Chapter Text
Allie settles in her wicker chair, grimacing at the way it creaks ominously beneath her. Her body aches in sympathy, her hips weighed down by the burden she's been given. Nine long months awaiting the arrival of her little devil, and soon all her suffering will be over, one way or another.
Her long journey had begun after even more months of trial and error attempting to contact whatever existed beyond life. From the bloody sigil she'd drawn hundreds of times in hundreds of different ways a demon emerged in a bolt of blinding light. Every hair on her body has stood on end, the air vibrating with power as she beheld the creature towering over her. In many ways he looked like any man, just taller, with massive claws, vicious teeth, and a strange box for a head. Despite his clear supernatural nature, he wore a sweater vest, and a little hat atop his head. Much of his behavior followed the same pattern as his appearance - he was temperamental, vicious, demanding at times, all the danger that his claws promised, but at the same time so eager to please, soft and pliable under her hands. The first thing he said to her was that her voice was the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard.
Vox had promised to give her the power she sought in hell for a mere trifle; just her hand in marriage, and a night of lovemaking to consummate their union. Apparently even in hell, men were much the same. For one night she indulged him in all of his filthy desires, as much as they could without him crushing or ripping her apart. Once she joined him in hell, he promised, they would fit together like pieces of a puzzle.
Of course, their little tryst left her with far more than she'd anticipated. Fitting, for a deal with a demon. Through considerable effort on her part, Vox had been able to leave his seed in her belly. She'd been arrogant, like every other unscrupulous young woman who ended up in the arms of a hungry man, assuming that she wouldn't face any consequences. But Vox's seed had taken root and grown eagerly within her. In no time at all her body was ripening with child, round and obvious. Her producers were eager to dismiss her, they could hardly have a harlot like her on the air! She hid away in her cabin, ashamed and furious, and Vox's child grew, and grew, and grew. These last few months she's barely been able to move, her belly so heavy that even standing up is a daunting task.
Three days ago the pains had started, her body clenching and seizing. Whatever grows in her belly - human, demon, something in between - will be born soon, making its way into the world one way or another. The pains are happening more and more frequently, each one causing her belly to harden like a stone. She breathes slowly through each wave, both hands rubbing at the tender, stretched skin struggling to contain her passenger. Her clothes have long been abandoned, the summer heat and the sweat of her labor causing them to cling uncomfortably. With little to distract her from the pain, she's alternated her time between pacing the miniscule length of her cabin, and resting in this chair. She's avoided her cot, for fear that she might not be able to get back up if she lies down.
As another burst of pain seizes through her back and belly, she feels the desperate urge to push. Her body curls inwards, limbs tensing as she obeys her instincts. Inside, the great weight shifts, crushing into her hips. Moaning in relief when the pain eases, she digs her nails into the taut surface of her stomach, truly beginning to dread how big the fruit of her womb as become. Surely she won't be able to get it out herself, and may be arriving in hell earlier than she anticipated. But if she dies, her husband will be waiting to fulfill his end of their deal. With any luck, the child will fall with her, and she'll get the wifely duty of producing an heir done immediately.
The need to push crests, and she strains, suffering through every inch of the baby's descent. Her pelvis feels like it will shatter as it's crushed and warped by the massive child. Time passes nightmarishly slowly as Allie endures each surge of agony. At some point, the pressure builds harshly enough that something pops, a gush of warm fluid coating her thighs. From there, the night becomes a constant battle. The need to push, already urgent, is her only purpose. She tries to be slow, deliberate - she's her mother's daughter, and she will bear even this with dignity - to avoid tearing, even though at some point it will be inevitable. Still, she tries to allow her body as much time to adjust and open as she can, in the hopes that it might spare her in the long run.
The hours drag on, and she becomes more desperate. Each shift and squirm of the baby inside sparks new anguish, every slow slip deeper into her birth canal has her sobbing. As her laboring pushes grown more frantic, she has to grab the arms of the chair for support. Her hips scream, the looming pressure within delving into her core mercilessly. The baby feels like it's pushing her entire lower body open, she imagines she can hear her bones snapping.
Her own voice fills the air, delirious, "Vox, amoure, please, help me," she whimpers pathetically, but of course receives no answer. She hasn't been able to summon him again, after their brief time together. Perhaps she's been a fool, like all young women who offer themselves to the first man who calls them pretty, and he won't be waiting for her at all.
"You awful dog, doing this to me," she snarls, "When I find you in hell I'm locking you in a cage until you beg for my mercy, ahh!" The last word devolves into a scream as the head finally presses against her opening. "Oh, oh, oh," she pants as the head forces her lips apart. Every inch burns, a red hot jolt that makes her toes curl. Leaning around her swollen belly, she struggles to reach her entrance and feel the emerging head. Dread swirls in her gut as she feels the tiny sliver of wet hair exposed to the air, not even fully crowned. At least it feels like a normal head, not the gigantic contraption its father sported, but still much larger than a child should be. She controls her breathing as best as she can, tense panting breaths, like the old women in town told her, taking pity on an easy girl pregnant with no husband in sight. Small, careful pushes, easing open. She tries to open herself further with her hand, fingers slipping in a mess of water and blood from her womb. With each push the head bulges outward, trapped against her flesh, and then slips maddeningly back inside when she stops to rest.
Frustrated, she struggles to her feet, grabbing the arms of the chair with a vice grip as she tries to force herself upwards. Her legs tremble when she puts weight on them, so she clings to the chair as she turns around, using it to balance as she squats in front of it. The cushion on the seat, once pale brown, is crimson with her blood, the wicker splattered and stained by her hands. The change of position opens her hips wider, and the child presses hard against the burning agony of her vagina, stretching in what she can only hope is finally the full crown. If she has to spread any wider, she'll certainly break apart.
With renewed vigor she pushes. Once the head is out, it should be easier. That's what everyone's told her. Just get the head out, and then she can rest before continuing. Her bloody hand keeps slipping on the wicker, so she moves it to the shifting globe of her belly, pressing down as if it will urge the baby out faster. Her breathing grows more erratic, the heft of her breasts bobbing against her belly with each desperate gasp. Tiny sobs and whimpers are all she can manage as her vagina stretches to its limit. She misses the precise moment the tearing starts, the smell of blood already so pungent in the air, her opening already a white hot core of pain. In a moment between breaths she can hear it though, the sound that flesh makes when she sinks her teeth into the corpse of a disrespectful old man. Her body rips open around her baby, her blessing, her curse, tearing open wider and wider. Her legs are nearly numb from holding this position, and when she tries to adjust her foot slides through the puddle of her own blood growing on the floor. She falls with a plaintive sob of shock, toppling to the side and hitting the dirt floor with a dull thud. Her body recoils, curling instinctually around her vulnerable belly. After days spent barely able to move, too pained to sleep, relying only on the meager stores of food she's been able to stock for sustenance, she doesn't know how to continue. Between her legs the head still rests just within the bounds of her tattered opening. The pool of red pouring from her grows, slowly soaking the floor around her until she's bathing in it.
"Vox, please," she whispers, entreating the humid night air, "Please, have mercy," she sobs. There's a ringing sound in her ears, a metallic taste in her throat. The smell of ozone, the smell of Vox, the prickle of static against her skin. She gasps, eyes flying wide, though she doesn't remember closing them, searching for him. The room swims in her vision, the dark walls of her cabin, the warmly lit apartment she grew up in, a filthy alley beneath a red sky. Her heartbeat is loud in her ears, painful in her chest. Crushing contractions ripple through her belly, but she can't find the energy to push with them. She sees her maman walk into the apartment, tutting at her foolish daughter lying on the floor. She stares into the ice blue eyes of the empty skull of the last man to call her a whore, his flesh long since stripped away to sustain her through this birth. He wasn't enough. She should've found someone fatter, but they can be tricky, for someone as slight as her. Pressing both hands to her belly, she sighs out an apology to her little mistake, grown far too big. She'd hoped to give it at least one breath of bayou air, but the numbness rapidly spreading up her appendages tells her that won't be happening. Her vision wavers, narrowing down to a distant point, and then everything is quiet.