Stale Entertainment
Summary: Maze has had enough of watching others be incompetent in areas of his own expertise, and decided to show them what he can do.
TW: Torture, Gore
A/N: This came off a prompt that was in my ask box but Tumblr decided to be a bitch and not let me post it as an ask. So I’m making it a post instead. (It’s 1000 words anyway, far too long for an ask)
(Prompt was: “I don’t want to talk to you.”)
Lights collected in his vision like fairy orbs, twinkling and out of focus. The rainbows surrounding them created an ethereal glow, making the place seem romantic, rather than stale.
The stage, once sleek wood, now was covered in red, old chains keeping the torture victim in place. This spot in Hell should have been one of the most entertaining, yet no matter the torturer it stayed tasteless and crude. He kept hoping the torture rooms would be worth the price.
Only the wine kept him coming back.
Maze kept to his seat for the moment, watching the event. The screams and whimpers of the torture victim resonated in the domed room, the torturer being messy at best. Where was the finesse?
Every cut spilled endless deep red blood, the supernatural creature healing over and over, slowly, being forced into a repetition of almost death that would never be worth it. The knife, rather dull for this entertainment, kept leaving jagged lines and holes where smooth caresses of a blade should have been. Perhaps a rusty, old, used up blade hurt worse.
But this was not for the pain.
This was for entertainment.
He took a slow drink of his wine, the spice undertoned with chocolate lingering on his tongue. The poor thing really should not suffer so much for so little payoff.
As the demon stopped in the torture momentarily to let the creature heal, Maze’s deep, silky voice rang through the room. “You are quite awful for being a professional.”
The demon turned to look at him, scoffing as he did. The man sitting at the table in the darkened room, dressed in heels and a knee-length dress, long hair curled and put up, locks falling from the bun strategically, and makeup done to seduce. “And who are you to comment on how I torture?” The demon scoffed, staring down at Maze, challenging him with golden eyes.
Maze put his drink down, standing from the table, piercing icy blue eyes never straying from the demon. “Maze Meadows. You may have heard of me, yes?” His heels clicked on the cement floor as he approached the stage, steps even and unhurried. In the lights he seemed to glow, celestial and dangerous.
The demon blanched as soon as he heard his name, stuttering in his words to cover up his tracks. Maze cocked his head to the side, a sinister smile growing. “Are you scared because my fiance is the king of Hell? Or are you scared because I’ve tortured more people in ten years than you have in a hundred?”
Without hesitation Maze walked up the stairs to the platform, shoes splashing in the puddles of mud. He ignored the demon twice his size, focusing on the victim in chains, crying from the pressure to their abilities. He walked around them, hands glancing off wounds and feeling smooth skin, shiny black shoes staining red.
“If they want to torture you, my dear,” he murmured in their ear, the supernatural shaking and shying away from his touch, “They should do it well.” His hands ran down to the supernatural’s hips. “Yet they’ve hurt you so much for so little,” he cooed. “There is no reason for you to be in so much pain...a scalpel and a pair of forceps would have been plenty for such a beauty as yourself.” He cupped his hands under the other’s chin, their bright, slitted eyes filled with tears. “Would that not be more lovely? To have you made beautiful, and gorgeous, in such a slow burn that can be enjoyed by *everyone*, rather than this mess?” He kissed their cheek, feeling the salt on their skin. A siren. How typical.
The siren stuttered, shaking like a leaf. “I-”
“You’re fucking disgusting.”
Maze slowly pulled back from the siren, moving to look at the demon. “Excuse me?” His voice never wavered, staying smooth as expensive silk, though the sparks of rage sat in his eyes.
“You expect me to stand by while you take my job?” He barked, hands balled into fists.
Maze thought he looked like a guard dog. A stupid guard dog.
He approached the demon, staying a few feet away. “I don’t want to talk to you. You aren’t of any interest.” He clicked his tongue, his voice turning bitter as salt. “You’re not even pretty enough to torture.”
Before the demon could retaliate, deep purple and black smoke in the shape of a spike penetrated his stomach, going out the other side. He coughed, bright sunshine yellow blood spurting out around the solidified smoke, guts speared onto the other side of the smoke, hanging off the edge of the spike, dripping yellow and clear body fluid.
Maze grinned. “It appears your body is delighted to be torn apart.” The smoke dissipated, leaving his body defenseless to falling apart. The intestines strung out behind him fell, creating a pile of slimy yellow organs behind him. The demon choked on air, forcing himself to stand. Maze’s grin only widened. “Oh, you are special, aren’t you? Unfortunately, you’re still too ugly to care about.”
A machete teleported into his hand, an almost imperceptible cloud of smoke following it. He swung, lodging the machete into the man’s hip, forcing it deeper, blood spraying all over Maze and the stage. He pulled the machete out of the demon’s side with a soft grunt, taking a step back to catch himself in his heels. Blood waterfalled out of the wound, coating everything in yellow.
His moment of recovery was shortened by the demon’s legs giving out, causing him to fall, the attempt he made to catch himself only causing him to fall down the stairs. Maze watched with sharp eyes, machete still in hand, dripping blood as he walked down the stairs, kicking the trailing intestines out of the way. He knelt next to the demon, blood pooling from his body. “You are not the first demon to be hurt by me, I hope you know.” He laughed, low and bitter. “I am sure it will be shameful to tell your friends a witch maimed you and stole your job.”
Smoke gathered again, impaling the demon’s shoulders and lodging into the ground, keeping him on the floor. The strained cry that left the demon caused Maze to cringe, the sound unpleasant. “Shut the fuck up.” He slammed his machete into the demon’s thigh, ignoring the next cry of pain.
He turned, walking back upstairs, still as composed as he started. He faced the siren again, caressing their face with his bloodied hands, a far more tender smile on his face. “I cannot wait to get started.”
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