When the radio demon loves

Chapter 9 (Defeat)

(normal pov)

Lucifer had long since resigned himself to the grim reality of his existence under Alastor's control. Every day, every moment, was a reminder of how powerless he had become. He hated it—hated how he had fallen so far, hated how he had lost everything, but most of all, he hated Alastor's touch. The feeling of those cold, possessive hands on his skin was like a poison, seeping into his very soul, filling him with a disgust so deep that it made him want to crawl out of his own body.

But he knew better than to resist.

In the beginning, Lucifer had tried to fight back. He had struggled, pushed Alastor away, screamed at him in fury. But all it had ever earned him was more violence, more pain. Every time he fought, Alastor's punishments grew more severe, his control more unyielding. Eventually, Lucifer had learned that resistance was futile. The more he fought, the worse it became. So, now, he did the only thing he could—he endured.

Whenever Alastor decided to have his way with him, Lucifer would lie still, silent, staring at the ceiling or the far wall, his mind drifting far away from the horrors of the present. It was easier this way. Easier to detach, to pretend that what was happening wasn't real, that it wasn't happening to him. He had perfected the art of dissociation, letting his mind retreat to some distant place where Alastor couldn't reach him, couldn't hurt him.

But no matter how far he tried to run in his own mind, he could still feel Alastor's hands on him—rough, possessive, cold. Every touch felt like a violation, a reminder that he no longer had control over his own body. Lucifer loathed it, loathed how Alastor could claim him so easily, so completely. There was no escape from those hands, no reprieve from the sensation of being owned, used, and discarded at Alastor's whim.

Alastor, of course, reveled in this. He enjoyed Lucifer's compliance, the way he lay there, still and silent, as if he had finally accepted his place. But Alastor knew it wasn't acceptance—it was defeat. And that made it all the more satisfying to him. He loved how Lucifer had been broken so thoroughly, loved how the once-proud king had been reduced to this—an obedient, silent plaything who no longer fought back.

"You're learning," Alastor would purr into Lucifer's ear, his voice sickeningly sweet as he ran his hands over Lucifer's body. "This is what you were always meant to be. Mine."

Lucifer's eyes would remain fixed on the ceiling, his body limp beneath Alastor's weight. He never responded. He had learned that silence was the safest option, that any words—any attempt to push back, no matter how small—would only bring more pain. So he lay there, letting it happen, waiting for it to be over.

The physical sensations were unbearable, but it was the emotional degradation that truly tore Lucifer apart. Each time Alastor forced himself on him, it chipped away at whatever remained of his dignity, his identity. He hated the way Alastor's touch made his skin crawl, how the intimacy that should have been an act of love or desire had become just another form of violence, another way for Alastor to assert his control.

Lucifer had never known a more profound sense of powerlessness. His body was no longer his own, and his mind, too, felt like it was slipping away, eroded by years of torment and abuse. He could feel himself fading, losing the essence of who he once was.

At night, after Alastor was finished with him and the weight of the demon's presence finally lifted, Lucifer would curl up on the cold floor, trembling from both the physical pain and the emotional aftermath. He would clutch his arms around himself, as if trying to hold together the fragments of his broken soul, but nothing could shield him from the overwhelming despair that consumed him.

There was no escape. No hope. Lucifer's existence had been reduced to this endless cycle of torment, and there was nothing left of him but a hollow shell—an object for Alastor's amusement, a toy to be used whenever the Radio Demon desired.

As he lay there, aching and empty, Lucifer could only think of one thing—how much longer can I endure this?

But deep down, he already knew the answer. As long as Alastor wanted him, he would remain trapped in this nightmare, forever under the control of the one who had taken everything from him. And there was no end in sight.

End of chapter

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