When the radio demon loves

Chapter 10 (Toy)

(Normal pov)

Lucifer's life had become a twisted, monotonous nightmare, one that he couldn't escape. Every day felt the same, a cycle of torment that had stripped him of any sense of purpose or meaning. The only variable was Alastor's mood, and that was the cruelest part of all—never knowing what awaited him. It was a perverse kind of gamble, one that Lucifer had no choice but to endure.

If Alastor was in a good mood, things were almost bearable. On those rare days, the Radio Demon's abuse was restrained, if it could even be called that. The physical violence would lessen, replaced instead by possessive touches and invasive whispers. Alastor would still force himself on Lucifer, his need for control and dominance always present, but the absence of the brutal beatings meant that Lucifer could at least move afterward. On these days, Lucifer would lie still, staring blankly ahead, his mind numb to the violation of his body. He had long ago learned how to disconnect from the pain, from the sickening sensation of Alastor's hands on him, his breath against his skin.

But when Alastor was in a bad mood, Lucifer's world became a living hell. On those days, nothing could protect him from the full force of the Radio Demon's rage. The abuse was relentless, violent, and sadistic. Alastor would beat him mercilessly, his anger manifesting in the sound of cracking bones and the taste of blood. There were times when Lucifer could barely move afterward, his body too broken to even lift himself off the floor. He would lay there, gasping for breath, hoping that Alastor's fury had been sated, at least for the moment.

Lucifer's once-proud form had become a canvas of scars and bruises, his body a testament to the years of abuse he had suffered. And through it all, he had learned one simple truth: his life no longer belonged to him. It was Alastor's to control, to destroy at his whim.

In the quiet moments between Alastor's cruelty, Lucifer found himself sinking deeper into despair. His existence felt meaningless, a hollow routine of suffering that had no end. There was no hope of escape, no future beyond the next beating or assault. He was trapped in a life that was no longer his own, a puppet to Alastor's twisted desires.

Lucifer no longer cared about the throne, about power, or even about survival. Those things felt distant, irrelevant, swallowed by the endless pain and humiliation he faced each day. What was the point of anything if he was nothing more than a toy, an object for Alastor to torment whenever he pleased?

On the days when Alastor was particularly brutal, Lucifer would lie in the aftermath, his body shaking from the pain, wondering if this was it—if this was the moment when his body would finally give out, when he would be free of the torment, even if it meant death. But somehow, he always survived. His demonic nature prevented him from slipping into that final release, and so the cycle continued, unbroken.

There were no tears left to cry, no anger left to feel. All that remained was the cold, empty shell of who he once was. Lucifer, the Morningstar, the ruler of Hell, had been reduced to nothing more than Alastor's plaything, a slave in his own castle. His life had become a waking nightmare, and there was no escape in sight. All he could do was hope that Alastor would be in a good mood, pray that the day wouldn't end with him unable to move from the pain of his abuse.

But even in those rare moments of peace, when Alastor's mood was kinder, Lucifer knew it wouldn't last. The Radio Demon's cruelty always returned, a storm waiting just beneath the surface, ready to tear him apart once again. And with every passing day, Lucifer felt himself slipping further away, losing whatever small fragments of hope he had once held onto.

His life had become meaningless, a cycle of torment and survival. And deep down, Lucifer knew there was no end to it, no escape from the hell that Alastor had created for him.

End of chapter

Next: Tomorrow 12am