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How do you measure a life?
Was it by your actions? How much you changed the world? How many people cried over your death?
No one was crying over his sorry ass.
He had always known, from the minute he was born, that he was destined for Hell, but a sliver of his soul had hoped.
His excuse had lasted until he was 13 and had killed his parents, freeing himself of imprisonment. That moment, as he stood over his father's gurgling body had been his time to choose the man he would become. He had chosen wrong.
He thought back over his existence and couldn't find one memory to clutch to for comfort. There had never been a lasting happiness in his life. He had been given over two hundred years of life and all he had done with it was destroy things.
He had never known the love of a good woman, dismissing it impossible, telling himself he didn't want it, not realising how important it would be for him now. Never knew what it was like for a girl's face to light up when he walked into a room. Never had little ones to carry on his legacy and name.
He had thought he was a free man, but he was delusional to think that someone wasn't always holding on to his chain. At best he was another person's pet, a worse, a play thing.
Satan had grown tired of trying to break him once Wolverine had fallen down the rabbit hole. Sabretooth had nothing to break. He had never loved, never given himself to another person. There was nothing to hold over him to cause him to bend under the Dark Lord's will.
The whippings eventually stopped hurting as they endured. Being released into pits of sex crazed demons didn't terrify him as maybe it should have. While he was not a stranger to sex with men, he had to get used to being the bottom. It didn't take long to find a pleasure in that however, which drove Satan mad.
Once he had been threatened with the torturous death of anyone Creed had ever cared for, but the folly was seen almost as the words tumbled from the Devil's mouth. His father had been dragged out of whatever rock he lived under and given a pair of pliers, but the man couldn't act when he saw what his son had become.
This left very little entertainment. Satan would have to give him something worth while in order to control him. But his chance never came, not now with the runt occupying the Devil's attention. Creed was no more than a second thought. The collar and chains still bound him, trapped within his own head, only being able to communicate with grunts and growls. Little did Satan know that leaving Sabretooth with time for his thoughts and regrets and his nothingness, was probably more torture than a week of beatings could provide.
Creed had been left on a craggy cliff, overseeing Logan being whipped by his dead wife with a cat o' nine tails. He managed to find jealously bloom in his chest. How many times had the runt been married? Three, four times? Women fell all over themselves to be his next bedpost notch.
Speaking of runts, the little man named Puck was hidden behind a boulder, trying to get his attention. Exasperated at the lack of response, he finally ran up and used Creed's bulk to continue to hide.
"You still in?" Puck whispered, peering around. Sabretooth grunted in response, the best he could answer in the positive while maintaining his position as a statuesque gargoyle on the cliff as to not divert Satan's attention away from Logan. The dwarf watched the torture below before running off again into one of the holes dotting the side of the rock wall again, leaving Creed to wonder what the hell he was doing.