore. He should be able to breathe better now. Instead every breath stung inside his lungs.
His fur clung to him, damp with sweat, his muscles trembling with the aftershocks of… everything. He didn’t want to think about it. He couldn’t.

His mind was a blur of half-formed thoughts and jagged shards of emotion.

How did I get here? How did it become this? How -

He tried to pull away.

Barely. A small, instinctive movement of his shoulders.

Michael’s arms tightened around him immediately.

Not painfully.

Just… possessively.

As if afraid he might break apart.

“Hush, little doe,” Michael whispered into his hair. “I know you’re overwhelmed.”

A shiver ran through Alastor’s spine.

He hated that shiver.

He hated the warmth that seeped into his bones from Michael’s embrace. Hated the way his exhausted body relaxed despite himself. Hated the tiny part of him that leaned into the touch because his muscles hurt, because he was tired, because resisting had become impossible.

Stop it. Don’t… like this. Don’t give him what he wants.

There had once been a time where he would have destroyed anyone daring to come close to him like that, dared to touch just a tiny part of him. But now … now he couldn’t even make himself move.

He couldn’t make his claws lift. He couldn’t stop the small, broken sound that escaped his throat - half sob, half sigh - muffled by the last shred of dignity urging him to keep quite. Pathetic.

Michael stroked his cheek with the back of his knuckles.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured. “I’m so proud of you.”

Tears welled up again. Hot. Silent.

PATHETIC.

They slid down his freckles, disappearing into the silk draped over his shoulder.

Michael wiped them gently with his thumb.

Alastor bit down on the inside of his cheek, fighting the urge to recoil - fighting the urge to melt into the touch, too.

His thoughts spiraled.

I need to get out. I need to escape. I can’t stay here. I can’t -

But the next thought rose up immediately, wicked and trembling:

He’ll hurt me. He’ll use the collar. He’ll… break me.

His breath stuttered.

Fear wrapped around him like vines.

Fear… and something else. Something worse. Something shameful.

Grief.

Because part of him - the part Michael stroked so gently, the part he cradled and whispered to - wanted to believe the lies.

Wanted the softness. The warmth. The quiet between punishments. The illusion of safety.

No. No, stop. Don’t.

He tried to sit up.

His body refused.

Michael held him close again, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“You’re mine,” he whispered softly. “And you’re home.”

Oh how the mighty have fallen. He had once been the most feared sinner in hell, Lucifers executioner, the monster hunting the nightmares of the worst sinners …

Alastor’s heart twisted - painfully, violently.

He hated Michael .

He hated him so much he could hardly breathe.

And yet…

As Michael hummed softly, his thumb rubbing gentle circles into Alastor’s shoulder, a wave of exhaustion washed over him.

His body sagged in Michael’s arms again.

His mind drifted.

Not in surrender.

Not willingly.

Just…

numb.

A single thought echoed faintly in his chest - a whisper of his old self, buried under layers of trauma and holy control:

Don’t let him take you. Don’t forget who you are. Don’t… don’t…

But Michael’s arms tightened.

His heartbeat was steady beneath Alastor’s ear.

The breeze was warm.

And Alastor was so, so tired.

He hated how safe he felt.

He hated that he couldn't stop feeling it.

He hated that the beginning of something dangerous - something like dependence - curled quietly around his aching, shattered heart.

He hated himself for it.

And still…

He lay in Michael’s arms beneath the Tree, too broken to move, too numb to resist, and too frightened to flee.

Somewhere in Hell

Somewhere in Hell, thunder cracked without lightning.

Lucifer paced his chambers like a caged storm.

His footsteps echoed off obsidian walls, tremors of raw celestial power bleeding into the air with every step. Shadows curled away from him - afraid.

The king was furious.

And very, very afraid.

Alastor was gone.

Not wandering. Not sulking. Not playing one of his games.

Gone. Without a trace.

The pot of jambalaya had been left burning on the stove - spoon still inside, the wooden handle charred black. Steam had long since dissipated. The kitchen smelled of soot and ruin.

And the Radio Demon didn’t leave messes.

Ever.

Especially not when it came to his sacred jambalaya.

Lucifer stared at the memory of that pot like it was a crime scene.

Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

He had spent days… weeks tearing Hell apart - questioning shadows, interrogating sinners, checking omen-signatures, tracing soul-ripples. Nothing.

Not even a whisper of Alastor’s power.

Not even a flicker.

Which meant only one thing:

Someone stronger had taken him.

Lucifer slammed his fist into the wall.

The stone cratered. Shards of obsidian cracked outward like jagged lightning bolts.

“Where are you…?” he muttered under his breath, pacing again. “Where did you go…?”

His wings unfurled in agitation, brushing the walls with low, dangerous rustles. He moved like a wildfire forced into a narrow hallway - furious, suffocating, ready to burn its way out.

He had tried to reach Michael.

Of course he had.

To demand an explanation. To ask for help. To accuse him of meddling - because who else could break through Hell unnoticed?

But every attempt fizzled out into static the moment the prayer-signal rose toward Heaven’s gates.

Blocked.

Michael wasn’t answering.

Michael wasn’t reachable.

Michael had simply… vanished.

And Sera now held the meetings.

Every time Lucifer asked after his brother, Sera deflected - polite, stiff, strained.

“Michael is occupied.”

“Michael is dealing with matters beyond your concern.”

“Michael does not require contact with Hell at this time.”

Every answer was wrong.

Lucifer felt it in his bones - the old ones, the angel ones, the ones he kept buried beneath centuries of rebellion.

The last time Heaven hid something from him this carefully…

…the Fall happened.

He stopped in the center of his chamber, chest heaving.

A low growl trembled out of him - deeper than a threat, older than sin.

“My executioner doesn’t disappear,” he hissed. “Someone took him.”

His eyes blazed molten gold.

“And if it was you, Michael…”

Feathers scattered from his wings, glowing like embers.

“I swear to God -”

Flames rippled across the room, licking up the walls.

“ - I will tear Heaven down to the foundations.”

The chamber trembled.

Hell itself shuddered under the weight of Lucifer’s rage.

A king preparing for war.

A brother preparing for revenge.

A storm preparing to break.

Michael

After their sacred coupling beneath edens holy tree michael hadn't put the muzzle back on.

A reward for her good behavior. Now that all of Lucifer's poison had left her body, her mind, he could be more relaxed around her.

There were still thinks she needed to learn - the behavior of a good wife, but at least he didn't need to be as strict anymore.

The ferocious beast had been tamed, revealing the beautiful doe beneath - etheral, soft, demure.

He had carried her back inside in his arms - bridal style - her head resting limply on his shoulder, the collar’s faint glow lighting her stunned profile.

But this time, he didn’t take her to the small stone room.

That room was for a beast.

A cage for something dangerous. Untamed. Unworthy.

But she was not that anymore.

She was softened. Humbled. Purified. His.

He had worked for this. Fought for it. Endured her screams, her claws, her stubbornness, and Lucifer’s poison leaking out of her soul drop by drop.

And now…

Now she could finally begin her afterlife.

Their afterlife.

Michael stopped in the grand corridor and shifted her carefully in his arms so he could see her face.

Her eyes fluttered open - dazed, glassy, red-rimmed from tears and exhaustion.

He smiled.

“So beautiful,” he whispered.

Her ears pressed flat in fear.

He took that as shyness.

He had brought her to their room. The one they would share from now on.

It was a huge bedroom. One king sized bed in the middle, framed by dark bedposts and crimson red curtains.

Alastor had tensed in his arms, when she had seen it, buried her head in Michael's shoulder and Michael had shushed her, calmed her down.

"You are safe now." He had placed her softly into the middle of the bed, the pale blue dress flowing around her like silk, fanning her beautiful body.

Then he had taken her head and kissed her, deeply, stroking across her cheekbones, while his tongue had plunged deep into her throat, licking, tasting, feeling. Alastor choked, coughed, placed his hand on Michaels arm, as if to push him away, but never does.

Michael let go of her after he had satisfied his hunger. A thin trail of spit hanging between them. Alastor gasped for breath, chest heaving.

Michael smiled softly at her, stroked over her flushed forehead.

"Rest now, my beautiful doe", he had whispered, and left her there to get a warm washcloth from the bathroom that was directly connected to their bedchambers. Just like the bedchambers it was huge, made of ethernal stone and marble. White and gold, full with everything someone might wish for.

He had taken the washcloth and let warm water soak it, before going back to where he had placed Alastor on the bed. Her eyes were already half lidded in exhaustion, springing awake again in panic, when Michael took one of her legs and lifted it.

"N-no", Alastor had gasped, tried to move up the bed and away, but Michael had just held her there. No force needed.

"Sssh", he had soothed her, lifted her leg and kissed the delicate ankle, before pulling the dress up. He had not put the panties back on after their joining. His mouth filled with saliva and hunger as he saw the beautiful pussy again, dried come clinging to the fur there.

Oh how he wanted to dig in again…

But no. No.

His wife was exhausted. She needed a break.

So he just guided the washcloth over her sore parts and loved the way she tensed beneath his touch.

After he had been done, he had left her there.

"This will be your new place to sleep from now on", Michael had told her, before he left. "I will show you the rest later. For now, sleep."

Then he had closed the door and left her in the dark.

Now he guided her through his estate. Finally he was able to show her what he could give. What he could provide.

He opened the double golden doors into a sunlit room. Light filtered through stained glass, scattering soft rainbows across the polished marble.

A grand piano stood in the center, ivory keys shimmering like pearls.

Alastor hesitated at the threshold.

Michael gently nudged her forward with a hand at her back.

“This,” he said proudly, “is where we will spend our evenings.”

He brushed her hair over her shoulder, admiring how the light caught her freckles.

“Lucifer told me once that you played beautifully,” he whispered, bending near her ear. “You’ll play for me now.”

She flinched.

He smiled wider.

They walked along the corridors of his estate.

He opened the next set of doors with a flourish.

A cathedral of books. Ceilings soaring. Shelves stretching up so high that stairs spiraled among them. Soft armchairs nestled between the stacks.

He stepped behind her, hands settling on her shoulders, guiding her inside.

“You may read anything here,” he said, unrestrained pride swelling in his chest. “All of Heaven’s knowledge is yours now.”

She blinked up at the towering shelves, overwhelmed.

“Knowledge keeps the mind gentle,” he murmured.

She shivered.

Then he led her into the kitchen - bright marble counters, glowing utensils, cupboards carved with sigils of plenty.

Michael’s eyes softened at the sight.

“From now,” he said warmly, “you’ll cook for us.”

Her breath stuttered.

He stroked her cheek, thumb brushing the collar.

“We’ll share meals every evening. Like any loving couple.”

Her tail tucked in tightly.

His wife was just a modest woman.

Then he brought her back into the living space - connected to the bedchambers where she had slept earlier - warm sunlight spilling through tall windows, soft couches, gold-lined rugs, a hearth glowing gently with celestial fire.

Alastor hovered uncertainly near the doorway.

Michael took her hand - lightly, reverently - and guided her to the center.

“This,” he told her quietly, “will be your space to maintain.”

Her eyes widened, fragile and frightened.

“A wife keeps a peaceful home,” he explained, brushing his knuckles down her arm.

She trembled.

He saw devotion.

Finally, he led her toward the doubel glass doors opening back into Eden.

Eternal green stretched beyond them - blossoms drifting through warm air, streams whispering through crystal stones.

Alastor paused at the threshold, eyes wide, breath catching in her throat.

Michael’s heart swelled.

He placed a hand at the small of her back, guiding her outside.

“You may walk here,” he said softly, smoothing her hair as she stared around in stunned awe. “Whenever you wish.”

Her shoulders relaxed, just a fraction.

Michael nearly melted at the sight.

“But only with my permission.”

Her spine stiffened again.

He brushed her ear gently.

“Anything else… and you stay near me.”

She looked at him then - wide-eyed, trembling, uncertain - and he felt an overwhelming surge of tenderness.

Always near him. Always safe. Always his.

He closed his hand over hers and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

“A new life,” he whispered. “Ours.”

She did not reply.

Her breath was shallow.

But she didn’t pull away.

And that, to Michael -

- was everything.

Michael closed the glass doors to the garden, pushed Alastor in again, walked to the center of the living space, hands clasped behind his back, watching Alastor stand where he had placed her.

Her red hair tousled softly over the pale-blue dress. Her hands curled tightly against her stomach. Her tail tucked againstthe fabric. Her ears pressed back. Her eyes slightly unfocused, exhausted, frightened.

But she was standing. Unshackled. Now moving of her own will - or the shadow of one.

Progress.

Michael smiled tenderly.

“Now, my darling,” he said, “we must talk about your duties.”

Alastor’s breath stuttered.

He gestured around the room. “This estate is your home now. You may walk freely within these spaces - as long as I accompany you.”

Her eyes flicked toward the door. A twitch of hope. A twitch of fear.

He stepped closer.

“And there are rules,” he murmured. “The rules of a good wife.”

Her entire body stiffened.

Michael raised a gentle hand and touched her cheek. She flinched - but didn’t pull away.

“First,” he said softly, “you must never raise your voice. Soft words only.”

Her breath quivered.

“Second - no aggression. No claws. No disobedience.”

Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes.

“Third - you will sit near me at every meal. You will accept what I feed you.”

His thumb traced her lower lip.

“Fourth - you will remain in dresses. They honor the beauty Lucifer tried to hide.”

She swallowed, throat trembling.

“And fifth,” Michael said, voice softening like velvet, “you must always thank me. For meals. For freedom. For your place here. For my love.”

Her body shook.

He stepped back a pace, folding his hands, expectant.

Waiting.

Alastor stood frozen.

She glanced at the floor. At him. At the collar. Back at him.

Her breath hitched. He could see her mind scrambling.

What does he want? What am I supposed to say? What will make him not hurt me?

Michael laughed internally at that, smiled, then clicked his tongue softly.

Disappointed.

He lifted the remote.

Alastor’s eyes went wide with primal terror.

“T - THANK YOU!” she blurted out, voice hoarse, small, breaking, as she finally understood what Michael had wanted from her.

Too late.

Michael pressed the remote anyway.

The collar lit. A burst of holy static ripped through her chest. Her knees buckled. She choked on a cry, collapsing to the floor with her hands clenched tightly in her dress.

Michael knelt beside her, stroking her shaking hair.

“I told you, little doe,” he whispered sweetly, “every misstep will be punished.”

He kissed her forehead.

“That’s how you learn.”

Alastor

The first task was simple.

Stupid, even.

Fold the linens.

Michael placed a small stack of freshly-washed cloths on the sitting room table and guided Alastor to stand beside them. His hand remained on the small of Alastor’s back the entire time - gentle, warm, inescapable.

“There,” Michael murmured, like he was giving instructions to a child. “Neatly now. Take your time.”

There had been a time, where Alastor would have fought tooth and nail, screamed, and raged and bitten, and scratched … not anymore.

Alastor’s fingers trembled as he reached for the first cloth.

He hated this. Hated every breath of it.

But he folded.

Because the collar glowed faintly, a quiet warning, warm against his throat.

Michael watched from a few steps away, eyes soft, proud.

Good girl, the expression said.

Alastor’s stomach twisted.

He wasn't sure what was worse. The punishment … the love … or that some traiterous part inside of him liked the kind of love Michael provided more than the punishment.

Alastor closed his eyes at the thought.

Silent tears of hate trailing down his cheeks.

Rather getting raped than getting hurt by the collar.

His breath hitched as he placed the last piece of linen away.

The vase was heavy.

His hands shook.

Michael knelt behind him, arms sliding around Alastor’s shoulders to “guide” him.

Alastor's skin crawled at that. The collar pulsed around his throat menacingly and Alastor leaned into the touch.

“Hold them like this,” Michael whispered into Alastor’s ear. “You’re doing beautifully.”

Alastor froze. Every muscle locked.

He hated the warmth of Michael’s breath. Hated the scent of celestial incense clinging to him. Hated the soft hum that vibrated through Michael’s chest when he was pleased.

But he stayed still.

Even when Michaels hand crawled down. Even when they lifted the flowing part of his dress, even when they touched the part of him Alastor liked the least, even when he bend him over the chest of drawers where the vase was placed and fucked him hard.

Because stillness meant safety.

One time, Alastor poured too quickly.

Every day, at around 4pm, Michael insisted on his tea and Alastor would bring it, like the good wife he was now.

Boiling water splashed over Michael’s hand this time.

Michael didn’t flinch. He didn’t yelp or hiss or recoil.

He simply looked at Alastor.

Disappointment.

Quiet. Razor-sharp.

Alastor’s heart plummeted into his stomach.

“I - I’m -” The apology caught in his throat before it even formed.

Michael lifted the remote.

Alastor’s eyes widened.

“P-please -”

The collar lit.

The shock ripped through him like hellfire wrapped in ice. His knees buckled. His breath burst out in a strangled cry. He clutched the counter for balance, trembling violently.

Michael’s hand came to his back, soothing.

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” he murmured, brushing Alastor’s hair behind his ear. “Accidents happen. We’ll try again.”

Alastor hated how his body leaned into the touch -

- a broken reflex searching for comfort…

…and hating himself for needing it.

Especially when Michael grabbed the back of his head, buried his hands into his red curles and pressed him forward, kissing him.

Alastor sobbed.

And kissed him back.

Leaning into the warmths Michael provided. Relaxed into the wings curling around him.

Here he was safe. Only here, in the dark.

This task terrified him the most.

Michael sat on the floor before him, wings unfurled in a breathtaking arc. White, radiant, impossible.

Alastor held the brush with shaking hands. Like every night.

“Go on,” Michael encouraged, voice tender. “You won’t hurt me.”

Alastor swallowed hard.

Then slowly, carefully, like handling a holy relic, he dragged the brush through the nearest wing.

Michael exhaled softly.

A pleased sound.

A sound Alastor did not want to memorize.

He brushed again.

The wing feathers shimmered beneath the movement. Michael leaned slightly into the strokes - subtle, content, trusting.

Alastor’s heart hammered in his throat.

He felt constantly watched.

Constantly evaluated.

One misstep. One twitch. One stray feather…

And he’d be on the ground, shaking from holy static again.

He continued brushing.

Michael hummed praise under his breath.

Alastor’s chest tightened with something awful - resentment and shame knotted together.

Alastor stood on tiptoe, reaching upward, dusting the cupboards.

Michael stepped behind him, hands sliding to his waist.

Alastor’s body went rigid.

“Relax your arms,” Michael murmured, physically moving them into a more “graceful” posture. “And lift your chin. Yes… just like that.”

Alastor froze, breath caught in his lungs.

He felt like a puppet in Michael’s hands. A doll being arranged.

A possession.

A wife.

The thought made something inside him violently recoil.

But he didn’t move.

Not even when Michael kissed the back of his neck in “encouragement.”

"Thank you, my prince," Alastor said softly. As was expected of him.

Michael moaned, turned Alastor around, ignored the dustpan slipping from his hands in shock, falling to the floor. Pressed him against the counter, kissed him on the lips this time, then licked and nipped down Alastor's throat. Alastor arched his neck, revealed more skin, let Michaels hands roam.

Michael lifted him, placed him on the counter, flipped the hem of the dress up to reveal the glistening pussy beneath.

Alastor could do nothing but hold on, as Michael dove in, his long tongue dipping into his juices, deep and slick and so so good.

Alastor gasped. Careful not to hurt Michael, as he tried holding on to the counter, stopping himself from gripping Michaels hair.

For a brief moment Alastor thought about how vulnerable Michael was beneath him right now. How he could just reach over to the knife cabinet and stab …

No. No.

Alastor's throat hurt just thinking about it, every nerve end firing signals of pain at the thought.

The knives were useless against Michael anyway. Alastor was trapped.

And he didn't have it too bad right?

Right?

He was allowed to roam now. Was allowed to wander the gardens, to cook, to play the piano, to read.

Sure it wasn't the bayou out there, he wasn't allowed to cook his favorite jambalaya, wasn't allowed to play his jazz, wasn't allowed to read anything he was truly interested in … but he had gotten a radio. Something he could listen to… sometimes. When Michael was in the mood.

Alastor didn't have anything to complain about.

This was okay.

He was okay.

As long as the collar didn't hurt him anymore … He was okay.

Michael's tongue digged deeper, hitting the spot deep inside Alastor that made him see stars over and over again.

Alastor came, breath catching, back arching. Voice held back, because he wasn't allowed to make too much noise. It wasn't proper.

Michael sat in a chair, book in hand, watching.

Alastor knelt on the floor, folding dresses - silks, lace, soft wools - each one meant for him.

He hated touching them.

Hated the implication.

Hated the softness.

Hated that this was his life now.

Hated that he knew better than to show it.

Loved that he wasn't in pain though.

That was all he needed.

No pain.

He was allowed to hold a wooden spoon when they cooked. Nothing else.

Michael stood close. Too close.

Hand over Alastor’s hand as they stirred broth.

“This is nice,” Michael whispered. “Working together.”

Alastor’s breath shook.

He stirred. Obedient. Slow. Terrified.

One day - Alastor didn't know how much time had passed since he had been kidnapped … no, no … not kidnapped … saved - they sat in the living room. Michael took Alastor’s hands gently in his own.

“You made so much progress the past weeks,” he said, voice full of quiet, radiant pride. “You’re becoming such a perfect little wife.”

Alastor’s chest constricted painfully.

He should hate the words.

He did hate the words.

But the praise - the softness - the absence of the collar’s burn - the relief - the fragile warmth -

His broken mind soaked it up like water in a desert.

And he hated that even more.

He hated that Michael’s praise made something unclench inside him.

He hated that the fear made the kindness feel like salvation.

He hated himself for trembling when Michael kissed the crown of his head and whispered:

“Good girl.”

Alastor lowered his head, shaking.

He didn’t dare speak.

Because part of him - the part beaten, starved, punished, exhausted - wanted to hear the praise again.

So when Michael pressed on his shoulder, a silent signal for Alastor to kneel, Alastor did without thought.

"Good girl," Michael said again.

Alastor's skin tingled in pleasure.

"You like hearing that, right?", Michael smiled softly, stroking him across the head.

"Yes, my prince," he said softly.

Michael smiled down serenly at him, opened his zipper, pulled out his dick.

"Then be a good girl and please your husband as you should," he ordered.

Alastor did.

He leaned forward, let Michael guide his head, took the cock inside his mouth, let it fill him up, until it hit the back of his throat, until he gagged.

Michael moaned.

"Fuck," he huffed. "Fuck, yes. Such a good girl."

Then Michael's hands curled around Alastor's hair, grabbed and moved him, back and forth, back and forth.

Alastor tried to breathe. Tried to swallow, tried to please.

It hurt… but not so much like the collar. So it was fine.

He was fine.

"Good girl!", Michael moaned and spilled deep into his throat.

Alastor swallowed, the part of him that liked hearing Michael's praise tingling in pleasure.

And the rest of him?

The rest wanted to scream.

Michael

It was time for Alastor to have a place.

A proper place.

A wife couldn’t simply wander aimlessly - she needed a seat, a home, a space beside her husband where she belonged.

Michael had prepared it days ago, quietly, lovingly. A chair padded with soft cream cushions, draped with a pale blue throw that matched her favorite dress. He placed it in the sitting room beside his own, angled perfectly so he could see her face whenever he turned his head.

When he was done, he went to retrieve her.

She was kneeling quietly in the living area, hands folded in her lap, eyes downcast, as she listened to the smooth jazz coming from the Radio. She had asked so nicely if she was allowed to listen this morning. Michael just couldn't deny her. Had placed her into this position, allowed her to listen to it, only when she knelt still and silent right there. She startled slightly when he entered - not violently, just a tremor, like a small animal bracing for a blow.

He felt warmth bloom in his chest.

“Come, darling,” he said gently.

She lifted her gaze, red eyes wide with uncertainty.

Michael reached for the collar’s control and activated the guiding function - a soft pull, a tug of holy energy that wrapped around her mind like a leash.

She gasped softly.

Her body rose automatically.

She followed.

Obedient.

Fearful.

Perfect.

When they reached the sitting room, Michael gestured toward the seat.

“This,” he said warmly, “is your place.”

Alastor stiffened. Her fingers curled around the fabric of her dress, eyes flicking from the chair to him, uncertain and frightened.

Michael smiled and touched her cheek.

“Sit, darling.”

She obeyed instantly.

Her back straight, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her breath held shallow and trembling.

Michael’s heart swelled.

He sat in his own chair beside her, reached over, and stroked his fingers gently through her hair.

“You belong here,” he murmured, voice full of tenderness. “Right at my side. This is where you’re safest. Where you’re happiest.”

She did not move.

Did not nod. Did not blink.

Barely breathed.

"Thank you my prince," she whispered at last.

Shyness. She was so beautiful.

He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple.

“That’s my good girl.”

Her shoulders twitched.

His smile widened.

From that day forward, the chair became her anchor point.

When she was not folding linens or brushing his wings or preparing tea with quivering hands, she returned to that seat.

Michael made sure of it.

If she hovered too long near a doorway, lost in thought or panic, he would lift the leash remote and tug the glowing signal on the collar - a warm pulse that tightened just enough to guide her.

“Come here,” he’d call softly. “Sit where you belong.”

And she would.

Terrified. Silent. Shaking.

Her hooves tucked beneath the chair, tail curled tightly, hands clutching her dress.

Michael saw devotion.

He saw a woman learning her role.

He saw love.

He placed a smaller matching chair at the dining table - just to his right. Not facing each other now anymore. One person at one end, the other at the other end. No. Next to each other, as they should be. Always.

At meals, he pulled it out for her with a smile, hand on her lower back to guide her forward.

“Here. Sit beside me.”

Alastor lowered herself slowly, her jaw clenched tight, her eyes fixed on a point just beyond the table.

Michael stroked her cheek.

“You look perfect.”

She did not respond.

The collar hummed warningly.

She whispered:“Th… thank you.”

Michael’s face lit with joy.

She ate the food he offered willingly now. Without complain.

He built another space for her: a cushioned bench beneath a large arching window overlooking the gardens.

“You may read here,” he told her. “You may rest. You may think.”

Then he sat beside her and took her hands in his.

“But do not sit here without asking me.”

Her breath stuttered.

“You understand, don’t you?”

His thumb brushed the collar.

Fear flickered in her eyes.

“…yes…”

Michael beamed.

Sometimes, when he worked in his study, he would call her in.

“Come sit with me.”

He used the collar’s leash-signal - a gentle pull that made her body jolt and obey. She walked to him, steps small and uneven, hands pressed to her stomach.

Michael guided her into the chair beside his desk and took her wrist lightly.

“You’re calmer near me,” he said with pride. “It warms my heart.”

She nodded faintly, terrified to do anything else.

Michael opened a scroll and began working, one hand writing, the other tangled gently in her hair.

To him, it was domestic bliss. A quiet marriage. A peaceful home.

To Alastor, it was a cage disguised as comfort.

But Michael didn’t see that.

Didn’t want to see it.

All he saw was this:

Her sitting still. Obedient. Soft. Silent.

Where she belonged.

At his side.

Always.

It was a small thing.

A very small thing.

A porcelain cup - one of Michael’s favorites - tipped over the edge of the table.

Alastor had been dusting.

Quietly. Perfectly. Exactly as he had taught her.

But her ankle caught the corner of the rug at the worst possible moment. She stumbled, instinctively reaching for the table - and the cup fell.

It shattered against the marble.

The sound echoed like a gunshot in the room.

Alastor froze.

Completely.

Her breath hitched - once, twice - and then she went very, very still.

Michael slowly lifted his gaze from the broken pieces.

He already knew.

It hadn’t been her fault.

It was an accident. A simple, honest accident.

He opened his mouth to tell her so -

Alastor collapsed before he could speak.

She dropped to her knees so fast it was almost a fall, hands flattening on the cold floor, forehead bowing nearly to her wrists. Her entire body trembled.

“No - no - no - no -” she whispered, voice barely audible, shaking like wet paper. “I - I’m sorry - I didn’t - I didn’t mean - please - don’t - please -”

Her voice broke.

A soft, breathless sob escaped her - silent, shattered, terrified.

Michael blinked.

Stunned.

He hadn’t pressed the remote. He hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t even stood up.

But she was already crying. Begging. Collapse born of anticipation, not punishment.

Her shoulders shook violently as she bowed lower, ears pinned, tail tucked so tightly it barely moved.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, faster this time, words stumbling over each other. “Please - please don’t - it was an accident - I’m sorry, I’m sorry - I’ll fix it, I’ll clean it, I’ll be good - I’ll be so good - just please - don’t - don’t hurt me -”

Michael’s breath caught in his throat.

Not in horror.

Not in guilt.

In awe.

He moved toward her slowly, almost reverently, as though approaching a sacred relic.

“Alastor…” he murmured.

She flinched at her name.

Her body curled in on itself, shoulders hunching, hands flat, breath ragged and breaking.

“I didn’t - I didn’t mean - I’m sorry - I’ll be good - I’ll be good, I swear -”

It hit him then.

The complete surrender. The fear. The obedience so deep it stripped her voice into raw apology. The way she braced herself - waiting for pain before he even reached for the remote.

And her tears.

Oh, her tears.

They slid down her cheeks silently, trembling through her breath, hitting the marble like tiny pieces of her old self shattering with the cup.

Michael knelt beside her.

Not with anger.

With worship.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, touching her hair.

She jerked but didn’t pull away. Not really. Just reflex.

“I’m not angry.”

She choked on a sob.

“I’m not,” he repeated, lifting her chin gently.

She stared up at him - eyes wide, red, terrified. Like a creature waiting to be struck.

“I… I’ll do better,” she whispered. “I’ll fix it… I’ll… please…”

Michael’s heart swelled, aching with something too large for him to contain.

“Alastor,” he breathed, brushing her wet cheek with his thumb, “you don’t need punishment.”

She stared - confused, lost, trembling.

“You can make it up to me,” he murmured softly, “in another way.”

Something broke in her expression - an old wall, thin and cracked and exhausted - finally giving way.

Slowly, mechanically, like someone following a remembered command burned into her bones…

…she nodded.

A tiny, broken motion.

Michael felt the breath leave his lungs.

She rose onto shaking legs. Her fingers lifted weakly to her dress.

She hesitated - just a heartbeat - one last flicker of the self she had been.

Then, trembling violently, eyes full of tears, she began to undress.

Not from desire.

Not from seduction.

But from fear.

Obedience.

Survival.

Michael exhaled shakily, overwhelmed by her submission.

“You see?” he whispered, stepping closer, lifting her jaw with two gentle fingers. “You understand now.”

She swallowed, tears slipping down her cheeks.

This was the moment Michael would remember forever - the moment she yielded not from pain, but from need to appease.

From love.

He cupped her face.

“My beautiful wife,” he whispered.

Alastor broke.

A soft sob. A trembling breath. A devastated nod.

Michael kissed her forehead tenderly.

Then her lips.

“I love you,” he whispered to her.

Alastor's breath hitched, as the dress fell from her shoulders in a heap, revealing her in all her glory.

"I love you too, my prince," she whispered back.

He believed it.

Completely.

He made love to her again.

Lifted her up, the dress staying behind in a pooling heap on the floor, as he carried her to the dinner table in the living room, placing her in front of him in all her glory.

She spread her legs, revealed her secrets to him.

Michael panted heavily, moaned as he saw her juices slicking the wet entrance of his wife.

He hurried to pull his pants down, then grabbed her waist and in one smooth move he entered her.

Alastor arched her back from the table in a divine, silent moan. Head thrown back, red hair pooling beneath her.

Michael leaned forward, sucking at her nipple on her breast.

Alastor gasped.

Then he moved to the other one, while he slipped deeper and deeper inside of her.

She wrapped her long, elegant legs around his back, pushed him deeper, closer.

Michael curled his arms around her fragile body as he rammed into her, the whole table shaking beneath her.

Slam.

Her pussy squelching in arousal, as he took her, growing wetter and wetter.

His hands roaming over her body, pulling her impossible close, whishing he could sink into her body forever, merge with her. She was so divine.

He marveld at her figure, the softness of the silk fur on her skin, the body shape beneath his hands, as he stroked and traced with his hands, bit and nipped with his lips, tasting her benath him. Slammed his dick into her over and over again, so deep, so deep.

He needed to go deeper, faster.

He pulled her closer at the waist, her pussy pressed against his crotch, then bend her legs back, placed his own knees onto the table, and fucked her from above, the angle making him slip even deeper.

He moved his hand to her abdomen, felt the way his dick pushed in, made her stomach bulge.

It was not enough.

He needed more.

More.

He used his magic. Made his dick larger.

And for the first time Alastor broke her silent moans.

"Michael-", she gasped, eyes wide, as she tried to get up.

Michael didn't let her.

He slapped her across the cheek, grabbed her throat.

Alastor gasped in pain, hands coming up to hold his own.

"Its 'my prince' for you," Michael hissed at her, but his anger was overshadowed by the pleasure he felt.

He needed more. More. More.

He enlarged his dick even more.

Alastor groaned.

"Sto-"

Michael curled his hands tighter around her throat, as he plunged deeper into her.

"Fuck." He huffed, as he could feel the walls of her cervix press against the tip of his penis.

He was so deep.

So deep.

"Feel me." He whispered.

Alastor's eyes were wide, as she held Michaels hands, tears in the corner of her eyes.

It wasn't enough.

He leaned down. Kissed her. Enlarged his tongue, made it longer, slicker, thicker, as he slid down her throat. Deep. Deep.

He was nearly able to touch himself again.

Alastor gagged around the tongue in her throat, struggled a little, as she tried to take it all.

But she was doing so beautiful. So good.

Michael licked deep inside of her with his tongue, slammed his enlarged dick so deep, her belly became round, everytime he entered her fully, as if she was pregnant.

Fuck.

How good that looked.

He imagined impregnating her. Breeding her.

And spilled.

Impossible deep.

Alastor arched off the table, as Michaels seed filled her up.

Michael held her where she was, while the last of his orgasm ebbed away.

Bliss.

Delight.

He was in heaven.

Literally and figuritavely.

At first he pulled his tongue out of her mouth.

Alastor breathed in deep, coughed, as if she hadn't been able to get enough air in. Tried to curl herself to the side, but Michael was still in her with his dick, preventing her from doing it.

Her eyes were wide, her eyebrows twitched. Her lips open and red and swollen. Her gaze far away.

Michael slowly eased out of her, kissing along her legs and carefully placed them down.

Alastor stayed limp.

Her chest moving shallowly up and down.

Michael left her there.

Lying.

Silently.

Continued where he left off. Picked up his book, sat down in his chair, read.

It took a long time for his wife to move again.

Michael didn't mind.

Spread out like this, she was a beautiful view he could look at once in a while.

(Song I listened to while writing the epic battle: https://youtu.be/TXPyZr_6xk0?si=1KGcpHUhFnre3DBl)

Lucifer

It had taken Lucifer months.

Months of prying, circling, threatening, begging. Months of arguing with Sera until her wings shook with uncertainty.

Ever since that strange “meeting” she’d held alone - the one Michael had inexplicably skipped - she hadn’t seen him. Not once.

No other angel had, either.

Michael had vanished into his estate. Secluded. Silent. Severed from Heaven itself.

Sera had tried to convince herself this was nothing unusual.

But Lucifer knew.

And after enough pressure, enough grim logic, enough fear trembling in Sera’s face…

…she relented.

“We’ll go,” she’d whispered.

“Unannounced.” Lucifer said angrily.

"Unannounced." She agreed solemnly.

And Lucifer had sworn - with a voice like rusted steel -

“If he has harmed Alastor… I will burn Heaven down to its roots.”

And now.

Now they were finally here.

The gates of Michael’s estate slammed open under Lucifer’s hands.

Sera flinched at the violence, wings stiff with guilt and dread.

“Lucifer -” she tried, “we must proceed carefully -”

But he was already striding in, boots cracking like thunder across the pristine marble floor.

A storm in the shape of an angel.

His celestial aura unfurled behind him like molten lava, dangerous, radiant, destructive.

“MICHAEL!” he roared, voice shaking the walls. “SHOW YOURSELF!”

Sera winced, clutching her spear.

“Lucifer - please -”

He didn’t hear her. He barely heard anything past the furious pounding of his own heart.

He marched down the main corridor - his footsteps echoeing through the long, silent hallway. Cold and clean and white. Pristine.

- and stopped.

Stopped dead.

At the end of the hallway, there were two stairways, climbing up on each side to a little balcony. On that balcony something moved, emerged from the shadows, with long, elegant strides.

For a breathless moment, Lucifer forgot how to breathe.

Because standing at the top of the stairs, emerging like a ghost from the upper floor of Michael’s estate -

was Alastor.

But not his Alastor.

Not the Radio Demon who smiled with too many teeth. Not the predator who moved like a shadow dressed in charm and blood. Not the executioner whose very presence bent Hell to silence.

This -

this was something else.

Something broken.

Something stolen.

Something manufactured.

A flowing gown of pale, holy silk clung to his trembling body, fabric spilling down his legs like sanctified water. Gold pins glittered in his hair, delicate, ornate, forcing the red curls into a soft, obedient shape.

His deer ears - the ones that used to flick with sharp alertness, wild instinct, and wicked amusement - were brushed smooth. Too smooth. Flattened in fear. So soft they looked almost plush.

His shoulders were pulled back, but not by pride - by training. Conditioning. Submission.

His tail was tucked close to the dress. His hands folded in front of him like a doll waiting to be placed somewhere.

And his eyes - Oh God.

Lucifer’s heart shattered.

Alastor’s crimson eyes, usually bright and manic and hungry for the hunt, were glassy.
Red-rimmed. Dilated. Trembling.

Tears clung to his lashes, not daring to fall.

He didn’t even blink at Lucifer.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t sneer. Didn’t posture.

He just stood there. Small. Silent. Barely breathing.

Broken.

“Alastor…” Lucifer whispered, voice cracking with something raw and ancient.

The Radio Demon flinched.

Just a little. Just enough for Lucifer to see how deep the damage ran.

Lucifer took a step forward -

Then he saw it.

The thing around Alastor’s throat.

Not a collar.

Not metal. Not steel.

No.

Something far worse.

A band of woven holy energy, layered and reinforced with spellwork Lucifer recognized too well.

Searing. Binding. Crushing.

A prison disguised as light.

It pulsed with Michael’s essence.

Michael’s will.

Michael’s control.

Every beat of its glow siphoned power from Alastor’s body, tightening like an invisible hand around his throat.

A leash. A torture device. A brand burned into his soul.

Something Lucifer had barely survived back then. Alastor was wearing it, no chance to escape or fight for him.

Lucifer’s vision swam. His stomach dropped.

“No…” he whispered, voice breaking as the realization hit him like a blow.

The holy band hummed again, and Alastor’s knees wobbled.

Lucifer lunged forward before he could stop himself.

“NO - NO, NO, ALASTOR -!”

His voice cracked open, raw with terror, anguish, guilt -

Because this wasn’t a prisoner.

This wasn’t a captive.

This wasn’t even an angel’s pet.

This was a victim.

A victim who still wore the remnants of silk bruises around his wrists. A victim who didn’t run to the King of Hell for safety. A victim whose instinct wasn’t to bare teeth or summon static -

- but to lower his eyes.

To step back.

To shrink.

To obey.

Lucifer’s blood turned to fire.

His heart tore itself apart in his chest.

"Alastor," he whispered again, softer this time, voice shaking with disbelief, sorrow, rage, and something dangerously close to grief.

“How - how did he make you like this…?”

He wasn’t expecting an answer.

But Alastor -

Alastor lowered his head.

A tiny, involuntary movement.

As if awaiting correction.

As if expecting punishment.

As if Lucifer standing there - calling his name - was a danger.

Lucifer’s breath left him in an agonized, broken sound.

Behind him, Sera gasped, hand flying to her mouth.

“Oh God,” she whispered. “Oh - Michael… what have you done -”

Lucifer’s fingers curled into shaking fists.

His wings flared.

The old power - the ancient, celestial rage of the Morningstar - rose like a sun preparing to annihilate worlds.

And then -

Michael stepped out behind Alastor.

Smiling.

One hand sliding possessively over Alastor’s waist, the other brushing his hair aside to kiss the delicate skin of his neck.

Alastor shuddered. His eyes closed. Not in pleasure. In pain.

Lucifer’s scream tore the heavens.

Michael flinched - but only because the force of the blow that followed hurled him through the manor wall, shattering marble and blasting gold dust into the air. Lucifer didn’t hesitate. He lunged after him, grabbing Michael by the chest and slamming him through three more walls, through the garden gates -

- and out into Eden’s sacred expanse.

The moment their feet hit the untouched soil, Lucifer’s rage detonated again. He grabbed Michael by the throat and roared:

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HIM?!”

Michael’s wings snapped wide, blinding white, and with a single beat he threw Lucifer off him like a ragdoll.

Lucifer hit the ground with the force of a collapsing star, sliding across Eden’s roots and vines. He spat golden blood.

Michael floated above him, laughing.

Laughing.

“And you accuse me,” Michael purred, eyes glowing fever-bright. “You - who poisoned her. Who twisted her into a monster. Who hid her beauty beneath claws and teeth.”

Lucifer’s jaw clenched, trembling with pure hatred.

“You purified him?!” he snarled, rising. “You tortured him. You broke his mind. You stripped away his will. How dare you touch what was never yours!”

Michael’s lips curved.

“You have no claim,” he hissed. “Alastor is mine.”

"I am not claiming, you bastard! He is free! Has free will! And you took it!"

Lucifer roared and collided with him again, their impact cracking Eden’s ground wide open, sending shockwaves through the sky. Angelic vines burned. Leaves shriveled. The garden bled light.

They fought like creation itself was tearing.

Wing against wing.

Light against fire.

Love against delusion.

Michael threw him down again, pinning him with a knee to the chest, fist glowing like a newborn star.

“How poetic,” Michael sneered. “Us fighting again, little brother. Do you remember the Fall? How easily I cast you out?”

Lucifer spat blood into his face.

Michael slammed Lucifer into the ground so hard Eden howled.

Lucifer rolled, wings flaring, just barely dodging as Michael dove again - a holy meteor carving trenches through the garden.

Lucifer leapt onto his back, grabbing Michael’s wings and unleashing a blast of pure infernal power, a shockwave that turned whole acres of Eden into white fire.

Michael staggered - only for a heartbeat -

then threw his head back and laughed, wild, triumphant.

“You still anger so easily,” he taunted, eyes blazing. “Just like before. Just like when I defeated you.”

Lucifer roared and charged again, claws cracking through Michael’s armor of light.

“You had been the strongest back then,” Michael hissed, seizing Lucifer’s arm and twisting - bones splintering. “But I am the cleansing flame. I purified heaven from you and now i did it again with what was mine.”

Lucifer’s eyes went black with fury.

“ALASTOR IS NOT YOURS!”

Michael drove him into the dirt again, Eden shaking under the force.

“He is free,” Lucifer snarled, wings flaring wide. “He was never yours to touch, to shape, to break - you dared to take what from him, what you once stole from me too.”

And oh the pain. Lucifer felt it still deep inside of him. The pain his brother had carved into him back then. And now Alastor had gone through the same. Had burned beneath his brothers horrible touch, because Lucifer hadn't been there for him, hadn't protected him enough.

For the briefest moment, Michael paused - confusion knitting across his face.

Then his expression curdled.

“She is better now,” Michael growled, smashing Lucifer into a tree so hard its trunk splintered. “She is pure. Divine. Everything Hell stole, I restored.”

“You brainwashed him!” Lucifer spat blood onto the soil. “You control him - just like you tried to control me!”

Michael’s smile twisted, cruel and pitying.

“She begged for me. She yielded. She told me she loved -”

Lucifer lunged with a scream and the two collided again, tearing through Eden like twin supernovas, each blow enough to level a kingdom.

Michael struck first - a holy fist exploding against Lucifer’s ribs, sending him skidding across the garden.

Lucifer hit the ground hard.

Dust plumed.

His breath hitched.

And that was the moment Alastor broke past the estate gate - thin, trembling, eyes wide in terror.

“Lucifer -!”

Lucifer froze.

“Alastor - ? No - stay back - ”

Sera sprinted after him, wings blazing, grabbing Alastor around the waist before he could run into the battlefield.

Lucifer’s heart clenched - fear, rage, desperation - all twisting violently inside his chest.

“SERA!” he bellowed. “Get him AWAY!”

But Michael was already there, seizing Lucifer by the throat and hurling him into another tree with enough strength to crack the sky.

Lucifer staggered, wings flaring -

- and one caught.

A thorn.

A massive, jagged, ancient thorn jutting from Eden’s corrupted bark.

Michael’s smile turned vicious.

“They grew after you fell,” he hissed, striding toward Lucifer like an executioner. “Your corruption… still infects paradise.”

Lucifer tore at the thorn, ripping his wing free just in time -

But Michael was already on him.

The archangel slammed him into the ground, knees pinning his hips, fingers closing around his throat. The holy drain began immediately - like molten gold being sucked out of him.

Lucifer’s vision tunneled.

His hands scrabbled uselessly at Michael’s wrists.

He couldn’t lose.

He couldn’t lose -

Alastor needed him.

He was the only one who could save him -

But the world was darkening. His limbs weakening. His power bleeding out through Michael’s touch.

Michael leaned down, voice a venomous whisper:

“You cannot save her, brother. She belonged to me long before you arrived.”

Lucifer thrashed -

- but his body was failing.

Holy light pulsed at the edges of his sight.

Blackness swallowed the rest.

He was dying.

And then …

"Michael - Stop!"

A scream.

Alastor’s scream.

He stumbled into Eden, tears streaking his face, panic radiant like an open wound. Sera ran after him, calling his name, trying to stop him -

“Lucifer!” Alastor choked, reaching out -

Sera seized him just as Michael turned.

For a split, horrifying second-

Michael forgot Lucifer.

Forgot the fight.

Forgot everything -

except the sight of Alastor holding Sera’s spear.

His beloved wife - His perfect creation - His purified, delicate doe -

holding a weapon.

Michael stared, frozen.

“Alastor?” he whispered. A prayer. A plea.

Alastor looked at Lucifer trapped beneath Michael’s knee.

And he moved.

One desperate, trembling step.

Then another.

Michael’s face collapsed into horror -

as Alastor drove Sera’s spear into his wing and to the ground behind it.

Michael screamed.

It wasn’t an angelic sound.

It was raw. Animalistic. Betrayed.

The blast of pain loosened his grip enough for Lucifer to suck in a ragged breath and roll away, coughing, chest burning.

And for just a second their eyes met. Time seemed to slow down.

Alastor's and Lucifer's.

Blood red and molten gold.

And Lucifer saw it, the fire still burning in Alastor's eyes. Not completely lost. Not completely gone yet.

"He wanted to hurt you," Alastor whispered, lips trembling, body shivering.

Sera pulled Alastor back - time resumed its normal pace -just in time as Michael howled, tearing the spear free in a spray of radiant blood.

“ALASTOR!” he shrieked, voice cracking. “How - how dare you betray me?! After everything -after all I gave you - after all I healed in you -”

His eyes were wild, feral, imploding with delusion.

He took a step forward.

Alastor stumbled back, terror flooding his features.

Lucifer’s voice rasped out:

“Sera - get him away.”

Sera didn’t hesitate. She pulled Alastor behind her, shielding him with her wings.

Michael’s fury tore through Heaven.

He lunged - only to be yanked backward by Lucifer crashing onto his back, claws tearing into his remaining wing.

“You don’t get to touch him ever again,” Lucifer hissed into Michael’s ear.

Michael screamed and twisted, trying to throw him off -

- but Lucifer was no longer losing.

He had seen Alastor fight for him. He had seen Alastor choose him over Michael.

Power surged through Lucifer like molten light.

His horns lengthened. His teeth sharpened. His eyes burned with ancient fury.

Michael tried to flee upward - Lucifer dragged him down and ripped his wing free.

Michael shrieked like a falling star, collapsing to his knees, golden blood gushing over Eden’s ruined soil.

“Lucifer - please -” he gasped, reaching up with trembling hands.

Lucifer towered above him now, monstrous and divine.

“This is for him.”

Michael’s eyes widened.

“Lucifer - no -”

Lucifer struck.

One hand gripping Michael’s jaw.

The other plunging claws deep into his spine.

Michael convulsed - light bursting from his mouth -

And Lucifer bent down, fangs sinking into Michael’s throat as he tore his head free and swallowed it whole.

Michael’s body collapsed, glowing gold -

then dissolved into drifting ash.

Silence dropped over Eden.

Ash fell like snow.

Lucifer turned.

Alastor stood behind Sera, shaking violently, wide-eyed, dressed like a bridal doll in chains.

Lucifer’s monstrous form slowly receded, his voice a rasp as he stepped forward:

“…I’ve got you now.”

Alastor collapsed into him.

And Lucifer held him like something sacred broken.

The battle was over.

But the healing…

had only just begun.

Fin.

Notes:

Congratulations to everyone who made it through this dark, monster of a fic. I do hope everyone enjoyed it. If yes I'd love to read a comment about it!
I am also on tiktok, tumblr and blusky (@tonystark604), so come yap at me there, cause I love interacting with my readers and fellow fans! <3

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