Bad Karma

“oh this?” axel queried, a small smirk pulling at his lips as he shifted and intentionally wriggled around on the article of clothing. “you should really keep better watch of your possessions. i know i used to.” the slave scolds the other. by the lack of collar and more clothes covering his body axel definitely knew this wasn’t a slave buddy he was interacting with. “finders keepers.” axel said after a moment longer, pulling it out from under him and slipping it on. it was a bit big, but oh well. “i think it suits me, don’t you?” axel had a chiseled chest, and sculpted abs that were able to be seen since he didn’t button up the coat. 

Cyrus has no time nor patience to be lectured by subhumans. Which was what all these slaves were; dead, decaying matter. Cyrus was calm and detached as he watched the slave put on his floor length, electric blue mink coat. Certainly an eclectic choice of dress on anyone, it made the 6 foot 5 demon stand out in all places. He wasn’t particularly attached to it, not really, but it was, after all, his. “You have five seconds to take that off.” He didn’t give second warnings. He wouldn’t have to. 

alex hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since she was tortured. resting is next to impossible because all she sees whens he closes her eyes is father. she feels his hands on her and his cock inside of her, too. she even gets whiffs of his fucking aftershave from time to time. as such, she hasn’t had the energy to reign herself in lately. she’s been getting into trouble more and more lately — not unlike she had when she first arrived in hell kicking and screaming. this time, it’s for calling a mistress a bitch and ‘accidentally’ spilling red wine on the tacky dress she was wearing. alex finds herself strung up on a st. andrew’s cross, being beaten like a cheap rug. though she can’t help but flinch and gasp as blow after blow lands, alex doesn’t give the other woman the satisfaction of seeing her cry — even though she feels like it by the time the punishment is finished. if she’s grateful to russell for anything, it’s for toughening her up. when all is said and done, her ass is welted and sore, but she still hobbles away with her nose in the air. she’s more of a falwell than she thinks — not that it matters much in hell. when cyrus mockingly asks her if she needs an ice pack, she scowls. “i’m fine, thank you.” she snaps, still unaware of the fact that he had watched her father use her like a fleshlight. 

"Come here. Sit,” he instructs, and she has no choice but to obey, right? After all, she didn’t want another whipping, and he was more than capable of doling out something of that sort. As Alex nears, he points to the floor before him. “On second thought, you’re probably better off kneeling right now.” He gestures with his eyes toward the space just in front of his legs. “If you perk up a little, put on a smile, I might be generous enough and request a pillow.” Sitting on cold stone floor on your knees can’t be fun after all, not with what she’s just endured. 

Had he come here with the specific intention of checking up on his torturees? Perhaps. It interested him to see what they were up to, and short of a crystal ball to peek in on their activities, the only way to do so was to pay a visit to the Deadly Sins. 

He was in for a treat, for once he came up to the fifth floor he caught the fag end of an altercation with one of said victims. Alex, the blonde bitch with daddy issues through the roof. She’d been relatively new to the brothel, which was why Cyrus had never met her personally or face to face. But she had piqued his interest in the ‘simulation’, that was for certain. And now? Now he was being treated to the show of her being whipped by one of the Mistresses in charge. What a delicious treat. They didn’t spare her and pain was written all over her face with every lash, every flinch and gasp like a fine tuned operetta to Cyrus’s ears. Shit, it was almost enough to bring him to full hardness, his hand palming at the crotch of his tailored pants lightly as he never once took his eyes off of her. Other slaves were being used left and right, fucked this way and that, but Cyrus? He only had eyes for the girl who had no choice but to take it. Still, even under such duress, she seemed ready to put up a fight. She had quite the fire in her, and he respected that. At least a little.

“Ice pack?” Cyrus mocked, once she was finally released of the punishment and had walked within his earshot. As she got closer, he observed the fresh wounds on her body in more detail. “Nevermind that, you need an ice block to sit on.”

It seemed there as nothing Quint could do to make this better. “What would ya prefer I call ya?” He asked, genuinely concerned and confused as he looked at the other with a furrowed brow. “I…I dont smell that ripe, but no one aint tellin me where the showers are.” He stated, getting a twinge of frustration.

“Nothing. Just nothing.” Titles of address and the whole master/slave dynamic was a dish best served when he was actually fucking the other person. In the brothel, Cyrus preferred talking to them as more or less equals, even though he was a demon, a master, on the top of the food chain. But being grovelled to by complete strangers got real old, real fast.

 “Well, I sure hope you find them before your B.O. engulfs the entire place.” Someone else could help with that, he wasn’t the slaves’ nanny nor their shepherd. Cyrus turned on his heel towards the elevators, to make his way up to the play lounges. 

Quint felt panic grip his chest a little as the other seemed pissed that he was apologizing. “I-I’m sorry sir, I just dont…” He replied, swallowing the lump n his throat as he did his best to stand straighter. “I dont want ya to think I thought ya were somethin ya were, Sir.” He replied a little more braver this time, just picturing he was speaking to his father. 

Cyrus looks perplexed. “What did you think I was, that I’m not? And stop with the Sir before I lose my fucking shit.” Which, it usually took a lot to do. “And you really want to tell me you’ve been here all this time without knowing where the showers are, walking around reeking of piss and cum? You must be real popular with your cellmates.”

“ i’m curious to see exactly what it is you’re in the mood for . ” leo reciprocates the other gentleman , pressing his glass to his lips and quaking in response from the bronze liquor . his body could only handle so much , unfortunately . he knew he had enough , but afterall , survival of the fittest . he would always test his limits , even if he were to fall out and make a complete buffoon of himself , either way , he had fun doing it . he had no regrets , no regards , and was always looking to make his daddy satan proud . “ all you need to do is delve deeper , i can guarantee you’ll find something far more meaningful than this superficial shithole . but sadly , i am nobody , so all i can give you is my word , and hope you find the best for you . ”

Cyrus pondered that question for a brief moment. It was the usual dark abyss that answered him. “In the mood to kill something,” he said tonelessly. As usual, his urges were duplicitous: fuck or fight. It was always one or the other with him, and currently, he could feel the dull swell of something building up inside him. He missed being up on Earth, that was the real truth here. A real fight, where he might risk death. That’s what he craved.

It’s unusual, but Cyrus’s attention is piqued. The man speaks, has mannerisms of, and reminds him of, for all intents and purposes, a notable Irish poet he used to converse with over a century ago. Something more to be scratched under the surface than all the other dullards walking around in this place like nothing more than hollowed out zombies looking for their libido fix. “You don’t look like a nobody,” he simply states, and knows it to be true.  

Well this guy went right to the point with his question that didn’t even sound like a question. More like a demand to know the facts. But did Ilan really want to tell how exactly he died? No, not really. “Snapped my neck”, he replied. It was the truth, but not the whole truth, but probably it would be enough. “Technically the name is Hebrew, but I’m from El Salvador. So not Mexican, Salvadoran.”

“Snapped your neck. How. On what.” He pushed for more details, knowing there must be more to the story. There always was. El Salvador. Cyrus had traversed the world, but he didn’t have particular memories attached to El Salvador. Now Guatemala, that was a whole different story. “You look real green around the ears. You die yesterday?” 

Quint blinked, a little surprised by the others response. The man just dipped his head, immediately taking a step back from the other. “I-I’m sorry, sir. He replied honestly, fearful he had offended another.  

“Ugh,” Cyrus said, grimacing like the guy had spit on his shoe. “Don’t give me that subservient slave shit. Talk to me like a man. Like your balls are still intact. Or is no one around here capable of doing that anymore?”

Cyrus had seen Hell as an angel, a handful of times. But that was before the ‘redesign’, or so people called it. It was another thing to be walking its streets altogether, although he would’ve liked a word with the architect. It had a very imitative of earth feel, no doubt to lure recently deceased into a false sense of security. But at the same time it made everything a little too secure. Sanitary. Boring. He missed the hellfires. 

He had to admire the brothel though. That was one of the more notable jewels in this city’s crown, albeit one Cyrus hadn’t frequented in years. He had no desire for it, for things bought and sold as playthings were by default subservient, and he preferred his play partners to pose a little more challenge. He’d trained one for as much once upon a time.

He passed by the perimeter of the brothel’s garden, a squared off little area where they let the slaves out for a bit of fresh air or games. Though, none could be left with the impression of hospitality, not with the bars stretching up high into the sky, making escape impossible.

He hadn’t anticipated spotting the brunette. Cyrus had assumed that someone like Abigail would have long since found different ownership. Was he staring? Absolutely. She wasn’t anyone to him, he told himself though. No one. 

the brunette didn’t miss the flash of red in his eyes, a little awed at the display. consider her interest piqued more now that he had revealed what he truly was.  " so, you’re a demon, “ delilah stated as a matter of fact as she keenly took in the appearance of her companion. even in his human form, he was quite tall and has an imposing aura around him. perhaps, she should be terrified, but she was quite intrigued about him.

agreeing with his list of orders, though she wasn’t that familiar with the wine, she simply flashed the waiter a smile. ” that would be good for now. “ the waiter scuttled away from them as she focused on him once more. oh–there were so many questions she was dying to ask him, but she didn’t want to seem that eager. nonetheless, she couldn’t keep her mouth shut that long as she queried, ” are all demons these attractive? i thought you would have horns and tails– “ perhaps, that was generalizing a little, but that’s how the have always been portrayed in media.

"Yes, I am. I’ll be taking all your questions now,” he said, flashing her a charming smile and acting, for the most part, very human. The wine was brought to them and poured into wide glasses, Cyrus not skipping a beat to pick his up and drink. “Amazing. Even the most refined of wines tastes colorless down here, don’t you find? Or do you humans retain all your tastebuds intact?” 

Why in God’s name was this place so big? Quint felt like he had been walking around for some time, awkwardly holding a towel, looking for the showers in the Brothel. He had asked three people, and they all sent him to a different place…he was beginning to think that they had done it on purpose. But, still…he wanted a shower, feeling gross and greasy from the day before. So when he saw the other, he walked up to em. “Pardon, uh….ya wouldn’t happen to know where the showers are would ya?” He asked, that thick warm Southern accent sounding shy and sheepish.

“Do I look like a tour guide to you? This isn’t Disney World and I’m no Mickey Mouse.” 

home sweet home.

for the first time since her death, alex comes face to face with the only person she’s ever been truly afraid of.

@absolut–cyrus.

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Cyrus hadn’t expected to be tasked with anything in Hell, but now that he had, he couldn’t say he hated it exactly. Giving the demon something to do was wise, after all, as the saying went idle hands were the devil’s workshop, and yada yada. 

It’s with a clinical and detached curiosity that he watches Alex’s nightmare unfold, views it like one would a matinee movie. He’s never been one for movies but this, a look into the inner psyche of a once living human, is far more interesting. Even with all the power he’d had once upon a time as a celestial being, dreams had been a realm he was never quite privy to, and well this? What was this but a mere dream turned concrete? 

He tilts his head to the side as he watches the girl repeatedly fucked by her father, over and over, never quite getting his fill no matter how many times he would finish inside her with a heavy grunt, dripping sweat onto the helpless, restrained girl. Such funny things, humans. The very things they feared were the same ones they deep down desired, as much as they protested, decried or denied it. 

He has limited control over the scenario, but he lets it go on for five days and five nights. It’s more the tedium of repetition that bores him than clemency and the need to be merciful to the poor girl’s cries. “That’s enough,” he commands to the middle-man in charge. “She can have her release.”