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His appearance alone had been a shock: sharp teeth that ruined the illusion of prey, red locks where soft brown curls had once been, and a swath of deer attributes.
He was accustomed to the behaviors that accompanied it. The seasonal ache and strange vulnerability when his antlers shed. The nervous twitch of his tail when tension crept too close. The wide, glassy stillness that overtook him when startled. Those things were manageable, easy to push down, hide, or ignore.
He was a master of fronts. The radio demon, powerful and merciless, then as Charlie’s devoted hotelier, a picture of civility and composure. Neither persona betrayed the animal beneath, nor the other fragile truth layered beneath that:
His classification.
Being a little was a vulnerability of equal measure, and he guarded it just as fiercely. Or he had until Lucifer, in all his unfounded power and thoroughly undeserved authority, had dragged that information into the light for everyone to gawk at. After that, it ceased to be deception and became expectation. A schedule. Once a week, whether he liked it or not, he was to regress, with the King of Hell himself monitoring.
There were few holds Alastor could not twist his way out of.
That was one of them.
And once his guard slipped in one place, it betrayed another. In that softened state he was not in his right mind to suppress the more instinctive parts of himself. Worse, far worse, were the behaviors he had never consciously catalogued, never properly filed away and locked behind refined composure.
The first incident had been during a game of hide-and-seek.
The thrill had run up his spine, sharp and electric, mingling with uneasy anticipation. Lucifer had perched nearby, watching with that infuriatingly amused interest of his, while Charlie counted down in an exaggerated singsong, each number lower than the last.
Alastor, inefficient in selecting a hiding place, had barely tucked himself behind a decorative column when she called the final number and turned.
And in that instant something small and animal in his brain delivered a truth that felt absolute:
If he stayed perfectly still, she would not see him.
He froze.
Ears perked. Tail uncharacteristically motionless. Eyes wide and fixed straight ahead.
Charlie looked directly at him, confused.
He was delighted at his brilliance.
She glanced toward Lucifer, a laugh bubbling up despite herself. Lucifer, traitor that he was, pulled out his phone and began typing before dissolving into a deep, roaring laugh. He crossed the room without hesitation and mortifyingly reached out to pet Alastor’s ears.
Which confused him most of all.
They should not be able to see him.
He pouted.
Later, when he’d aged back up and returned to clarity, he learned the humiliating truth: fawns froze as camouflage when threatened. He had flushed a violent red, shoved away a clinging, apologetic Charlie, and retreated to his room with all the dignity he could scrape together.
The second incident had been less mortifying, though only marginally.
Another regression day. This time he had been almost enthusiastic. Lucifer had procured a toy radio, a thoughtful replica complete with little dials that clicked satisfyingly beneath his fingers. He was familiar with the stiffening of his tail in fear, the lash of it in irritation.
He was not accustomed to it wagging.
Worse still, he had been dressed in one of those humiliating little outfits, tail cutout included, and everyone in the room had been granted a perfect view of it beating happily against his lower back. It made a soft swishing sound as he turned the toy dials, utterly absorbed.
It had not mattered then. Regression wrapped him in a soft haze where pride did not reach.
It mattered later.
Because once he noticed it (once others had noticed it) it became a mission. Mainly the Morningstars, and then Angel who joined in gleefully, but most horrifying was Husk. A particularly fine bottle of brandy. A rubber duck modeled after his own likeness. Praise delivered in just the right tone.
They were trying to make his tail wag.
It drove him mad.
Then came the grooming.
It was not entirely foreign. Husk groomed both fur and wings, and Lucifer preened all six of his own with irritating regularity. But it was another thing entirely to discover that in his regressed state he expected Lucifer to groom him.
He had gripped the man’s face on either side, insistent, nuzzling forward with soft, needy determination. Rubbing his cheek against Lucifer’s with such blatant expectation that the room had dissolved into giggles.
“What— what do you want this time, little deer?” Lucifer had yelped between laughs.
Niffty, of all people, supplied the answer.
“Oh! Oh! I know, Mister!” she chirped.
Lucifer tilted his head, trying to avoid Alastor’s persistent nuzzling. “Do enlighten me.”
“Fawns get groomed by their mamas,” Niffty sang with a wicked little giggle.
Lucifer had gone pink. “Hmm. I don’t think he’d appreciate me licking him when he’s big again. Can you fetch a wet rag?”
Niffty complied eagerly.
And so Alastor found himself on Lucifer’s lap, his face being carefully wiped in slow, deliberate strokes. Close enough. The soothing repetition melted through him, tension draining from stiff limbs until he sagged against Lucifer’s chest, tail giving a faint, content flick.
He would have been furious if he had not been so relaxed.
Finally, and perhaps worst of all, had been the bleat. Not the deeper call of a stag but that of a fawn: high and needy and jarring in its desperation.
He had only been half in headspace, walls already thinning from a long day of errands and too many weeks of consistent regression had the feeling all too readily available. He had been caught between states, too small to withstand pressure, too big to fully surrender to it.
Vaggie had approached with yet another list. Tedious chores, suggestions that were leaning more order than anything, and so much paperwork it made his head spin.
Something inside him buckled.
The urge to call for help rose instinctively and before pride could smother it, it escaped him in a raw, startled bleat that froze the room.
Silence fell as everyone stared. Lucifer, however, seemed to understand immediately, which only made the heat crawl higher up Alastor’s neck.
Lucifer moved without hesitation, stepping between them like a protective doe, posture sharp and shielding. Alastor hated, hated, the way his tail began wagging beneath his blazer at the display.
And yet.
Once Lucifer stood there, solid and warm and unyielding, that smaller instinct pushed forward. A smug grin curved across Alastor’s lips as he peered around Lucifer’s shoulder at Vaggie.
Lucifer sighed, half exasperated, half fond.
“Alright, little fawn. You’ve made your point. Now come relax.”
This time, he did not resent the answering wag of his tail.
Not when Lucifer’s own flicked back just as brightly in return.