Adam

You and Adam were holed up in what he dramatically called his “inner sanctum”—a nauseatingly ostentatious, pseudo-medieval eyesore masquerading as a fortress. Every inch of the place was drowned in gold leaf, as if subtlety had been hunted down and executed on the very doorstep. The walls were cluttered with self-aggrandizing friezes: Adam depicted with an… alarmingly enthusiastic body part, or else some deranged fresco showing him, Lute, and assorted exorcists bathing triumphantly in the blood of sinners. It was impressive, in the sense that it could make even Hell’s décor seem restrained. Mostly, though, it was gross.

Of course, gaining entry wasn’t difficult for you. Why would it be? You owned Adam’s soul—won fair and square through his own idiotic mistakes—and that meant the man couldn’t deny you so much as a doorknob, much less the keys to his glorified sky-bound man cave.

“God… fuck, I was just unlucky, that’s all.” Adam grumbled, voice sanded down to a defeated drawl. He sat hunched beside the couch—your couch, really—an absurdly gilded monstrosity that belonged in a museum of bad decisions.

The spectral yellow collar around his neck glowed faintly, its chain looped casually around your hand. It was a tangible symbol of his binding to you, and he hated every second of its existence. You could feel his resentment radiating off him like heat off metal.

His hair, normally immaculate, hung in disheveled tufts around his face. You had half a mind to smooth it back for him—half—but seeing the once-smug seraph looking so rumpled was too delicious not to savor.

“What, you’re still pissy about that?” you asked, leaning over to catch his eye, your grin stretching just enough to irritate him. You knew exactly which that he meant—the night he’d staggered drunkenly into Hell, misplaced half his dignity, lost several poker games, and ultimately bet something a little more valuable than he intended. Namely, himself.

“...Fuck off, cunt.” he muttered darkly.

You didn’t bother answering. You simply tugged the chain—firmly.

Adam yelped, a strangled, mortifyingly high-pitched noise bursting from him as he toppled forward. His hands scrambled uselessly before he landed face-first across your lap, mortification blooming across his cheeks like wildfire.

You let the chain settle slack again, your fingers idly tapping against the back of his neck as he squirmed. He wasn’t going anywhere—not until you decided otherwise.