When the radio demon loves

Chapter 11 (Shallow)

(Normal pov)

Alastor had never expected to feel guilt—certainly not for someone like Lucifer. But as he watched Lucifer, day after day, he couldn't ignore the stark change in the demon who had once been Hell's proud ruler. The fire that had once burned so fiercely in Lucifer's eyes was gone, replaced by a dull, lifeless emptiness. It was a strange thing to witness. Once, Lucifer had fought back, argued, resisted in every way he could. There had been anger, hatred, and fear in his gaze, all emotions that Alastor had enjoyed coaxing out of him. But now, Lucifer was nothing more than an empty shell.

There were no more defiant words, no more trembling in fear or bursts of anger. Whenever Alastor tried to provoke him—whether through cruel words or violent hands—Lucifer would only stare blankly, his silence louder than any protest. At first, it had been amusing. Alastor had found satisfaction in knowing he had broken Lucifer completely, that the former king was now his in every way. But over time, something shifted.

The joy Alastor once took in breaking Lucifer began to fade. It wasn't fun anymore. Beating him didn't elicit the same pleasure it used to. Lucifer didn't even flinch when Alastor raised a hand to him now; there were no tears, no fear, no pleading. It was as though he had shut down entirely, his soul retreating to a place where Alastor could no longer reach him. And for reasons Alastor couldn't fully understand, it began to unsettle him.

He had created this emptiness in Lucifer. Every bruise, every cut, every cruel touch had drained the life from him, and now there was nothing left. And for the first time, a feeling that Alastor had never expected began to gnaw at him—a tiny sliver of guilt.

He had never felt guilt before, not for the countless lives he had ruined, not for the suffering he had inflicted. But something about seeing Lucifer so utterly hollow, so devoid of anything resembling life or spirit, made Alastor feel... something. It was small, faint, but undeniable.

He had destroyed Lucifer, and in doing so, he had taken away what had once made him so captivating. The fire, the pride, the defiance—it was all gone. Now, when Alastor looked at Lucifer, he didn't see his plaything or his possession. He saw a lifeless, empty vessel, a hollow shell that he had hollowed out with his own hands.

Slowly, Alastor began to pull back. He didn't stop his abuse entirely—it was in his nature, after all—but he found himself hitting Lucifer less, forcing himself on him less frequently. There was no joy in it anymore. No thrill in seeing a body that no longer responded, a mind that no longer reacted. The violence felt like a routine, a habit that had lost its spark.

Instead, Alastor found himself simply watching Lucifer sometimes, trying to find traces of the demon he had once known. In the quiet moments, when the castle was still, Alastor would sit beside him, his gaze lingering on the broken figure. Lucifer rarely moved, rarely spoke. Even when Alastor touched him now, Lucifer's body didn't tense like it used to. He just let it happen, resigned to whatever came next.

At night, instead of forcing himself on Lucifer, Alastor began to do something strange, even to himself. He would slip into Lucifer's bed, but rather than use him as he had done so many times before, he would wrap his arms around him, pulling him close as they lay there in the dark. It wasn't about control or possession in those moments; it was something else. Alastor didn't know if he could call it affection, but it was the need to feel Lucifer close, to remind himself that Lucifer was still there, even if only in body.

Lucifer never reacted. He would lie still, his body cold and unresponsive, even as Alastor held him tightly. Alastor sometimes whispered things into the silence, words that he wasn't sure Lucifer even heard. Apologies, perhaps. Though he never said the words aloud, they lingered in the space between them.

"I did this to you," Alastor would think, though he never dared speak it. "I broke you."

Sometimes, as he held Lucifer, Alastor would feel the tiniest flicker of something unfamiliar in his chest. Regret. He couldn't quite place it, but the sensation grew stronger the more he looked at Lucifer's empty eyes, the more he touched his cold skin and felt nothing in return. The guilt, once small and easy to ignore, had started to grow.

He had wanted to possess Lucifer completely, to make him his. But now that he had, Alastor found that the victory felt hollow. There was no thrill in owning a lifeless doll, no satisfaction in controlling someone who no longer had the will to defy him.

In the dark, with Lucifer's body in his arms, Alastor began to wonder if he had taken too much. If, in his pursuit of power and control, he had destroyed something that he couldn't ever fix.

Lucifer, meanwhile, remained silent, as empty as ever, too broken to care whether Alastor's grip had softened or whether the abuse had lessened. To him, it didn't matter anymore. Nothing did. He was beyond saving, beyond hope. All that remained was this endless existence, this cycle of pain and emptiness, and the faint sensation of Alastor's arms around him in the dark, a hollow echo of what once had been.

End of chapter

Next: Tomorrow 12am