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Niffty joyfully scrubbed away a final, stubborn spot of shark remains.
Charlie beamed, her hands dancing through the air as she looked between her father and Alastor. “And then you—with the duck army! And you, Alastor, with the shadows! You were both incredible! You actually, truly worked together!”
Lucifer offered his daughter a tight, paternal smile. Not a single hair was out of place; not a speck of dust marred his pristine white suit. But his eyes, burning with divine wrath, remained locked on the deer, who leaned against the bar with an infuriating grin.
Sensing the weight of that gaze, Alastor’s smirk widened. Witnessing the full, terrifying scope of the Devil’s power hadn’t cowed him; it had, inexplicably, stoked his amusement. He traced a slow, deliberate circle on the polished bar with one clawed finger.
“Indeed, a most exhilarating diversion!” Alastor chirped, his voice a grating, melodic hum. “One might even say it was… entertaining to see the king unleash his full potential. For such a brief, fleeting moment, of course.”
The comment was a meticulously sharpened dart, meant to reduce Lucifer’s cataclysmic display to a mere sideshow. Charlie’s radiant smile faltered. Vaggie’s single eye narrowed into a slit. Angel let out a low, appreciative whistle, settling in for the impending fireworks with a salacious smirk.
Lucifer’s smile didn’t drop; it sharpened, becoming a thing of predatory intent. The very air in the lobby grew cold.
Seven years.
The memory, potent and vivid, flashed behind his eyes.
The image of a writhing, sweat-slicked Alastor arching on his throne, the fine fur of his back damp with exertion and the sheen of his own spend. Sharp nails digging into the dark wood of the throne, then into the pale skin of Lucifer’s forearms, drawing beads of golden ichor.
A voice, raw and broken with need, stripped entirely of its broadcast filter, reduced to a desperate, keening whine. “Please… my King… A fawn, please. I want it—I want your fawn! Breed this worthless body; claim me, please! I'm yours!”
He’d left him there. A meeting, some tedious bureaucracy, had demanded his attention, leaving the keen, desperate creature aching and unfulfilled. He had never forgotten the sight, the sound, or the intoxicating scent of sex and burning ambition. He had owned Alastor completely in that moment, and the memory had festered for seven long years.
Now, this grinning, arrogant upstart thought he could play games. He thought he could wield that shared, intimate humiliation against the one being who had seen him undone. The asshole was screaming for his full, undivided attention without having the courage to beg for it again. He wanted the King of Hell to claim him, to fuck him, to breed him.
Fine, Lucifer thought, the decision settling in his soul like a final judgment. He will have his audience. He will be reminded, in front of the entire staff of this hotel, to whom he belongs.
“Charlie, my apple blossom,” Lucifer said, his voice deceptively light and airy, his gaze never leaving Alastor. “You and Vaggie must be exhausted. Why don’t you go upstairs? I had a new en-suite bathroom installed—a steam shower, the works. A present. Go, enjoy it.”
“Oh! Dad, that’s so sweet!” Charlie chirped, her previous worry momentarily forgotten in a cloud of familial affection. “But we should all debrief! It was a very traumatic day, and sharing our feelings is so important for—”
“No need,” Lucifer interrupted smoothly, his tone leaving no room for argument. A flick of his wrist summoned a shimmer of golden light that coalesced into a perfect, smiling duplicate. The clone slid an arm around Charlie and Vaggie with practiced ease. “I’ll send my double with you. He’s excellent at talking about feelings. Aren’t you?”
The clone beamed, a mirror image of paternal warmth. “The very best. Come along, girls. Let’s discuss emotions in a safe, private space.”
Vaggie narrowed her eye, her military instincts screaming in alarm. “Lu, what are you—?”
But the clone was already herding them firmly toward the staircase, its strength undeniable. Charlie, ever trusting, allowed herself to be guided up, throwing one last confused glance over her shoulder. The clone immediately began asking her about her plans for the hotel's grand reopening, its cheerful chatter effectively drowning out any further protest.
The moment their bedroom door clicked shut upstairs, a second, subtler snap of Lucifer’s fingers placed an impenetrable sound barrier around it. The atmosphere in the lobby plummeted into subzero, suffocating territory. The air grew heavy, charged with a malevolent energy that made the hairs on Angel’s arm stand up.
Alastor’s smirk finally slipped into a wary line. “Now, really, Lucifer, what is the meaning of this? Sending the children away? If this is about my little quip, I assure you, it was all in good fun—”
“It’s not about your fucking quip,” Lucifer said, his voice dropping into a register that caused the very foundations of the hotel to vibrate. It was the voice of an absolute, ancient power—the voice that once commanded legions of angels. He took one deliberate step forward. Then another. “It’s about a debt. Seven years overdue, Bambi.”
The old nickname, spoken with such intimate contempt, struck Alastor like a physical blow. His eyes widened. The memory, it seemed, was not his alone. He took a subtle step back, only to find his retreat blocked by another Lucifer clone, which materialized silently behind him, gripping his shoulders with unyielding hands. Alastor tried to shift, to summon his shadows, but the clone’s hold only tightened, its fingers digging into the fabric of his coat like talons.
“I have no idea what you’re referring to,” Alastor lied, his voice straining to maintain its smooth broadcast cadence, a faint warble betraying his unease.
“Don’t you?” Lucifer was now directly in front of him, so close Alastor could feel the heat rolling off his body. He reached out, not with violence, but with an awful, intimate familiarity, running the back of his fingers down Alastor’s cheekbone. “You begged so prettily that day. Rode my cock like you were born for it. My throne was soaked with your nectar. Or have you forgotten to whom you offered your virginity, your very soul, you exquisite little liar?”
Husk dropped the glass he was polishing. It shattered on the floor, the sound unnaturally loud in the tense silence. Niffty zipped over immediately, muttering, “Ooo, shiny mess, messy, messy!” as she collected the shards.
Angel leaned forward on the couch, chin in his hands, a delighted, salacious grin spreading across his face. “Oh, fuck yeah. This is better than any studio shoot I’ve ever been in.”
From the doorway, Sir Pentious hissed, recoiling in horror. “Eggboys! Do not look upon this… this depravity! The corruption of a king!” The egg minions dutifully spun around, facing the wall, their little bodies trembling.
“You left me,” Alastor whispered, the broadcast filter cracking to reveal the seething, humiliated anger beneath. A small, involuntary bleat, soft and vulnerable, escaped him. “You took my virginity… and then you left me… aching and empty on that cold throne.”
“I had a kingdom to run,” Lucifer purred, his voice a low, threatening hum. His hand slid from Alastor’s cheek to his throat, not squeezing, just holding—a possessive, inescapable claim. “But now I’m free. And you, my needy little doe, have been acting very naughty. Thinking you can lay claim to what is mine. Thinking you can manipulate my daughter. Smirking at me as if you aren’t the same creature who screamed for my seed.”
Lucifer snapped his fingers.
Another clone appeared and, with a sudden, brutal yank, tore the front of Alastor’s crisp red coat open, sending buttons flying. The shirt beneath was shredded down the middle, exposing his torso. His chest was that of a doe—smooth and covered in a fine, russet fur, with two small, soft breasts, and lower, a second, more prominent pair, all leading down to the soft, vulnerable fur of his stomach and the delicate slit of his cunt, now glistening with a betraying dampness. Alastor gasped, a sound of pure shock and outrage, his shadows swirling around him in frantic, useless agitation.
“You will not—” Alastor snarled, his own power flaring, black tendrils lashing out towards Lucifer with lethal intent.
“I will,” Lucifer stated, and his words became the unchangeable law of the universe.
A wave of golden light erupted from him—not destructive, but dominative. It washed over Alastor, and his power sputtered and died. His shadows dissipated like smoke. The green light in his eyes flickered and vanished, leaving only wide, shocked pupils. He stood half-naked and completely vulnerable in the Devil’s unyielding grip, his carefully constructed aura of invincibility shattered.
“You wanted my full attention,” Lucifer murmured, his breath hot against Alastor's exposed chest. “You have it. And everyone here will bear witness to what happens when a stag plays with the King’s fire.”
He shoved Alastor backward, bending him over the bar’s surface. Bottles of expensive liquor rattled and fell, shattering on the floor and filling the air with the sharp scent of alcohol. Husk scrambled away with a hiss of disgust, retreating to the furthest corner to pour whiskey with resigned dread. "Not on the damn bar," he muttered, the plea sounding feeble even to his ears.
Angel, on the other hand, made himself comfortable. He stretched out, one hand propping up his head, the other already drifting to the front of his pants. "Fuckin' finally," he breathed, his eyes glittering with voyeuristic delight. "Some real fucking drama."
Niffty paused her scrubbing, her single eye blinking rapidly. She zipped closer, perching on a barstool right next to the action. "Ooooh," she squeaked, tilting her head. "He's all fur! And he's got the teats! Just like a real doe. He is a very angry, wiggly doe."
Lucifer simply willed their remaining clothing away. His cock, already fully erect, was a thick, veined pillar of infernal flesh, gleaming with slick, golden pre-cum, a formidable weapon of creation and destruction aimed at the very core of the demon's arrogance.
Alastor thrashed beneath him, a feral, guttural sound tearing from his throat. “I will eviscerate you! I will broadcast your screams across every realm! I will—ahh!”
His threat was cut off as Lucifer’s hand came down in a sharp, stinging series of smacks directly on his exposed pussy. The sound, crisp and humiliating, echoed in the silent lobby. Alastor froze, more from sheer, unprecedented shock than pain. Lucifer continued the sharp, rhythmic slaps until the sensitive flesh reddened and Alastor’s defiant snarls dissolved into choked, humiliated sobs.
“Promises, promises,” Lucifer mocked, his smile curling with cruel amusement. He spat a thick strand of saliva into his palm and slicked his massive length with a crude, possessive gesture. With his other hand, he wrenched Alastor’s folds apart, exposing the small, twitching hole that clenched uselessly against the intrusion.
Alastor shuddered violently, the sound he made embarrassingly thin. Pride meant nothing, warring with a terrifying, familiar anticipation as Lucifer’s fingers spread him open like something to be inspected. Heat pooled traitorously between his thighs, his wetness leaking out in a meek, humiliating response that mixed with Lucifer's spit.
Lucifer huffed a laugh. “Look at you… already dripping for me. Pathetic.” He then glanced to the side, his voice dropping to a command. "Hold him."
The clones secured their grip, pinning Alastor's wrists to the bar. The original Lucifer then leaned down. He ran a hand down Alastor's spine, making the demon flinch, before his fingers found the base of Alastor's tail—a tufted, expressive appendage that was now stiff with tension. Lucifer gave it a gentle, almost playful tug, then a firmer pull, forcing a sharp, startled gasp from Alastor.
Meanwhile, the second clone, the one that had torn his clothes, moved to Alastor's head. It tangled a hand in his hair, yanking his head back. Then, with a cruel gentleness, it began to nibble and lick at the base of one of Alastor’s sensitive deer ears. Alastor jolted as if electrocuted, a broken, shuddering moan escaping him. The dual assault on his most vulnerable points was overwhelming, dismantling his defenses sense by sense.
"You will not—" Alastor tried again, his voice a strained whisper, but the clone at his head bit down softly on the velvety tip of his ear, and the protest died in his throat, replaced by a ragged pant.
Lucifer positioned himself. He rubbed the broad, slick head of his cock through Alastor’s drenched folds, coating himself in the demon’s juices. Alastor, in a final, futile act of defiance, tried to kick backward, his hoof connecting uselessly with Lucifer’s shin.
It was the last mistake he would make.
With one powerful, unforgiving thrust, Lucifer sheathed his enormous member to the hilt, tearing through resistance and burying himself deep inside the clenching, impossibly tight heat.
The sound that ripped from Alastor was nothing any of them had ever heard. A raw, silent scream shattered into a cacophony of feedback and a high, strained keen of a wounded animal. His back arched violently, every muscle pulled taut. His eyes shot wide open, the radio dials within spinning wildly before fizzling out, leaving an expression of pure, unadulterated shock and overwhelming sensation. The feeling of being so filled, stretched to his absolute limit by Lucifer’s brutal size, was dizzying, a violation that was also a perverse fulfillment.
“There it is,” Lucifer groaned, his head tipping back in visceral pleasure. He didn't move, letting Alastor feel the full, stretching, burning intrusion. “There’s the sound I remember. None of that manufactured noise. Just pure, unadulterated feeling.”
Husk winced, taking another long swig of bourbon. He heard the strain in the wood of his bar and saw Alastor's claws digging splinters from its surface. "For fuck's sake," he muttered, "the varnish..."
Lucifer finally began to move, pulling back almost all the way before slamming back again with brutal force. He set a punishing rhythm, each powerful thrust jarring Alastor’s body into the wood.
The initial shock wore off, replaced by a rising tide of humiliated, undeniable pleasure. His protests became ragged, guttural moans; his struggles became a desperate, involuntary rocking back to meet each devastating thrust.
"See how he moves?" Lucifer addressed the room, his voice dark, never breaking his rhythm. "He pretends to hate it, but his body remembers its king. He sold his soul to be my queen and his body for power; he begged me to breed him like a bitch in heat."
Lucifer’s gaze swept over his audience, his hips never stuttering. "WHO HERE THINKS MY DOE SHOULD NOT BE PUNISHED FOR NOT KEEPING HIS VOWS?"
Husk looked away, focusing on a crack in the wall, the amber liquid in his glass trembling. "His bar, his beautiful bar where he drinks from," he muttered, drowning his discomfort in bourbon.
Angel let out a low, appreciative moan, his hand moving vigorously in his pants. "Fuck yeah, that's the stuff! FUCK HIM HARDER, YOUR MAJESTY! HE SHOWS YOU NO RESPECT! He's acted like a stuck-up bitch who thought he was too good for you! All that big talk, and he's just a hole after all." The revelation that the untouchable radio demon was just as transactional as any other sinner was the hottest thing Angel had seen in years.
Sir Pentious whimpered, one eye peeking through his fingers. "The indignity... my poor Eggboys... Seeing this..."
Niffty leaned closer, her single eye wide. "He's making a funny noise," she observed. "Is he broken? Is the king of bad boys fixing him?"
The clone at Alastor's head finally pulled back from his ear, its free hand tangling in his hair and yanking his head back. With its other hand, it guided its own identical, thick cock to Alastor’s lips, smearing pre-cum across them.
"Open," the clone commanded, its voice a perfect, chilling echo of Lucifer's.
Alastor clenched his jaw, a distorted crackle spitting from his lips in defiance. Lucifer chose that moment to angle a thrust that brushed directly against that deep, exquisite spot inside him. A broken, punched-out gasp escaped him, and in that vulnerable instant, the clone thrust its full length deep into his mouth, hitting the back of his throat. The other clone, not to be outdone, delivered a sharp, stinging slap across Alastor's cheek with its own rigid member.
Alastor gagged and choked, his eyes watering. He was filled and dominated at both ends, his world reduced to the overwhelming sensations of being taken. The clone began to move in tandem with the original, a synchronized, devastating rhythm that robbed him of all thought. Guttural, choked moans were forced from his throat, the obscene, wet sounds of spit and struggle mixing with the loud, slick slap of skin on skin.
Angel was practically panting, matching the rhythm with his hand. "Oh, you bitch, you love it, don't you? Taking that giant cock at both ends while being slapped. All that classy talk, and you're nothing but a whore for the king."
Lucifer leaned down, his chest pressing against Alastor's sweat-slicked back; his lips brushed Alastor's neck; his voice was an intimate, terrifying whisper that drowned out all other sounds.
"You wanted to be bred?" He growled, his rhythm becoming even more frantic, his heavy balls slapping against Alastor's skin with each deep plunge. "You begged for a fawn? I’ve had seven years of cum buildup for you." He punctuated each word with a deep, grinding thrust that stole the air from Alastor's lungs. "Every. Last. Thick. Rope. It's for you."
The clone in his mouth pulled out with a wet pop, a string of saliva and pre-cum connecting its tip to Alastor's swollen lips. It slapped the other side of his cheek with its slick member, a final act of degradation. Lucifer then turned Alastor over, ordering both of the clones to sit on the bar. Alastor, who was still gasping for air, grunted when Lucifer continued to pound into him. The new position allowed the bar-clone to slip its length back into Alastor's willing, swallowing lips; this time, it fucked his mouth with slow, deep, controlled thrusts, ensuring he took every inch without choking. The other clone attended to Alastor's breasts, using hands and mouth to tease and torment the soft, furred flesh.
Alastor’s resistance shattered. His legs wrapped around Lucifer’s waist, pulling him deeper. His sharp nails clawed at the clone's chest, his body actively seeking more. Every driving thrust from both ends brought forth a broken, continuous litany of moans from him. When the clone in his mouth finally came with a guttural groan, it pulled out and painted his face and neck with thick, hot stripes of golden release before disappearing. The other clone was ordered to cum on Alastor's chest, and he moaned when he felt the heat hit his fur.
"That's it," Lucifer coaxed, his voice a dark seduction. He pulled Alastor upright against his chest, impaling him even deeper, watching spit and cum drip down his ruined face. "Give in. You were always mine."
He shifted his angle again, hitting that perfect, swollen bundle of nerves inside him repeatedly, and Alastor howled—a sound of pure, animalistic, soul-deep pleasure. Tiny, helpless bleats escaped him as he babbled incoherently, the words he'd spoken seven years ago tumbling out in a rush of surrender. “…please… yes… yours… Breed me… Give me your fawn! Fill this worthless cunt, GIVE IT TO ME!" Alastor started crying, "Forgive me, I need your cum."
"Look at him," Lucifer commanded the spectators, his breath hitching, his release imminent. Angel was stroking himself to completion, his moans joining the symphony of depravity. "Look at the mighty Radio Demon, coming apart on my cock. This is his true purpose." His voice took on a formal, decreeing tone. "From this moment, he is an Overlord no longer. His territory, his contracts, his powers—it all passes to Husk. The cat will assume his duties and ensure this hotel's safety."
Husk finally looked, his drink forgotten. He saw the absolute ruin on Alastor's face—the ecstatic, empty-eyed surrender. It was the most terrifying thing he'd ever seen. The freedom he'd craved was being handed to him on a platter of someone else's brutal violation.
Lucifer felt the coil in his gut tighten to its breaking point. Alastor’s inner walls clenched around him rhythmically, milking him, desperately pulling his release forth. Alastor was only bouncing on Lucifer's cock now, too lost to even know what was happening around him.
"You want it?" Lucifer snarled, pistoning into him with three final, ferocious thrusts that slammed Alastor's body into the bar. Alastor only moaned with pleasure. "Then take it. Take every last hot, thick drop of my seed!"
With a roar that shook the very foundations of the Pentagram, Lucifer plunged as deep as he could and held there. His body went rigid as his orgasm tore through him, a seemingly endless torrent of scorching, divine cum flooding Alastor's depths, filling him to the point of overflow, claiming him from the inside out. It was a flood of pure, creative power, meant for worlds, now forced into a single, sinful vessel.
A blinding, golden light erupted from where they were joined, flooding Alastor’s body. Alastor's scream was swallowed as his orgasm was ripped from him, his body seizing, his release mixing with the impossible flood inside him and splattering across Lucifer, the bar, and the floor. The light pulsed, a miniature Genesis contained within the lobby, then faded, leaving the room in a silence broken only by heavy, ragged breathing and the slow, steady dripping of fluid.
Alastor lay sprawled bonelessly across the ruined bar, covered in sweat, tears, spit, his own slick, and Lucifer’s glowing, golden essence. Trickles of the luminous cum seeped from his well-used, stretched hole and dripped from the corner of his bruised lips.
Lucifer pulled out slowly, watching with dark, primal satisfaction as more of his seed spilled out onto the dark wood. He then tenderly brushed the damp, cum-covered hair from Alastor’s forehead.
Alastor’s eyes fluttered open. They were no longer crimson, but Lucifer’s own burning, golden serpent eyes—a permanent, blazing mark of possession. The change was absolute and horrifying.
A slow, deep shudder wracked his frame. He knew. He felt the change, the new, dependent power thrumming in his veins, tied irrevocably to the king who had put it there. He had gotten everything he’d begged for and lost everything he had ever built. His ambition, his empire, and his very identity had been fucked out of him on a bar in front of an audience.
He had fucked up. Spectacularly.
Lucifer smiled, a true, terrifying smile of absolute ownership. He snapped his fingers. A collar of the finest, most supple red silk appeared around Alastor’s neck, from which hung a small, intricately carved golden duck charm.
“There,” Lucifer said softly, tracing the line of the collar with a possessive finger. “Now, there are going to be rules. You are my doe, my consort. Your freedom, your whims, your very will… it belongs to me now. No more silly ideas of rivaling my power, or my daughter's. You are a queen whose only duties are to look pretty, spread your legs when I command it, care for me and our future fawns, and leave this hotel alone.”
Alastor shivered, a fresh wave of Lucifer’s scorching release leaking from him. He could only look up with those new, foreign, golden eyes, filled with a profound dread and a terrifying, awed fascination. The fight was gone, replaced by a shocking, pliant stillness.
Lucifer turned to the stunned, silent audience. Angel was slumped back, spent and breathless. Husk stared into his empty glass, giving a slow, reluctant nod of acceptance. Niffty was already scrubbing at the new, glowing mess on the floor. Sir Pentious simply whimpered in distress as he covered his Eggboys.
“What happened here tonight never leaves this room,” Lucifer stated, his voice a royal decree that brooked no argument. “Charlie and Vaggie are never to know the truth. Is that understood?”
He waited until he received a series of numb nods from everyone, including the trembling Eggboys, who stared at Alastor with worry; they liked him; the deer was funny, and he took them on a trip.
“Good. You will tell them only this: that Alastor willingly gave his title to Husk, and that he has, in fact, been my wife for the past seven years. He simply threw a bratty fit because I didn't pay him enough attention; hence, his disappearance." Lucifer chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "He does have a tendency toward drama when he's ignored, doesn't he? Getting into fights just to be noticed. This whole overlord business was always just a cry for attention." Lucifer petted Alastor's face. "He's such a cute brat; he just never had anyone powerful enough to discipline him."
Husk covered his face with his hands. It was a disgustingly plausible lie. Alastor had disappeared seven years ago after his rumored encounter with Lucifer, and his first act in Hell had been an attention-grabbing rise to power. Charlie would believe it. Even all of Hell would believe it. The mighty Radio Demon, brought low not by battle, but by his own needy, spousal histrionics. The perfect, humiliating cover story. It even explained his recent, dramatic clash with Vox—a mere ego trip.
Satisfied, Lucifer turned back to his prize. He gently lifted the now docile, exhausted Alastor into his arms. Alastor’s head lolled against Lucifer’s shoulder, his glowing eyes half-lidded, a living testament to the King's absolute victory.
“Time for me to tuck you into our bed, sweetheart. You took your punishment so well,” Lucifer murmured, carrying his new consort toward the staircase.
He carried his claimed queen to the highest tower, to a room that had not existed an hour before—an enclosure for a newly collared prize. The door sealed shut behind them with a sound of finality, locking Alastor into a new, eternal contract, written not in blood, but in blinding light and potent seed. Only the king held the key. The palace would need to be made safe for his doe, but for now, this cage would suffice. His doe was finally, and forever, his. And he made sure he couldn't escape.