He hung from his wrists, twisting slowly in the aftermath of the beating, one wing broken and hanging useless, the tip dragging on the cold metal floor; the other flapped wildly, feebly, rather like his heart. His blood stained his skin a dark purple and he was panting in want, in pain, in fear. He closed his eyes, tried to find calm, to find his center, but the slow, even footsteps that paced around him made him even more nervous, made his heart flutter and skip.

Warm hands caressed his shoulders; rough hands, calloused hands; the hands of a man who worked for a living; hands with blunt nails still stained with dirt and grease. He shuddered beneath the touch as they moved down his body, to his broken wing. He gasped as the hands ran across his feathers and then screamed as they grasped the wing, screamed until the pain made him puke, though his stomach was empty, retching and howling all at once.

"Please," he begged. "Please."

"Shh." The hands moved from his wing to his throat, squeezed gently. He whimpered and opened his eyes.

"Please," he said again, but he didn't know what he was asking for.

"My little prince." Rough hands, hands that caught on his skin and lips. "My little angel."

"Ah!" He tried to reach out to the demon that tormented him, to the devil that made him want, made him fear. "Please," and it was a whisper and a sigh and a groan. He swung his body forward, aching and sore and needy, and the devil grabbed him. Kissed him.

Fucked him.

And it felt like he was falling from heaven, falling and enjoying it.

The devil was so big, so warm and soft and hard and rough and though it hurt -- hurt like falling, hurt like the darkness that burned him at the devil's caress -- he never wanted it to stop. He wrapped his legs around the devil's waist and wept in joy. In sorrow. In pure confusion.

"Lotor," the devil sighed. "Little angel."

"Please," he said again, for the last time. "Please. No more."

The devil laughed and didn't stop. Would never stop.

And when it ended there was only bleak emptiness inside.

The devil unchained him, let him fall with graceless ease until he lay crumpled on the cold floor, trying to massage feeling back into his arms. The devil kicked his clothes over to him, already dressed, looking impeccable in his mortal disguise. "Time for you to fly away, little angel." He reached down, ran a rough hand down Lotor's injured wing. "Fly back to your futile war."

Lotor bared his teeth in an approximation of a snarl, but could summon no real anger. He watched the devil go, climb back into his Lion with a smirk and cocky strut, and all he felt was desperate longing.

If he didn't stop this, stop the devil, then he would fall. Fall like a broken star, fall like the first angel fell, fall into the darkness of void and need.

Fall and be happy.