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seas-storyarchive · 2 months

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redeemed rosie - au

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Rosie, hell born, was redeemed. This was.. a shock.

"How did this happen?" Charlie asked Emily, after they broke the news during a monthly meeting. The woman was a murderous cannibal. So, how the hell!?

"We have a theory." Sir Pentious said, looking from Charlie to the woman.

"The whole system of Heaven is getting a closer look. Those in the seventh and eigth rings are looking over all records, of those in both Heaven and Hell." Emily said, before looking at Rosie. "Well, congratulations, miss Rosie. You made the cut."

"I'm sssure thisss isss a sssshock, missss. I've made ssssure with thosssse on high that you'll have time to get your affairsssss in order." Oh, how kind of him.

"What if I don't want to go?" Rosie was.. oh goodness, this was a shock to her.

Emily shook her head. "This isn't negotiable, ma'am. We," whe gestured to herself and Sir Pentious, "didn't choose, and you can't get out of it."

Well shit. Rosie sighed. "Alright, alright. I'll.." she paused. "I'll get started."

It took about three weeks, sadly, for those affairs to be in order. Organizing her leave from Cannibal Town, passing off her shop, and saying goodbye to her people - it was hard, although Susan's apearance made it just a tad easier. Oh how she'd miss that "ornery old bitch", as Alastor called her.

Oh.. oh Alastor..

Rosie moved into the hotel, finding out that the news had already spread.

"Congrats on da redemption, toots." Angel raised a glass to her.

"We'll miss you!" Niffy had climbed up her dress, holding her around the neck tightly while crying.

"Oh Niffty, tears don't suit that sweet face, little one." Niffty was cradled by Rosie who wiped her tears.

Husk took Niffty back, looking at her with a sad expression. "See you, eventually."

The hotel shook - oh, you thought Alastor was downstairs and saying goodbye? Nope. In his room throwing a tantrum. That shook the building.

Yup, that was what Husk was afraid of.

"He sounds so sad." Niffty said, looking up the stairs.

He's grieving, Lucifer recognized the pain in the roars - having made many of the same noises when Lilith finally left with Charlie.

"Give him a bit." Lucifer said to them.

"He's out of time!" Charlie snapped. "He's got.. I don't know, 12 hours! He should be down here!"

"Charlotte, doll.." Rosie's voice was heavy. "I.. I think I should go to bed." She smiled. "It's.. been a day."

"Oh, okay Rosie." Charlie said to her. "Uh, call if you need anything."

"Thank you dearie." Rosie said, before leaving up the stairs. Why not use the elevator? She needed to think.

Her mind had been so scrambled, she admitted to herself as she walked about the third floor to her room. 333, funny, really. That holy number. Rosie supposed she'd get used to seeing that eventually.

She entered her room, and closed the door. It was quiet, eerily.

"I know that your in here, Al." She said, her voice shaky as she removed her coat, hanging it up. Seeing the red coat opposite to the hook she was placing her coat on.

Taking her eyes off the coat, to her room, she saw the chair now played host to a man with red deer features, his shadow moving about on the floor. Who seemed to be busying himself with something on the coffee table. Upon walking to it, there was a large bottle of whiskey - huh, unopened, such control with his favorite drink - and two glasses.

"Apologies for not going downstairs." Alastor said, pouring the glasses.

Anger filled Rosie first. "Why weren't you? Look, I know that you're hurting, but that doesn't mean that you get to not say anything!"

Alastor looked up at her, something in his eyes made her stop talking. "I am sorry, Rosie." Apparently he internally said fuck it, and downed some whiskey, before continuing. "I didn't want you to see me and decide this.. thing wasn't for you "

"It's non-negotiable." Rosie said, taking a glass and drinking it as well. "I don't have a choice."

As Alastor poured another glass for himself, snorted.

After another drink, she looked at him curiously and angrily as he put the bottle down. "What?"

"The fact that going to Heaven is a non-negotiable, what a bit of dribble." Alastor said, taking a long drink of his glass.

"I'd say more than a bit." Rosie said, taking another drink. When she finished, she looked at him. "Why are you here?"

Alastor sighed, his glass was empty again, and pulling the bottle up and drinking from it. Long and quick, before he said, "isn't it obvious, I enjoy small talk-"

"Shut your mouth." Rosie took the bottle, taking a swig herself - it's one of her last times with her friend, might as well indulge a bit. She set the bottle back down. "We heard your tantrum from downstairs. You know you'll miss me. Hell, I'll miss you, Alastor!"

He kissed her, having jumped from his seat and kissed her. Rosie pulled him against her, gripping his hair in one hand and shirt in the other.

"Don't leave." Rosie said, against his lips.

"That's," he kissed her again, "supposed to be my line."

"I meant tonight you adorable idiot." Rosie kissed him harder, tasting rye, tasting the flesh of whatever he'd last eaten, tasting him.

"I wasn't planning to." Alastor said, letting her pull him back over her. Wrapping his arms around her for their final embrace. That was all he wanted tonight.

The next morning, it was time for Rosie to go.

Rosie said her goodbyes to everyone - making them all promise to look after Alastor for her.

Their hugs were tearful - Angel didn't know the woman too well but he was upset she was leaving, Husk was losing a good friend, and Niffty was screaming from the top of her lungs. The only partial goodbye was Lucifer.

When they piled into the limo, Alastor accompanied them - being Rosie, himself, Charlie and Vaggie - glued to Rosie's side.

They rode and walked into the builing in silence, Charlie on one side of Rosie, Vaggie on Charlie's other side, and Alastor on Rosie's other side.

When they reached the light that was a pillar to take Rosie to the top, it was time.

"Oh Rosie!" Charlie hugged the woman, who she had learned so much from, holding her tight.

"Hey, hey." Rosie held Charlie, shushing her before they pulled back and she cupped her face. "Where's that strong princess? Hm?" She wiped the tears from Charlie's face.

"I'm gonna miss you!" Charlie said, still crying.

"Oh dearie." Rosie kissed her forehead. "You'll be fine, trust me. You got moxie, a strong heart, and good friends." A smile crossed her lips. "I look forward to hearing about all you've been doing down here." She let her go, and passed her treasured cane with a skull to her.

Charlie looked at it, and then to her.

"Something tells me that you'll make good use of this, darling. Keep your head and sporits up, Princess. You'll be great." Rosie smiled to Charlie as she backed up towards Vaggie, who put her arms on Charlie's shoulders.

"Take care of her, alright? She's gonna need you." Rosie said to her. "All of them will."

Vaggie nodded to her with a smile, squeezing Charlie's shoulders. "I- I promise, ma'am. Thank you, for everything." Vaggie's tears fell silently as she looked at the woman, surprised when she was hugged too. They hugged and when they separated, Vaggie smiled again.

Rosie moved back from them to look at Alastor, the man was stone faced save for his eyes. "Alastor.."

His voice came out as a soft croak, "Rosie.."

Who hugged who first, they'll never know. Both holding each other tight, both taking in each other's scents for the final time - him of metal and ink lined book pages, her of roses and vanilla. His tears falling into her hat, hers soaking into his jacket.

When they pulled back - Rosie pulled him into a deep kiss, which surprised him at first, before he relaxed into it. He'd later deny that one of his feet raised and the sight of something moving about under his jacket above the coat tail.

They separated again, their eyes locked together.

"I want you to promise me something, Alastor." Rosie said softly, reaching a hand up to touch his face.

"Anything." Alastor said just as softly, leaning into her hand.

"I want you to try this redemption thing." Rosie said to him. "I want you to promise me that you'll give this a try."

Alastor, after a moment, nodded to her, and quietly saying, "I'll try."

"That's my love." Rosie said softly, giving him another kiss, before fully breaking away, and backing away from him slowly as she said, "look after them, okay, Alastor? Let them in, let yourself heal."

Alastor nodded, his claws running across the sleeves of her dress but not catching as much as he desired to. "I.. I love you." He said, finding his voice, when it was just their hands connected now.

"I love you too, my dear deer." Rosie said, letting go of his hands, letting them run along each other as she stepped into the pillar of light.

And soon, she was gone.

Vaggie looked from Charlie, who was wiping her eyes, to Alastor, who was staring at the pillar. Staying quiet, giving the two a moment.

"Guys, we should go home now." Charlie said, after a few minutes of silence.

"I.." Alastor's words died in his throat, before wordlessly following the two.

Charlie was hurting, gripping the cane as she tried to keep it together. Vaggie was sad and trying to find words of comfort. The two were looking from each other to Alastor.

Alastor was stting there, quietly staring at his hands.

"Alastor.." Charlie put a hand on his, only to feel a tear hit it. When Charlie hugged Alastor, the man started to sob.

Vaggie said nothing, just watched, with a sympathetic frown on her face.

Rosie had been given a warm welcome and an apartment in Heaven. A cozy little place. Bedroom, bathroom, living room, small kitchenette. Her favorite feature was a small radio on the counter. When she looked at it, she noticed the dials - 1890, 1900, 1910, 1920, 1930.

Hmm.

She turned it on, and a familiar voice came through the radio.

"Welcome, residents of Big Easy, New Orleans. It's your radio host Alastor, on for another evening shift. Sit back, relax, and let this classic track from Buddy Bolden fill your souls."

An old radio show, but oh it warmed Rosie's soul to hear Alastor.

After a few days, Rosie was walking through a park, seeing a dark skinned woman with a short cut curled afro sitting on a bench. "Pardon me, miss. Is the other half taken, or.."

The woman shook her head, smiling, moving her bag. "Non, miss. You do be feelin' free to sit here, if you'd like."

"Why thank you." Rosie smiled as she sat down, taking in the view of famies in the park. "It's.. sad, really. Seein' kids, up here." And she came from hell, so that was.. saying something.

"That it is." The woman's voice made Rosie turn to her, looking at the families around her, love and loss mixing in her eyes and a frown on her face.

"Hey, turn that frown upside down." Rosie said with a smile, the woman turning to look at her. "A friend of mine, he always used to say, that you're-"

"Never truly dressed without a smile."

The two were surprised, but Rosie told herself it had to be a coincidence. And then, she forgot her manners. Tsk, Alastor had rubbed off on her, it seemed.

"Pardon my manners, miss. My name is Rosie Hunt." She offered a hand to the woman.

The woman smiled at her, taking her hand, "Lenora Dupuis."

D.. Dupuis!?

"Uh, pardon my askin', but um.. are you related to a charmin' fella by the name ah Alastor Dupuis."

Lenora's eyes widened as well. "If he be about six foot, unruly light curls in his hair that he keeps straight'ned, and speaks in a white man's accent for dah radio, than yes. That would be mah son."

Tall, hair that's naturally curly but he straightens it, and a voice made for-

"I.. I know him." Rosie couldn't stop herself, finding that she wasn't alone and that Alastor had family here was - oh she wasn't about to stop talking to this woman.

"You knew mah son?" Lenora wanted to know more. "Where is he? Is he alright?"

Rosie could just hear the record scratching. "Yes, I- I was very close with him. He's alright. Um, he's.. he's in hell." At the heartbroken look on this woman's face, Rosie quickly said, "but he's in a rehabilitation center for sinners that want to come up here!"

That seemed to calm this woman. "So.." she paused. "How did you know my son, miss?"

"Oh, it's.. complicated. I mean! Oh, where to start.." Rosie took a breath. "We were friends for the longest time. And then.. I fell in love with him, somewhere along the line. And.." she sighed. "As I was leaving.."

"Yes, cher?" Lenora asked, with baited breath.

"We kissed. And.. he told me that he loves me." Rosie said. "He loves me, can you believe it?" She asked the woman who would know Alastor best.

Lenora smiled, a wide grin - no where near where Alastor's stretched, but just the same - and it made Rosie smile too. "I do believe it, cher." She laughed. "I do, indeed." She laughed until she cried. "My boy, mon petit faon, he found love."

Rosie waited until Lenora stopped crying, watching as she pulled a tissue from her pocket and dab her eyes.

Maybe this could be a great friendship, between the two - she'd always wanted to know more about Alastor. They could trade stories and such, get to know each other.

Alastor, after a few days, walked out of his room. He was hungry, tired, had a headache. But he still wanted to bring something up to Charlie.

Alastor began, grabbing a serving of macaroni and some meat that looked edible from the fridge, trying to figure out how to work the microwave.

"Hey Al." It was Charlotte, who was smiling at him - before seeing what he was doing. "Oh, here let me help you." She put the dish in a position where it would heat up the most amount of food, started it and the she turned to the man.

"Are you.. um, how are you?"

Alastor sighed. "Honestly? Not in top shape."

Charlie nodded. "I understand." She smiled. "But hey," she put a hand on his, "let's take it one day at a time."

Alastor nodded. "Oh, and um.. I was wondering.." he took a deep breath. Well, now or never.

"Yeah?"

"I was wondering.. how one actually gets this redemption process started."

Charlie's mouth dropped open as the microwave dinged.

"Um.. we'll get started after you eat, okay?" Charlie stepped aside, letting the man get to his food, seeing Vaggie walking by, and saying to Alastor. "Uh, I'll let you eat in peace."

As Alastor tucked in, Charlie pulled Vaggie aside. "Hey, Vaggie.."

"What? Did he say something?" Vaggie summoned her spear.

"No.. he.." she sighed. "He wants to be redeemed."

Vaggie dropped her spear. "Are you sure?"

Charlie nodded to her. "Yes. I think Rosie being redeemed, it changed him. He wants to make that change."

"You're serious?"

Charlie nodded. "Yes."

#redeemed rosie au #hazbin hotel #light radiorose #ofc its radiorose #radiorose #hazbin rosie #hazbin au #hazbin alastor #alastor x rosie

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lucid-heart · 3 months

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I love you too, Lottie.

lottie matthews x f!reader

♦️You pull the queen card and every Yellowjacket knows what that means. Your life is forfeit for the survival of the team. You don't want to run. And there's only one person's you would place your life in. ♦️

WC: 1k+ words

masterlist • read on ao3 • request

A/N: this one is a little tragic but lottie matthews I love you 🙏 keep an eye on the TWs

CW: Main Character Death POV, implied cannibalism (ofc), Sad Ending

"Not her. Anyone but her."

For a moment, you swear your heart stops. Background noises fades to nothingness and your world spins around you. You hold the queen in your hand, pulled freshly from the deck. And you all know what that means.

As you raise your head, the others all realise what you pulled.

Shauna stares at you, hands balled into fists. There's an indescribable wildness in her eyes, as if she recognises the beginning of the hunt. She changes during the hunts. She becomes a predator and you will be her prey.

Nat refuses to look at you but keeps her gaze down. She pulled the first queen. She knows exactly how you feel right now.

You scan the room in desperation but there is nothing anyone can do. The wilderness chooses.

It chose you.

"(Y/N)?"

Someone speaks in the dead silence of the cabin and you look in their direction. It's Lottie, of course it's Lottie. Beautiful, caring, wonderful Lottie with her dark eyes and gentle voice. Of course. Of course.

"What do you have?" she demands. "What is it-?"

"What the fuck do you think it is, Lottie?" Nat snaps.

Lottie crosses the room to you and grabs the card out of your hand. You let her. You hardly feel it slip from your fingers because you're shaking so much. Fear engulfs you in a drowning wave. It's different being on the other end of the blade. It's different knowing you're going to die at the hands of your friends.

"No, no- we have to do it again-"

"Lottie, it chose her. We can't-"

"No! No, we have to-" Lottie spins and tries to grab the deck out of Van's hands but misses. "It can't be her. I-I won't let it. Not her. Anyone but her."

It's not directed at you but at the others. A desperation overcomes her as she realises she can't get the cards back. She grabs your wrists and tug you close to her.

"Lottie, we don't want to do this. But we have to-" The others try to reason with her but they can't.

"No! Get away from us! I'm not letting you take her!"

She's shaking too but from anger or fear, you can't tell which. With her height she overshadows the others but that means little in the wilderness. Shauna alone could tear her apart in seconds. They wouldn't stand a chance against the rest of the pack.

Already the others are moving like wolves, coming to circle the frantic Lottie as she tries to protect you. Misty moves to grab a spear and Lottie screams at her.

"No! Do not even try-" she snarls.

You've never seen her like this. And Lottie herself is the reason the hunts started. There was sadness in every one before yours but not like this. She really doesn't want to lose you.

Since you crash landed into the unknown forest, Lottie and you have gotten closer. How close, you never truly knew and you suppose you wouldn't find out. You know how you feel about her and how you wished for more but didn't dare ask for it out of fear. You didn't want to scare her away. But in doing so, you lost your chance.

You finally manage to shake yourself out of your daze and you look at the card clutched in Lottie's grip.

The painted face of the Queen stares back at you, a haunting image. It was held by the ones before you. The ones that you ate.

"Lottie, stop," you say. "Th-That isn't fair."

She looks at you and there are tears in her eyes. The hand on your wrist travels down to your hand and she squeezes it tight. She shakes her head. "No, no, (Y/N), I can't lose you. I can't let it take you."

"You have to," you say. "That's the rules of the hunt."

"Then fuck them! I don't care! Not about any of this. Just about you."

Your heart is breaking in your chest. Of course you don't want this to happen. But if it wasn't you, it would be someone else. You look around the rest of the Yellowjackets and take in their hollow eyes and grim expressions. No one wants to do this. But to survive, they have to eat. Someone has to be the lamb.

"I know. I know, Lottie."

You reach a hand to her face and brush away her tears with your thumb. Her eyes close as she tries to compose herself but she fails. She still cries. She still can't let you go.

"It has to be this way."

"Will you run?"

"Do you want me to?"

Running gives the chance for the wilderness to choose someone else. For it to intervene. Is that fair? Is it wrong? Nothing about this is right and honestly, you don't want to run. You want to stand tall in your last moments. You don't want to be stabbed in the back.

Lottie lets out a shaky exhale. "I don't want anyone to hurt you."

And in that sentence, you know what she's offering. The others do as well because they've stopped their circling and weapons are being lowered. This will come down to the two of you. As it was always meant to be.

"I know. That's okay." You stare into her dark eyes and find your own starting to blur. "I trust you. You'll make it quick."

Shauna steps in from the side with her knife in hand. She doesn't say anything as she presses it into Lottie's palm.

"Oh, (Y/N)..."

"I want you to have my heart," you say. "It was yours anyway."

You love her. You say it without words. Because you know that if you say it out loud, there is no telling what Lottie will do.

She understands you and tears fall fresh again. She pulls you close and kisses you fiercely, with the passion of someone who loves you back. It's hot and brutal, like she's trying to sink her teeth into you to hold you there.

Your first and last kiss with her.

You're trembling when she finally lets go.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers.

The knife is at your throat but her hands aren't shaking anymore. She holds your close as she presses the knife of the butcher against your skin.

"It's okay," you whisper back. "I forgive you."

The last thing you see will be her. The last thing you feel will be her hands holding onto you. You savour the taste of her kiss. It's just Lottie. Your Lottie.

"I love you, (Y/N)."

Your throat burns and your body gives out. Darkness engulfs you.

I love you too, Lottie.

#yellowjackets #lottie matthews #lottie mathews x reader #x reader

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aqours · 6 months

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anyways if i'm going this deep in lemme share this teen mom Ashley fic idea i had i'd love feedback on the idea

this is completely unrelated to my other idea regarding this this is an entirely different can of worms i'm putting this under a readmore just bc it's a bit long and also filled with dead doves so only open and eat it at your own discretion

so basically the idea goes like this- when they were teenagers (her 14 and him 16) Andrew and Ashley got into some kind of big fight (still working on it) most likely due to him having a girlfriend in hs at the time. during this period, in an effort to make a point and piss him off, Ashley gets a boyfriend of her own (who just so happens to have messy black hair and green eyes wow what a coincidence) who was in a class with Andrew. some incident happens where Ashley "accidentally" leaves her phone with explicit texts on view (but also tis like the 90s so maybe i'll redo that) and Andrew talked with his classmate and then uh there was another second missing person, and after an intense argument Ashley and Andrew "slept in the same bed" and anyways a month later Ashley announces she's pregnant casually at the dinner table putting the pregnancy test she put right on it.

"Huh. Not the reaction I was hoping for."

"Forgive me for not being particularly fucking thrilled at the idea of being a grandmother at 32, Ashley."

"You know, if my kid has a kid at 15 and their kid ALSO has a kid at 15 you could be a great-great-grandma at only 75."

"Please shut the fuck up, Ashley."

and Andrew is in complete denial it is. it's been 6 years and every single person except Julia refuses to believe it isn't. at one point when Alexis "Alex" Graves is a baby she makes a comment she has her father's (green) eyes with a wink and grin at Andrew. during the Burial Route when Mrs. Graves is trying to plead with Andrew she finally says "... If you won't do it for yourself, do it for your ------------------" and it's like his brain physically blocks out any insinuation with he's the father with white noise. so he's been living as the kid's uncle officially and has no idea how to act around this kid most of the time.

Ashley is not a good mom by any means and has had CPS called on her more than once but incompetence won't remove the child entirely and she does like. actually love this kid but her obsession with Andrew is clearly more important to her, the fact this kid keeps him tethered to her even if he won't admit, and also because she spoils the kid however she can to try to prove she's a better mother just because her daughter is happier than she was, when learning Alex hit another kid to get their candy she was outright like fuck YEAH if you want something take it!!! girlboss gatekeep gaslight to this four year old and Andrew at least tried to teach the kid right from wrong in response. during her first birthday Mrs. Graves asked Ashley if she was gonna do anything and Ashley didn't see a point the kid is 1 they won't remember the birthday there's nothing they'd want and she doesn't seem to process the point of a birthday for a baby isn't about toys and fun but to celebrate their life. when Ashley suggests they can get by on mugging people Alex says she can pose as a homeless sad kid and for the first time in a while at her Ashley lights up and says THAT'S why you're mama's favorite <3333

babies don't make everything better the co-dependent toxic satanic demonic summoning cannibal incest game's plot now also includes a 6 year old that has also eaten people now with two of the most awful parents imaginable around her and if anything Ashley might get colder once her mom is dead because now there's no way

thoughts? i really want to write this but i'd love feedback

#the coffin of andy and leyley #andy and leyley #andrew graves #ashley graves #gravecest #coffincest #ashley x andrew #i have. no idea how to tag this otherwise lmao #dead dove do not eat #there #starposts #long post

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misscinnamonroll16 · 2 months

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Brozone CAH

Bruce drew the black card, laughing as he read it.

“What did Vin Diesel eat for dinner?” Bruce said, smiling as he set the card down in the middle of the table.

The other bros made noises while they tried to decide what cards to play.

After a minute or two, they all put a card down, passing them to Bruce.

Bruce took the cards, gave them a little shuffle before laying them out next to the black card.

“What did Vin Diesel eat for dinner? He ate Sean Connery. What did Vin Diesel eat for dinner? Vin Diesel ate chainsaws for hands for dinner, pretty sure that’s cannibalism. What did Vin Diesel eat for dinner? The gays? Looks like Floyd’s getting eaten and I swear if this is your card. What did Vin Diesel eat for dinner? A sea of troubles. Sounds salty….Alright who had the gays?” Bruce said, holding up the white card with ‘the gays’ on it.

“I’ll take that, thank you.” John Dory said, reaching over and grabbing the black card.

“You want me to get eaten, John?” Floyd said in a fake sad voice, pouting a little.

“The card just said the gays, it didn’t say all the gays. You should be safe. But also, who wouldn’t want to get eaten by Vin Diesel?” John said while drawing another white card.

“John, your bisexual is showing.” Branch joked as he drew the next black card.

"In Michael Jackson's final moments, he thought about blank. This should be good." Branch said, setting the card down in the middle of the table before taking a drink of his beer.

"Fuck you, my bisexual isn't doing shit." JD grumbled as he looked through his cards.

The rest of the bros laughed as they tried to pick their cards.

Once everyone put their cards down, Branch gave them a quick shuffle.

"In Michael Jackson's final moments, he thought about a sad handjob. Very mature. In Michael Jackson's final moments, he thought about becoming a blueberry. Weird thing to think about while dying but ok. In Michael Jackson's final moments, he thought about goblins. Yeah probably of the crotch variety. And last but not least, in Michael Jackson's final moments, he thought about the underground railroad. Again, a weird thing to think about while dying. Who had goblins?" Branch said, holding up the black card.

Clay held up a hand while he took a swig of his beer with the other.

Branch handed the black card over to Clay, rolling his eyes.

"Fuck yeah, goblins for the win." Clay said cockily.

"That's like your third point, you ain't winning shit." Floyd teased, taking a sip of his wine.

#trolls #brozone #trolls john dory #trolls floyd #trolls bruce #branch trolls #trolls clay #funny #trolls cah #brozone cah

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elliotasis · 10 months

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Her face haha 😂

#hannibal lecter #nbc hannibal #will graham #hannibal #hannibal the cannibal #hannibal memes #sad cannibal noises #bedelia du maurier #too stunned to speak

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kit-williams · 3 months

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Hello✨ You have a fiction about an alpha legionnaire and a Rogue Trader. Can we also do something about a Rogue Trader, but with a Bloody Angel?❤

Vivienne Belleville - Rogue Trader Angelo Astico - Blood Angel Battle Brother

tw: Blood drinking, cannibalism? Does it count if a space marine eats a person? Obsession & Possession, sex

Rowena. Vivienne seethed as she saw her rival flaunting the Space Wolf by her side. A handsome gentleman in all regards but horribly brought down by the parasite on his arm. Of course, Vivienne played up the charm trying to lure him away but no Rowena must be giving him something worth his while if he was willing to stay with that creature with a write of passage.

Rowena was the center of envy at the party with that man candy on her arm. And the Space Wolf was just the perfect amount of clearly listening and clearly zoning out that he hardly cared about that damn woman's cackle! Vivienne was very jealous and tried her best to subtly try to get an Astartes to join her. However, it was much harder than she had expected. They joined on their whims or if there was a crusade that you were apart of, as Rowena had graciously explained.

Angelo was an actual angel as she and her retinue had run into trouble on a space hulk and suddenly this screaming marine all dressed in red with a chainsword appeared out of nowhere. And while everyone else was in awe... Vivienne knew she had finally found a man to flaunt to in front of Rowena.

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Angelo had been stalking the rogue trader and her retinue when she stepped foot onto the space hulk. He wasn't interested in staying there like one of the renegade marines he had run into and both mutually agreed that fighting was hardly worth the energy. The mortals aboard the vessel were pleased by their savior and Angelo's decision to not fight. They would not be too sad to see him go.

He grinned under his helmet as the corners of his vision swam red as his eye lenses glowed their bright green. The teeth of his chainsword dug into the tender flesh and weakened armor. He felt his fangs ache as he saw the gore smeared upon his gauntlets. He turned around to see the mortals making the sign of the aquilia except the lady of the group. He regarded the grin on her face and the glint in her eyes and couldn't stop himself from smiling under his helm.

------

The pair hit it off quite well as Angelo had finally gotten off of the space hulk and Vivienne had her arm candy but now she just had to keep him around. For Angelo he was experiencing the reverse of the problem... how to insure he was kept around by this interesting little darling. Though his vision kept swimming red at the very edges and he was getting oh so very thirsty.

It was one cycle on the ship as it was "night" whenever the rogue trader had decided to go to sleep and the mood of the ship had shifted to something dour. Angelo had already licked his armor clean ages ago but he ran his tongue between the joints on his gauntlets. His ear twitched as he heard something in the vents.

The children of the lower decks he knew could be vent rats but this far up and right by the Rogue Trader's chambers. She did give him the code to her door... and as many times he had slipped in to observe her sleep a few times this would be a legitimate reason to go in. Just to make sure she was safe of course....

-----

Vivienne frowned in her sleep as her dream of being swept off her feet by Lord Montague declaring his undying love for her only for the dashing Biologist Magos Nex to then declare his love for her at the same time... the dream turned... crunchy.

She opened her eyes as she could hear the crunch now... the scraping of teeth on what she was assuming bone... a soft male moan as a wet noise assaulted her ears. She sat up and turned her bedside light on as she could see a mess of blonde half curled locks with blood on them. The crunching was coming from the mass of muscle crouched over something... Vivienne couldn't help herself crawl to the foot of her extravagant bed to see him crouched over the body of somebody.

She softly swallowed as she paled slightly... seeing how his hands were both red up to his elbows. Vivienne cleared her throat after swallowing her nervousness... she was a rogue trader after all she had seen worse. She watched Angelo's shoulders still as he raised his head and looked over at her with a wide bloody grin, the bone between his teeth snapping as she could see that the expensive carpet under the body was absolutely ruined.

"Lord Angelo... would you care to explain?" She gestures to the... half eaten body.

"An attempt on your life my dear lady." He says as he lazily licks his fingers clean though her eyes watch the drops of blood that run down his pectorals. Angelo had a bit of... fat on him and it looked utterly delicious to her. Sure she enjoyed her sharp edges but by the God Emperor she wanted to stuff her face into his chest. He seemed to catch her staring as he moved each pectoral muscle one their own and her eyes darted back to his own as he licked his fangs clean with a chuckle.

He pulls a finger out of his mouth with a pop, before grabbing her chin smearing some coagulating blood on her chin as he trills softly. He's no longer thirsty but does his Rogue Trader look like a snack and he watches her shiver under his heated gaze. "I had sensed something was wrong and took care of it trying my best not to wake you." Oh right... she had seen him eating someone... that never was good for mortals to see, "You didn't see anything unsavory my lady... did you?" His voice dipped in octave as he looked at her with a predatory gaze.

But what met his nose was not fear but arousal. That made something in Angelo's brain click a different way and he was upon her licking and kissing her carotid artery. Pressing his bloody tongue flat against that pulsing artery as she whimpered and mewled under him with that smell of arousal growing more and more. It had been quite a few years since he had been around company that he considered to be proper... running around with the renegade and the others on that hulk were driving him mad but here finally in good company... shame how he was let loose.

His bloody tongue moved down her body as Vivienne gasped and trembled getting enough of her senses back to slap him and nearly swooning at the cocky grin on his face. "What's the matter little shipmistress? Was that too much for you?" He coos gripping the expensive fabric of her night gown and just tearing it in half as he lets his tongue move over her breasts now.

"Oh Lord Angelo!" He said with fluttering breath.

He just grinned as he growled pushing a ring finger inside of her. Oh perhaps she was eager to get a man who wasn't a brute but unfortunately Angelo was still coming down from a blood lust high. And she let out a squeal of delight as she felt that deliciously dizzing burn of her walls being pushed open by his cock bullying its way inside of her.

For Angelo this was part of satisfying an urge he was feeling and well also fucking the ship mistress dumb so that he could finish his meal in peace. She arched her back off of the plush bed as she mewled. Her hips pushing back against his as it was a push and pull between them. It didn't take her long for Vivienne to let out a shriek of delight as her orgasm hit her and Angelo to keep thrusting into her to ride out her clenching orgasm. Saliva mixed with blood dripped onto her already bloody breasts before he hissed out as he came.

Angelo would have liked it far better to wine and dine the Rogue Trader and certainly last much longer but he was certain she would forgive him for being such a brute. He knelt over the body hooking his fingers into the top of their jaw as he heard Lord Captain Vivienne speak, "I'll... have someone take care of the body." She slurs as he chuckles.

"Worry not my lady I'll take care of it. I'll let someone know about the blood stain." He says dragging the body to his room to finish his meal. He is certain he will enjoy his time with Lady Vivienne

#I had a headache so sex isnt as good #tw: cannibalism #tw: yandere #tw: obsession #tw: possession #tw: blood #tw: sex #tw: smut #Yandere #Yandere Space Marine #Space Marine #Yandere Blood Angel #Blood Angel #Rogue Trader #warhammer 40k

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thebottomfromhell · 2 months

Note

about the reverse au I thought of an idea where the demon reader ends up seriously injured, perhaps in a fight with another hashira or even a lower hunter and ends up poisoned with wisteria, which makes the wounds difficult to heal (I don't remember if this is canon or no, but whatever). What matters is that his partners find him and are worried that the demon is not healing, having to take care of him while the sun is out, perhaps feeding him with their blood? It can have a happy or sad ending, I leave that to you

Reverse AU is always on my favorites, I will use the poison since it's the one that puts the now Hashira in a moment they must actively help instead of letting reader be in a safe place.

Btw, sorry for disappearing again, I am working on an old project of this same blog, it is a long one, I hope to get it up asap, but I will be still working on the requests.

Reverse AU Male Demon Reader gets poisoned and need to be taken care of

Warnings: Implied manga spoilers, Cannibalism, Explicit injuries, Near-death experiences, Toxic relationships, Sadism, Unrealistic/Unaccurate first-aid/medical aid (it's ok since it's for Oni, but the warning still stands) and Karaku.

Gyutaro:

Gyutaro is a caretaker, he denies it, but he is. Ever since he first saw his little sister in his mother's arms, he became a caretaker. As simple as that. It's not that he feels the need to take care of everyone around him, it's not that he mothers people, it's not even that he dislikes seeing others in pain (he doesn't, he is ok, and even likes seeing others suffer), he just knows when some is special (to him) and he will take care of them. Shelter, nurture, nurse and cherish, it comes natural. So far, only Daki and some other little children (mostly girls) have activated that side of him, but he never thought a man would, much less a demon.

You have trouble breathing, usually that wouldn't be a problem, you don't need to, but you are asphyxiated still. You feel the pains in the throat, a blurred vision, weak muscles, headaches, nausea. You just tremble on the floor caughing, it was not enough to kill you, but it's close. It doesn't help that one of your legs was cut off, so you struggle to move to rest against a tree when more wysteria scent arrives. "Y/N." At first it startles you, the a hand rests on top of your head. You relax, recognizing Gyutaro's touch. He poisons his own blood, and uses the same flower that has you like this. It's painful, and the strong scent is burning your nosedrills even more than they already sting. But...

But you trust him to take care of you. You have several cuts besides the one on your leg, your part of your flesh trying to heal but being deformed as the bone is not healing as fast. Using clothe, tightning around your neck, legs and secluding ever hurt part, he cleans his own weapon of the poison. "You will be fine, ne, just wait a bit. I will help you out, ne." With the pain you are already in you barely feel when he cuts off the injuries that didn't heal correctly and opening every one of the to suck your blood and spit it to the side, knowing he doesn't have to worry about you not breathing or bleeding out, just take the poison out.

You can barely hear his heartbeat with a high pitched noise in the back of your head, but... you think you can tell his heart is beating fast, worried, scared. "I know." He is a caretaker, after all. "Just stay still, ne. I'll feed you after the poison is out of your system, ne."

Gyokko:

Gyokko has never once in his life taken care of anyone that wasn't him and himself (and Hantengu to a lesser extent, but there is a life-debt between them so it doesn't count). He never had siblings nor a tsugoku, a bad relationship with his parents who died when he was a kid, he is rather lonely, but he never minded the quiet and peace it brings. It's a good space for an artist, with no more than the spontaneous lovers, you included.

Honestly? He is enjoying it, having your head on his lap as he strokes the sides of your forehead, hearing cough and sob from the pain of the poison. He touch makes it barely bearable, since there is something both comforting and edge putting of Gyokko's hand, there has always been, part of you is waiting to be stabbed while the other leans into the warm flesh. "You have always been so cute when in pain, handsome." You can barely hear it or see him, everything hurts so much.

You have one arm cut, but can still feel the burning sensations of the poison killing your cells through it, you only remember that Gyokko, for some reason, was the one who killed the slayer that poisoned you. "Now, you should really heal up, don't you think? I didn't save you because you are good-looking, toy. I might have to throw you if you are not able to continue playing my game." It's a threat, you know that, you know that you need to heal, you want to heal!

"I... can't..." your voice is rough, your heart beats fast in fear and realization, you aren't healing by your own. Then, you feel fingers against your lips, opening your mouth as the digits make their way to press against your teeth. You feel the blood slip through your cavity and throat, your tongue presses as you feel an eyeball against it, instenctly closing your mouth to eat, finger working your lips apart as your teeth work with the flesh. "That is better."

Hantengu:

Hantengu is paralyzed, barely breathing, out of fear. His legs already gape up, he is just down on the ground, leaning to the side, as he watches you cough. You have several cuts that are not healing, why aren't you healing? You are a demon, you shouldn't be able to die with a head on your shoulders. And yet he can see the cut in your throat, not enough to decapitate, but enough to have problems holding your head in position.

You try to stand, to move, but your limbs refuse to hold up more than a few steps before falling again, trembling like a newborn lamb. You hate it, the sence of being afraid and defenceless, easy to hurt and kill. You haven't felt like that in a long time, ever since you became a demon, you were never this. The pain is unbearable, and you don't even know how much time you have before the sun rises. There is a pitch in the back of your head that blurs sounds and your vision, and your nose is basically burning with wysteria.

But even with that, you can make out the sobs and havy breathing of Hantengu, so you turn to look at him. You don't know if you should ask for help or not, but by now you can go to him. Still, you call him out, voice rough and throat in pain, vibrations on the vocal cords making a particular sting and ick. "Hanten-.... Han..... gu..." He calms himself after hearing his name, walking towards to the check you up.

"Y/N, you-" he doesn't even know how to continue, then he sees the corpse of the slayer you killed. The one who poisoned you. He runs, cut a bit of the flesh with his weapon, before going back to you. He puts the piece in your mouth, only for you to instantly dig into the taste. "Eeeeeck!" He flinches and takes some steps back as you chew. You will heal, at least.

Sekido:

"Hey... what do you think you are doing? Shouldn't you be healing right now?" Sekido is angry, he is always angry. Or at least he would like to be always angry, to be able to not feel fear, or sadness, or even love. Anything that will give others something to use against him, using rage as a shield. So he only shows he is annoyed that you are in the ground, panting painfully loud, bleeding out eternaly as more blood regenerates, every time less thick and colorful. "You can't be this useless."

Right, one of your main weakness are these flowers, the ones in the blade of the slayer. You were to weak to even kill that random fellow, but Sekido had to take it into his own hands since he couldn't let the organization he is actually making deals with demons. He might have gotten away with it if he was a Hashira, or maybe not, but the fact that the other slayer knew too much still stands. "Are you even listening? You, piece of shit!"

Nothing, your agonizing moans and violent coughs cone out your mouth, and Sekido doesn't know what to do but frown. Part of him considers to just leave, look for his brothers and let all this slide. You were not supposed to be found together, nor get wisteria in your body, but it happened and so he directs every fear and sorrow into his main emotion. "Why do I waste my time with you?" He asks, not willing to admit, even to himself, that he wants to stay with you, that he wants to help.

But he does, after some thought. "You better peove yourself worth of this." He says as he takes the corpse near you, and seeing you have problems moving to eat it, he shoves a whole limb into your mouth. "Man up, will you? None of us has all night!" And this is the only way he will allow himself to show that he cares.

Karaku:

Karaku is not amused right now, he was followed by another slayer into the meetings, you hot poisoned and he almost got snitched. "Handsome, why did you take the hit? You know I can take care of myself." He talks, mostly for himself, because he doesn't like the option of being quiet, listening to your groans and coughs. Half of your neck was cut, your head basically hanging from it's base from the skin, exposing the flesh, bones and fibers that compose the insides of your throat.

He takes you to somewhere safer, at least put some distance between the corpse and both of you. He helps you lean against a tree, resting against your back as he gets to the level of your head before you, not really knowing what to do. Karaku was never good at medicine, and he never had to deal with an almost decapitated man. "So... I guess none of us is having fun, huh?" He says, laughing to gain confidence to grab your head on it's original position.

"Mnn... you are not healing as fast as usual, and there is a lot of purple in your skin." Karaku is growing concerned, specially as your eyes seem unfocused and you don't answer him at all. "Maybe you need something to eat..." now he regrets leaving the corpse behind, but there is little more you can do. Your cough is worse and you behin to sob with a sore throat as the poisoned cells try to regenerate. "Seems there is no choice, try to not suck me whole, will ya?"

He presses his thumbs against your fangs, internally praying you won't bite them off. But you do gulp the blood, biting into the digits, as you heal. It will get better.

Urogi:

Urogi doesn't really know anything about taking care of others, stalking about first aid and medicine specifically. Sure, he can help with a broken or springled limb and cover a wound, then help the hurted person, usually one of his siblings, to get to a proper medic. He doesn't know what to do in case of poisoning, besides vomiting whatever you ingested if that is how you got it. But you didn't eat the poison, it was basically forced into your system with a cut.

"Y/N! Y/N! Are you ok? Can you hear me?" He is worried, Urogi doesn't like seeing people he likes getting hurt, he is quite protective, so this feeling of impotence seeing you lie down, coughing blood and poison, heavily breathing, bleeding out, trembling with an unfocused vision... it scares him. "Hey! Speak to me! Y/N! Don't you dare dying!" You have to calm down, also feeeling hurt and afraid, before being able to speak quietly, every word making your throat burn. "Uro... gi...."

He seems to light up a little when he hears his name, grabing your face by the sides softly, or as softly as he can right now. "Yes! Yes, it's me! Urogi! I will help you, I'll find a way!" He tries to remember what the others told him to do in case he was poisoned, the use of harming substances it not weird in Demon Blood Arts, but most of it it's just reducing the effects and propagation of those content in the body until he gets to an actual medic... that won't be helpful.

"My blood! You can drink my blood!" He can hear Sekido in the back of his head insulting him for the idea alone, but he doesn't know what else to do (like using the corpse near by). Still, he is willing to take the risk, opening a cut in his wrist to feed you while grinning cheerfuly. "Here, drink." And you do.

Aizetsu:

Aizetsu knows how to heal others, even when toxines and poisons are included, it's not weird to face Blood Demon Arts that take advantage of the reactions of human bodies when certain elements take over, certainly more common that humans using wisteria. "So sad..." that only makes this even worse, the chances were low and still you got hit by bad luck and a poisoned katana. "You look so pathetic right now. Can you even hear me? Or the headache, dizziness and the fact that all your senses are slowly and painfully shutting down don't let you understand what I'm saying?"

There is a high pitch, you can't really make up what he is saying, but you know Aizetsu is there. You have faith that he might feel pity for you, as you cough and decide to ask for help. "Ai... Aize... tsu..." it's weak, a painful whisper, but you were hear none the less. Aizetsu takes his spear, considering giving you a quick death, definetely better that all the pain you look in. You are dying, and even if you weren't, there is no way you could heal before sunrise.

You don't heal the same way as humans, another and weaker part of him considers experimenting his new ideas of using breathing forms for healing on you. It's an incredible oportunity, and it would help to make up for the lives you have taken, including the one of the fellow who you just killed, after he poisoned you. But again, that is a very weak thought, maybe his brothers would but Aizetsu? He doesn't have the heart for it.

"I don't want you to die." That is all he says before going for said corpse and take some of hia flesh. Then he helps you sit down as he grabs some pieces of human meat. "Eat and heal. And don't make me regret ir." And, going against every code from hsi work, Aizetsu aids you.

Akaza:

Akaza panics for a moment, he always panics when someome is hurt. He hates poison, loathes every person that uses it in battle, being Gyutaro the only he actually respects but still disapproves of his technique. But the other Hashira is a different case, Gyutaro doesn't use poison because he is weak and a backstabber, he uses it because he is desperate to use and do anything to be able to protect his sister. He is a protector, a caretaker.

Akaza used to be one, too. He used to nurse, to nurture, to shelter and cherish too. It's been years, though, and he has not taken care of anyone that way again, besides from time to time giving first aid to other slayers or victims of the demons, but besides that? He can't care enough, but that jumpy instict always tells him to protect before fading away in the reminder there is no person left that he wants to protect. Or at least it shouldn't be, because you shouldn't count.

You are poisoned, everything hurts, you can barely breath and you can't even stand with a missing leg. While his heart is beating fast, he tries to check up on you, purple skin and flesh on the edges of the cut with a potent smell of wisteria. A very weak bone is growing slowly, with holes and spots, you keep bleeding and the muscles seem to melt as the fibers join each other. "Y/N! Can you hear me?" You nod, still in pain, relaxing as he seems willing to take care of you in this moments of need.

"Ok, don't worry. You will be fine. I think I will need to cut the parts that aren't healing good enough, then I'l try feeding you. Tell me if you need a break." You nod again, you are in good hands.

Douma:

Douma just sits, waiting for you to heal. He barely reacts to the fact that you are not. Demons die and agonize all the time around him, you are not a first nor will be the last. He is honestly more concerned in what to do with the corpse of the slayer that poisoned you. Should he perform some rites? Just let it rot? Call someone? Honestly, he always deals with half-eating corpses, but this one looks fine. Is odd that, being so hurt, you didn't try to est it.

"Maybe I should have paid more attention all the times Nakime-chan and Kokushibou-san explained the protocols. Don't you think that, Y/N?" No answer, you can just hear his voice being distorted at the distance, head aching and burning up with the rest of your body, trembling as it's becoming numb and cold, but it feels hot, like a fire consuming. You can barely see the blurs of Douma's colors towards his direction, but knowing him, you can make up the gestures.

He tilts his head at your reaction before getting close, chuckling loudly. Once he is a few steps away from you, he sits the same way he used to when he was the main figure of a cult, when said cult existed. Demons are the reason it doesn't, demons ended his life, everything he knew... but he isn't mad, at least he doesn't think he is. While Douma does enjoy seeing you suffer, he doesn't believe this makes up for the past or that you specifically deserve the agony. He is just... he likes it, it makes something.

"My, my, you poor thing. I happen to be kindhearted, so I can't look the other way. You are going to die any minute now. I'll give you some blood!" He cuts the palm of his hands, feeling the pain... feeling something that he can't comprehend. But he is used to it, just like he is used to keep you around. Don't think much of it.

Kokushibou:

Kokushibou can only look at you for a while, he has seen agonizing demons through more than half of his life, and he always did the same for every one of them, stare. For a while he considers just leaving, while you managed to kill the slayer that poisoned you, you are not healing nor able to move, coughing in pain as you lie down. The sun will come up sooner or later, nothing garantees that you will heal by then or won't be able to. Your body fights to heal, to regenerate the ills cells if only for the sake of getting all your limbs again.

He does consider leave, you can't even tell he is here. He considers having some sort of mercy and killing you himself, he is not a doctor or healer of any type. He never had a fight where he was hurt to the same point you were, never got poisoned so concentrated that it actually weakened his limbs and deteriorated his organs enough to leave him agonizing on the ground after the fight instead of getting medical assistance. And the people that take care of him would not take care of you, even if he told them to.

"Y/N." He calls out instead, but you don't answer. He should kill you right now, specially after you just killed a demon slayer, but... he doesn't want you to die. He gets close to you, knees on the ground as you sit spread, using your arms behind your nack for support. It's familiar, but he was on the other side. There is so many ways an irony can fit he doesn't want to think about it. Instead, he takes out his katana, black and red, and cuts his own wrist.

You basically use all your strengh to basically jump over him out of instinc at the sense of food, safety and power the scent always meant. He lets you bite into his arm, sword still on hand in case you try to rip it off. You didn't, you relax the second blood touches your tongue as you suck the liquid slowly, weak but healing. You will be alright.

#demon slayer #kny #upper moons #kny x reader #reverse au #karaku #urogi #aizetsu #sekido #hantengu #gyokko #gyutaro #nakime #akaza #douma #kokushibou

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rel124c41 · 2 months

Text

MASS ANESTHESIA. vaggie

You cannot leave her to die. Down one eye, down two wings, defenseless. She spared your nephew’s life. Her blood smells divine.

tags: developing relationship, angelic lore, moral dilemmas, cannibalism, sad with a happy ending, masturbation, phantom wounds, eye trauma, fruit symbolism, the erotism of tasting the divine

word count: 8,335

IF an exorcist angel does not kill you, you will do the job yourself.

How could you have been so careless? Despite hearing the sound of glass breaking, you just assumed that it did not affect the matchbox home you had hidden yourself and your nephew in. You knew that boy got scared of loud noises, Satan, glass breaking? You should have been smart enough to know he would run out of fear. Now you rush out in streets of discord, looking for a boy not even up to your hip yet in height. Yes, you will definitely end yourself after all is said and done.

You are fortunate to be hellborn. Your nephew is not. And if only your fucking dead, deluded sister did not fall in love with a Sinner man who already had a child! Pushing a scrambling Sinner out of your way and into the waiting spear of an exorcist, you continue rushing through the current of chaos and feverishly search for him.

The world is so horribly vast. You never ventured out of Cannibal Town. Planning to keep yourself in one place, you and your relatives would be safe until you all died of old age.

You fucked it all up as always.

Pentagram City is alien – the reflective surfaces of VoxTek technology so foreign to you who lived in a place paused in the earliest part of the twentieth century, 1910s. Even cars are a cultural whiplash to you. Though, you are a quarter-worth certain that functioning automobiles are not typically upturned on their bellies, distorting with the fire that burns out of them, glass shattered.

You do not know where to even begin searching for him. Somewhere quiet is where he would mouse himself away but the earth tonight until dawn will be a cacophony of screams and cries. You book it down a left corner, calling out your nephew’s name.

Then, you catch the sight of him. Him running down the street, tearful, as an angel whips around the corner, hot on his tail and a few feet off the ground. Then he bolts in a dead-end alley. NO! You rip into the scene desperately, jumping sidewalk to sidewalk. Curses on your tongue and legs burning with effort, you follow after them.

The wings of an angel, front or back, are always an odious image. Known for their speed, there is something horrible that rises up inside you upon seeing them, unfurled and blocking your nephew from your view. You prepare yourself, readying to latch onto her back and feast down to her spine, to buy him time to escape. Surely you would die in your effort but –

“Go. Run, now.”

You freeze, staring at the back of the angel in disbelief. Huh? Your nephew is in more of an active state, taking his opportunity and rushing past the opening. His eyes find you and he jumps into your arms. You waste no time. Picking him up, you run just as another presence takes over your spot.

It is a ten second exchange. It happens in the blinks of an eye.

You can feel the heartbeat and presence of something ranking higher in piety than the angel who spared your nephew life, two heartbeats, puissant pulses.

As you book it down the street, you hear a woman scream, her cry of pain billowing out of her and from the same alley you just stood in the mouth of.

The world tonight until dawn will be a cacophony of screams and cries, you have no reason to check upon one woman when you hold your only living family member in your trembling grip.

CHARLOTTE Morningstar sends up bursts of fireworks just as you finish puking. An hour ago, you tucked your nephew into bed and left, ruminating in your mind. Your head is a cauldron of rotten and soured ingredients. You take one look at indigestible contents of your mind and stomach spilled on the ground and peel yourself from the scene.

Out of Cannibal Town, you have no direction of where to go so you wander purposeless. You thought you could clear yourself of this weight. Vomiting and walking until you reach the edge of the Pride Ring. If you reach the bottom of the earth, can you finally be free of this heavy, hanging weight?

Then, you smell it. Something that washes out all the putrescence sitting in the bowl of your stomach, cleanses it with soap and sponge, and makes you feel better again. Forgetting the bottom of the earth, you trail after that scent.

Pitching your nose up like a bloodhound, you let the aroma guide your feet in stumbling steps.

Thump!

Saliva fills your mouth, eager. You know the sound of a meal before you even set your eyes upon it. Turning the corner, you watch the injured person slip down the dumpster they had just thump-ed into. Exhausted, not going to put up much of a fight. Honestly, after this Extermination day, you thought your appetite would evermore remain a water soaked log, unable to spark into a flame again. How pleasurable to find that is not the case, you think, licking your lips.

The demon is panting feverishly, body quivering against the chilled dumpster’s surface. It twitches and murmurs. You never knew that Sinner smelt this good before. Then, your eyes land on the armored clothes thrown carelessly into a garbage can. Because that is what smells so divine – the blood laying on the clothes and the metal sides of the bin.

That stricken sensation returns to your stomach and your whet appetite quiets down. Your humane intelligence returns to you, reminding you of factors such as emotion and logic. You take in the sight of the body at a much slower pace.

A woman is panting feverishly, body quivering against the chilled dumpster’s surface. That uniform peeking out the garbage can is all the confirmation you need. You can connect the two linking smells coming from there, then from her. This is not something you should concern yourself with but –

You cannot leave her to die. Down one eye, down two wings, defenseless. She spared your nephew’s life. Her blood smells divine.

Making up your mind, you move forward, incredibly hungry and incredibly nauseous.

Before you even make a plan, you find yourself kneeling down in front of her. Kneeling, what an evangelical act to bend yourself and your strength down. Your blood races warm in your veins. The angel blinks disoriented and moves her cheek off the dumpster. Her mouth is open in tiny pants. And oh dear — when she turns to look at you, she only looks with one eye. Her left eye is a concave hole of pink tissue muscle which thuds with her veins which thuds with her heartbeat. You only catch a glimpse of it before she reels back, pressing herself into the dumpster.

“Wait, please,” you startle, showing her your empty hands. Displaying all the claws that could tear her apart.

What to do? You walked over to her with absolutely no plan. You do not have any medicinal supplies or bandages. And there is sincere doubt that an angel is going to waltz to a second location with a hellborn. What do you do —

Your stomach growls. The angel stares.

Without second hesitation, you take your hands and grip onto your skirt. The thick fabric weeps in your hands. Scrunching up your nose, you tear a long strip off your dead mother’s dress and turn motivated back to the angel.

“Please, let me.”

She flinches but stays still as you wrap the fabric in a mediocre tourniquet around the left side of her face. Best to avoid infection from alien viruses.

Neither of you smile at each other. She still looks ready to run. You still feel an unwavering hunger in you.

“If — If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your name? You let my nephew live, um. I just would like to know your name.”

That seems to calm her down, shoulders relaxing, and she even gives you her name. “Vaggie.”

“(Name).” You can feel sweat run down from the crook of your arm to your inner elbow. Nervous that this is working. You haven’t fucked up yet. “My name is (Name).”

“COUCH. My bedroom. Kitchen. Bathroom. Off limits.” You point at each designated spot or room with a clawed finger. You deposit the blankets on the first item you pointed out, the couch.

For some reason, you feel uncomfortable at home. Bones and flesh too big for the apartment you have always lived in. You called it your matchbox apartment because of how little space it had, as much space as a matchbox to hold only matches, any other invader too large and ill-fitting. Now, you are trying to squeeze someone in and find yourself feeling unshapely.

You sniff when Vaggie sits on the couch, wary and small. Her single eye is unfocused as if she is trying to squint at everything through a sandstorm. You had to pull her from tripping over the limbs in the street four times.

“I serve lunch at 12 and dinner at 6.”

“Your nephew … is he?” She looks around the matchbox apartment, searching.

“Lunch at 12 and dinner at 6.”

TODAY, you take on a simple task. Cushion all the sharp corners in your home with bubble-wrap.

Vaggie watches you from her designated corner, single eye wide and full of caution. Ignoring her, you smooth the foam block onto the corner of your coffee table. The duct-tape croaks as you tear off a stripe. Let her look with all the abhorrence in her soul, it would not change that you needed to do this, if not for her safety then the safety of your furniture.

You doubt she noticed that you noticed. When she moved, she moved as if her Achilles tendons were sliced open. She had little coordination. You were tired of hearing pained groans accompanied by the wail of wood against the floor. It was bothersome.

“There,” you remark absentmindedly, standing up. With the living room and bathroom done, all that was left was the kitchen. You glance at where the angel is curled up, shivering. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

You know she will not eat any meat you serve. She must recognize Cannibal Town from past flights and recognize what your appearance means. You do not blame her for moving into the corners of rooms when you enter. It has only been two days with her in your home.

“Okay.”

You march into the kitchen to finish your task.

ONE random night, you stand above the angel in your living room. Dead light filled your windows and slept onto all your furniture. It is a calculated move on your part, making sure that the angel is in such a deep sleep that even the moon itself sleeps with her, translucent beams dull and tired.

Standing over the angel, you huff and puff like a wolf. Your chest billows in quick bursts, heart and lungs both erratic. You are like a starved animal whose metal leash is just a foot short of allowing you a meal. A rope of drool falls from your mouth, gelatinous and slippery.

The angel sleeps with her most vulnerable parts exposed like a puppy wanting belly-scratches. Neck. Stomach. Chest. Wrist and ankle. All part of her unarmored.

The second time drool pools over your quivering, snarling bottom lip, you take heed to wipe it with your wrist so it does not land on the angel and wake her up. You know rationally that one bite will lead to a gluttonous and greedy feast. As soon as you get to taste an angel, you doubt that you will ever want to eat anything else. All of your previous foods will lose color and taste, extinguishing your taste-buds in the presence of such delicious piety. Still, that alluring smell washes out a majority of your worry that other meals would be dull in comparison. Getting to taste Heaven just once … your mouth salivates at the thought.

Then, Vaggie rolls onto her side and snuggles into the duvet. A content smile on her face, happy that the duvet is warm.

Your mouth dries; you pull back physically and mentally, pulling back up your more merciful façade, sheep skin pulled over a mongrel mouth, blanketing yourself in your fake humanitarianism. You return to bed with an empty stomach.

OUT of nowhere, some arbitrary day, Vaggie aims a question at you like aiming a crossbow at a bird. The day was silent otherwise until she pierced it and ripped it apart. Her voice is soft and winsome, almost making you wish she indulged more in conversation with you. “Did the boy live?”

You freeze, body disconnecting from your raging mind. The knife in your hand stills, a centimeter of the way inside the lady apple you were slicing up for the roast. You can see the mountains of goosebumps rise on your foreheads, sleeves rolled up when cooking.

“No.”

No. His body laid in the off limits room, headless and torn at.

The squelch of the apple and bang of your knife meeting the cutting board is a horrid sound. You position your knife for the next cut.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

You do not think you can keep cooking. Trembling, you grip the countertop and hunch over your work. You do not know how you can survive with an angel in your vicinity especially when she says words like that, kind words that burn you.

Forcing a steady voice, you say, “It’s okay. You did more for my nephew than I did.” You continue cutting, even though your measured, straight apple slices turn unsymmetrical.

IT is a begrudging stay but it is a stay nonetheless. You can tell by looking at her that she does not want to be here but has no place else to go. She would much rather be picked up by someone kind that bleeding-heart princess, Charlotte Morningstar, or anyone in Cannibal Town without your issues. A lone woman grieving her nephew in a shitty matchbox apartment. A host less monstrous than you.

“HERE.” You place down the apple and knife. “Pick it up,” you instruct, sitting criss-cross across from Vaggie.

She grabs the knife and ignores the apple.

You deflate a tiny bit at that, then remind yourself that she is at least halfway there. Conceding, you turn to your own apple and knife. Precisely, you start to cut at your fruit, lecturing. “Your coordination is poor. You can barely walk around my house. You need to learn to live with a single eye now; so, start out small and learn basic life skills like how to cut an apple. Cut it into wedges, that isn’t so hard.”

To be frank, a small part of you did expect that your explanation would usher her into picking up the apple. Instead, she holds her newly acquired weapon to her breast. You mourn that you will likely never get that knife back.

Down, your eyes and attention shift to the apple slices in hand. What to do? What to do?

You do not want to work with her like she is some animal in your barn that you are trying to coax out, but how can you gain her trust besides in medicating steps like those? Your knife works slowly to make the bunny ears on the apple slice, skinning off a long triangle. Nature 101 says you allow animals to approach you in their own time.

“You must know this, that everything started with an apple. You and me, hellborn and heavenborn. Sinners and winners. All one tiny piece of fruit: knowledge, temptation, mortality.” You start plate-ing your army of rabbits, whittling with the fourth one to perfect his ears. “Our entire existence bloomed from one bite. This entire situation, from one woman’s hunger.”

Vaggie’s one eye flickers from your face to the apple on the ground, cautious. With your best efforts, you try to appear as timid as the animal you are craving from the fruit of life. It is a considerable task with your teeth and your claws. Hopefully, she reads well-meaningness in your pitch black eyes.

You keep the grin off your face when she picks up the apple, testing her visual perception and cutting wobbly wedges from fruit, because you know your teeth are not the best encouragement for her right now.

KNEELING, you try to repent.

The open maw of your refrigerator casts an evangelical light upon you. Holy light undulates on you in hypnotic heartbeat lines like underwater shadows. In the mouth of the refrigerator lies only one item: a single, air-sealed container of red meat.

Tired hand clasped around the handle, it shakes with violent tremors. You had attempted to submerge the volume of your cries but were fruitless. Out of your own mouth grief spills from. It is a wrecked, horrid sound. You gasp out a little speech around your heavy cries – tears and drool cascading down onto your knees – but all that comes out are broken vowels and smashed consonants. What comes out of you is the unknown torment of a mother losing their child. The image of Extermination night walks back into your mind and you wail louder.

You know you have to eat it. You know you have to swallow it. But the only taste you are able to plate is the bile rising in the back of your throat.

Eventually, your noise calls and beckons out your guest in the dead of the night. Vaggie stands in the kitchen doorway, watching you collapse into yourself underneath the pious glow of fluorescent bulbs. She cradles a fist up to her chest, running through all her options.

You are knocked out of your crying when you feel a hand on your shoulder. Mouth drying, you turn wide eyed to meet a sympathetic ivory eye, slanted down. Incredulous, you start to bristle away from her touch but stop when she starts to rub circles in your back.

Like an autumn leaf that puts up a valiant effort to stay tethered to its branch, you tremble wildly in her caring, angelic gesture. Then, you curl into her shoulder, sobbing anew.

It takes a while for you to come back to the house of your mind, sit back in the loveseat and understand what is happening. Thick webs of snot make a horrid noise as you sniffle. Your flustered cheeks are warm to the touch. Water has flooded your face, reaching down to your chin and neck. Vaggie’s hand on your back has still not stopped, circling and circling. The weight of her hand feels good on your spine – selfishly, you wish she would never stop.

Into her shoulder, you say with a damp voice, “As a cannibal, the tradition is that when a loved one dies, you prepare them into your favorite meals and eat them. So they stay with you forever.”

You are relieved that Vaggie neither flinches or stops in her motions. Saying something so monstrous like that, how careless of you. But needing to get the weight off your chest –

“When my parents died, my sister and I ate them. When my brother-in-law died in an Extermination six years ago, my sister and nephew ate him. When my sister committed suicide, her son and I ate. Now, it’s just me. He wasn’t supposed to—.” You choke on your words. I don't want to do this alone.

“You don’t want to do this alone?”

You tremble at how easily you are seen through. The intent in your flesh picked apart by a vulture’s beak. Shivering, you lean deeper into Vaggie’s hold and nod listless. You reel back when she asks: “Do you want me to join you?”

“I could never ask that of you!”

“You’re not asking, I’m offering.”

“No.” You stare up into your fridge. There are multiple times in it, not solely the air-sealed container of red meat, but that one has the most hold over you. Hugging tiny arms and hands around your waist. So you stare at it in the pit of clerical light. You have to do this alone –

You do not realize you are crying again until Vaggie brings a hand up to your face, wiping tears.

“Tomorrow. You don’t have to tell me if you put it in the dinner. Just tomorrow.”

YOU stand outside of your apartment like you are a waiting guest. In your tight grip is a single box, wrapped in black and red bows. Walking down the street, you fought twice with the temptation to throw the box into an open dumpster.

This isn’t crossing a line right?

Lines are being crossed and cut already.

You stare once more at your apartment door, hard contemplation on your face. Keying it open, you walk in. And there is always the living room trash-can.

She needs an eyepatch.

“I like to make myself useful.”

You suppose anyone is like that, seeking a purpose to make themselves less bored. Vaggie has not done much besides sit on your couch, staring out at the street until the dead of the night, and flipping through books she does not read.

You did catch her one morning using the architrave of your kitchen door to do pull-ups. She dropped flustered to the ground at your gaze and hid in the bathroom, which you had crawled out of bed to use. So that is how calluses came to be on her fingertips instead of palms.

“Yeah, but –” You send a glance to all the ingredients on your countertop. Cooking was sacred to you, a realm entirely your own. Maybe you should buy plants for Vaggie so she can find something else to occupy herself with.

“Please.”

You wilt at her sad look, only half as good as anyone else’s but surprisingly more effective than anyone else’s. Maybe you can trust her with cutting the garlic cloves but nothing more. The knife you raise is the only answer you give.

“WHY do birds suddenly appear

Every time you are near?

Just like me, they long to be close to you”

Radios were very popular in Cannibal Town. Popular synonymous with mandatory in this special case. Rosie made acquaintances with a young, upstart gentleman around 1940, his name spoken by either amorous voices calling “Alastor” or spoken by recreant voices calling “Radio Demon”. Since then, radios popped up in every house in Cannibal Town like weeds in a garden. You still remember the lovelier days where your older sister sat blushing by the radio’s warm glow, giggling happily when voodoo sigils floated up from the wires, and swooning over the rare moments when Alastor sang in his transatlantic timbre. She was wholly mournful when you did not share her enthusiasm like the ladies down the streets. You admitted that he had a decent voice once then went back to cooking your father.

After the Radio Demon’s disappearance four years ago, there was little left to listen to on the radios besides a stray music station. You cannot find yourself to part with the relic. It is one of the only items in your matchbox apartment that resurrects eroded blithe emotions.

Today, at dinnertime, the radio plays Close to You by The Carpenters. Trying to remain with some antiquity despite the fact it was the twentieth-first century. You appreciate it though: a soft, tranquil melody so antonymous with how life is down below.

Plus, you love pianos. They were so romantic.

What you prepare is called lomo saltado. Your culinary skills are really being tested by having to cook tofu saltado, as tofu is a medium you are unfamiliar with. The challenge is enjoyable though. Under the circumstances that your life two months ago had not changed so extremely on Extermination night, you would have never glanced in the direction of tofu when grocery shopping.

Now you dip tofu into a mixture of cornstarch and salt, listening to a radio play a love song, as the angelic guest in your matchbox apartment finishes her last set of military push-ups before she joins you to help cut produce.

“On the day you were born the angels got together

And decided to create a dream come true

So they sprinkled moon dust in your hair of gold and starlight in your eyes of blue.”

You are arm deep into a cabinet when you hear Vaggie walk in. Grabbing the cutting board, you praise, “perfect timing.” and move to allow her space to work. Her coordination has improved vastly in the time you spent together. You no longer eat one paper thin strip of tomato only to go for another and almost choke on the enormous size of it.

“Sorry for the delay, I wanted to –” Vaggie stops upon seeing your face. She forgets that you do not really like apologies. Playfully, she takes her fingers and zips her lips.

“Beat any personal records,” you ask, just trying to make conversation.

“Added an extra fifty pullups.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, can’t you tell?” She impressively flexes her arm. You laugh happily, handing her the kitchen knife. She picks up the parsley first and sets it down on the cutting board.

“I don’t know, you have a pretty lithe frame. Makes me doubt.”

“We can arm wrestle again if you need a third reminder.”

You fluster and tap her knee with your foot. “No, thank you. I thought I wasn’t going to be able to cook after the first incident. You acted like you wanted to be down a chef, left hungry and miserable.”

“Hey, I could cook if I ever needed to.”

“Yes, and you would just have to choke on it.”

This time she taps your knee with her foot. You two laugh as she adds the parsley in the bowl of ingredients. Fondly, you think of how much you enjoy how easily your conversations come when cooking and eating together, nothing like how it was not too long ago.

“That is why all the girls in town

Follow you all around

Just like me, they long to be

Close to you.”

It is nearing the end of that certain song, but you cannot stop yourself from asking: “Do you know how to dance?”

“Uh … I.” Vaggie stutters. Her Roman nose turns away from your peripheral, glancing around your kitchen as if you locked up her answer in a cupboard. “I.”

“It would be a good test for your coordination.” You point your own knife down at the cutting board when she has begun to cut the tomatoes. “Which could still use some work.” Still cutting a bit unevenly.

Vaggie is quite beautiful, hiding behind the silver overarching bang she is growing out. Her voice is winsome and she is something you do not deserve to keep. On the radio, a melody you have not had the pleasure of hearing before starts to fill the space of your kitchen. Unburdened by the evil of the probably dead Radio Demon, a woman sings: “So many cars, queuing in line. Such a sight just fills my heart with awe. Silent sadness fills my heart.”

“Do they dance in Heaven? They must, it is Heaven.”

“They do.”

“What about you? Do you like dancing?”

“As an … as an exorcist, I was not really allowed the time to learn anything about dancing. I just trained.”

Vaggie always waits for you to get hateful or vengeful at the mention of her being an exorcist. You should be, she thinks, risking a glance beyond her hairdo. Yet, you never shy away from her or the mention of Heaven. It is inane of you.

“Well, let’s train your body to dance. For your coordination of course.” Then you push her hands off the tomatoes and knife, dragging her into the center of your kitchen.

“Who should call us off?

Such a sight just fills my heart with awe

It’s some mysterious mass anesthesia.”

It is a learning process. Vaggie tries to follow your lead but you have no plan when dancing. She tries to take up the helm but finds herself nervous and backs off. So, you two just clash together, unexpectedly dancing a pretty dance despite your various differences.

When she rests her head on your shoulder, closing her single eye and thus ending the purpose of following coordination with her eye, you do not chide her on it.

IN the dead of the night, a scream floods your matchbox apartment. The waves of it crash into your bedroom, soaking your pillows and chilling the soles of your feet. Graceless, you push against it and catch just the last droplets of Vaggie’s piercing cry as she falls off the couch to the ground.

“What’s wrong!” Your mind flies to a hungry cannibal intruder who smelt an angel or perhaps one of those exorcists has flown down to finish the job. Your hand slams up the light switch. “Vaggie!”

Electric lighting in the 1910s is still spotty. Rosie has not found another decade she is fond of, thus leaving her town underneath the belt of many technological upgrades. It takes a few coughing flickers of dark and light before you can see clearly. Inside that momentary spasm, you think you catch the silhouette of someone standing over Vaggie.

“Hey! Leave her ALONE!” Your teeth flash solicitous in the light.

You blink in surprise to find no one but Vaggie in the living room; your anxiety birthing a figure who was never there. Your stupor is broken when Vaggie screams again, loud and pained, in a fetal position on the carpet. Falling to your knees, your eyes fly across her body. No visible injuries.

“Vaggie – Vaggie, what’s wr–”

“Para, duele!” She cries at the ground, panting, between her belts of agony. “Mis alas!”

“What? – I don’t – Vaggie!” Unequipped with bilingualism, you can only tell she is pleading with you about something painful. But there are no visible wounds and you do not smell blood! You cry her name again, grabbing her hands when she starts to dig them into her back. “Vag –” You wince as you get an elbow to the face. “Vaggie!” She twists volatile in your grip. “Vag–,” this time she misses her mark, “cut it–!” You hug her tightly in your grip as she starts kicking, forceful limbs punching your couch’s side. “Stop that! Please!”

“Mi – my wings!” Vaggie cries in your hold, still trying to twist out your grasp. Those words chill you down to the marrowbone; she takes the chance to explode out your arms. She curls back up on the ground and squeezes herself into the carpet, sobbing. She makes a mad grab for her own bare spine.

Her wings? Huh? You watch bewildered as she stabs her nails into the meat of her trapezius, gray muscles straining under her iron grip. Her hair has grown an inch longer than her bob. Wisps of it just barely brush against her shoulders yet you see the tension of her fingers digging into her muscular back … no … do not draw blood. I can’t –

Panicking, you seize her wrist as her openly vulnerable scream turns into something rageful. Vaggie twists in your grasp, trying to get her autonomy back. You slap her, praying she will not bite her tongue or cheek.

“Huh? What?”

You allow her to say that much before you drag her back into your hugging, bruising embrace. Taking your hand, you run it up and down vertically across the ridges and grooves of her muscles, feeling the protruding bones of where her wings were severed, two sliced mountains on her back. You keep rubbing, delirious and feeling out of body. To be honest, you have no tact when comforting anyone so your pressure on her back is too harsh like you are trying to scrub out a stain. Wincing in shame, you gently put your face onto the top of Vaggie’s head and just continue circling your hand on her spine.

She falls placated after a few moments. Previous rapid breathes even out second by second. Her hands lying down on your carpet slowly rise up to your shoulders and she folds herself into your ribcage.

“It’s okay. I got you. I got you.” You slowly lose your harsh pressure, trying to mimic what Vaggie did before. “It’s okay. You’re here. I got you.” Delirious, you keep whispering, worrying you are fucking it all up despite that way Vaggie relaxes in your hold.

FRANKLIN and Rosie’s Emporium is especially busy today. A part of you judges that is why you chose today instead of yesterday or tomorrow to attend one of her welfare/check-up sessions she hosts. They were always crowded when Love Doctor Rosie came down from her tower like Hell’s own Mother Teresa – but today is especially crowded.

Leaves you with the hope that Rosie will run out of time before the line burns down to the wick, leaving you and her standing face to face. Hoping she will send away the line before she reaches you.

You remember bitterly how your older sister stood like how you are once upon a time. She was worrying herself to the bone about marrying a Sinner man. Complications of him having a son, getting them to change Cannibal Town’s rigid appearance, the funds for even fostering a relationship. She had eaten her nails and even the top layer of flesh on her finger, truthfully worrying herself down to the bone. Your older sister had so many questions for Rosie, but you only had two:

What do you do when you want to devour the one you love?

And what do you do when you know this act of courting would not be appreciated but shunned?

You are a fuck-up. You know that you are a bite made of ingredients on the shelf past expirations. Nothing you have planned has gone the way it is supposed. The fact that you are even considering – feet shuffling closer and closer to the front desk – trying to foster a relationship is testament to how much you are fucking it up. Vaggie deserved better.

How do you even breach this topic of conversation with her! “I want to send you away. Yes, I know others might try to eat up and kill you, but those are infinitely better options than staying with me, Vaggie. So go. I set you free.” You wince visibly, trying to disappear into your handheld fan. Is she really going to be stuck with you … she must have ambitions of her own … why do you not ask her?

Because if she went, I’d waste away. I’m the one without ambitions. I lived only to keep my nephew safe. I failed there. Now I live fleetingly like a fly. You shuffle up in the line.

What to do? What to do?

When the distance between you and Rosie is only four people, you peel out of the line, unnoticed and hiding behind your fan.

WARM hand on your cold navel, you lie supine in bed and imagine a fake dream. The fake dream goes like this:

“Granulated sugar, not cane sugar, and black pepper in a fine grind, not a coarse grind.” You correct Vaggie, pointing at your shared grocery shopping list.

“What is even is the difference” Vaggie murmurs. When she is confused, she always gets a bit hotheaded. Her anger defrosts slightly at the sight of you smiling. “Not cane, granulate,” she sighs, “got it.” She turns her head to lightly peck you on the lips.

“Not coarse, fine,” you tease before she wanders out of your hold to venture down the produce section.

She is still adapting to your more sophisticated, specific tastes for food. Nowhere near ready to shop on her lonesome, you and her take your shopping trips together. You do not mind, you think with a candied smile. The domesticity of harvesting food together means a lot to you. Sharing food was a love language of yours, nurturing the one you love with the meals you slaved over. How your skin shivers watching her tongue wrap around the end of a fork.

While I cannot trust her with most of those items, she has an excellent eye for ripe produce, better than my own, you celebrate, watching lovingly as Vaggie stands by the slanted wall of apples. She is like an angel … Why … She is an angel.

Her evening dress stops at her ankles, elegant and only contemplating its wearer. Three little black bows line up at her waist, a fetching characteristic of the outfit, and match with her black lace eyepatch. Her fingers dance over luminous surfaces of red and green apples. She has adopted the aesthetic Rosie forces on Cannibal Town excellently and adapted to this domesticity too.

You return to browsing rack upon rack of celery. In your mornings, you have been licking the tantalizing taste of osso buco off your lips when you wake, chasing after something you can never fully sink your teeth into. They say the more expensive and elusive, the better it tastes. It hounds at you, tempting and delicious. You can almost smell it in the air.

Heavenly, osso buco smells heavenly. Picking up your celery, you go to ask the maitresse of produce her opinions on the selection when your eyes widen considerably. Gold ichor is spilled over the surface of a handful of apples, filling the air with the smell of evangelical blood. Your heart stops.

“(Name)?”

Vaggie’s single eye stares at you, nebulous and shining in her skull. Your name bleeds over her lips as she holds her arm, closing up this mysterious injury with pressure. “I can’t stop the bleeding.”

You should expect it but it still catches you by surprise when some other cannibal grabs your girlfriend. She shrieks, spun around by unknown arms. You launch into the rescue. Fist connecting with a jaw, you bare your teeth at the random attacker. As they stumble, you grab their neck and throw them. An apple avalanche rolls onto the ground. Mouth open with a hundred pin-sharp teeth, you unhinge your own jaw and feast.

It takes a few good bites. Twisting and drilling your attacking teeth down, you chop into a fighting nervous system. You spit out the thick chunks that you collect, disgusted by the taste. Red honey floods over your face and – finally the body stops moving.

Rising up, you pant like a dog. The blood on your face is sticky warm, slathered generously on your cheeks and neck like vinegar oil. Shaking with spent energy, you run a hand over your mouth and search for Vaggie. You blink in surprise when she holds out her arm to you, golden blood racing down her wrist, and she opens her pretty mouth to say –

You cum with a firm press of your fingers. Panting like a dog, you muffle your whiny, high-pitched moan by clamping your teeth into your bottom lip. Two droplets of red tremble down your chin as your inflamed body shakes with your strong orgasm, legs shaking.

“A-Ah,” you murmur. “Agh – fuuuck.”

Needy gasps billow out. Your forehead touches the silk pillowcase and you feel your own blood fill your mouth. When your chest eventually stops pounding up and down and rises up and down naturally, you nurse on the blood you have drawn. The emptiness of removing your fingers is not such a great loss when you taste blood.

You hoped you were not too loud, fingers thrusting in and out of slick. Vaggie was in the next room over. Your stomach rolls pleasantly and nauseated at the thought.

Always so fucking monstrous. You cannot stop your tears, shame from masturbating hitting you like a truck. You only know how to love like a monster.

EVENTUALLY, you knew this would happen. You could only hold out so long. Eventually, the inevitable would happen and it would collapse on you. Vaggie had gotten sick and it was only inevitable. Alien viruses from a completely new environment were no joke for heavenborn or hellborn.

You balance the bowl of ice water on your right knee, wringing a towel carefully in your hand. The coffee table supports your weight as you watch Vaggie. She is not sneezing or coughing, rather shivering and trembling with heat.

In quite a similar state as the time you picked her up from that dumpster.

Towel finally the right degree of wet, you lean over and start to dab it against her face. She tenses up with a gasp, blind to the sight of you. She quickly turns her head towards you to stare at you with her right eye. Strangely calming down at the sight of you.

“Eggs or a banana?”

Vaggie’s bottom lip pouts childishly. When she turns away from you, you lean further off the coffee table so you can keep the cloth on her forehead. You scold her, “you need to eat something today. I let you fast yesterday. Today, you are eating.”

“Not hungry. I never get hungry when I’m sick.”

“Unfortunate. Eggs or a banana?”

She is still turned away from you. You have learned that she hates being looked at when vulnerable, hiding away when she feels powerless to any sort of attack. So you rest your cheek on your shoulder, staring at your radio in the open kitchen door.

“Apple. I want an apple.”

That sounds good. Full of antioxidants. You smile and leave her with the cloth. Just as you touch the door’s edge, she murmurs into the duvet she has cocooned herself into like moth wings, “you’re surprisingly gentle for a hellborn.”

“And you’re surprisingly gruff for a heavenborn.” Yet you say this smiling.

SCHEDULE is Vaggie’s raison d’etre. It is that soldierly engravement of her constructed soul. Her fierce protectiveness and gruffness was knitted together by heavenly threads and her clay was hardened by evangelical fire.

These parts of her you really liked. You never expected that they would eventually come back to bite you.

It is partly your fault for breaking the schedule. You should have been home five hours ago, dinner should have been on plates four hours ago, and you should have been in bed thirty minutes ago. Walking into your little matchbox, moments before it explodes into flames, you cannot find yourself to care.

The laughter of a young cannibal boy about seven years old in the streets, after four months, it gives you pause.

You tried to trudge home, body trembling and mind spinning. Then, kicked out of your mind, you gorge on the bodies on the streets, puke them back up, and repeat until the pentagram in the sky glows a calmer, lighter crimson to signal night.

The blood drenching your front gives Vaggie pause.

There must be something honest and honestly evil in your void eyes because she bristles away with a single look. She glares at your nose and questions you, “Are you going to explain?”

“Hungry.”

“That’s not much of a good explanation.”

“Did you eat?”

“For Heaven sake, (Name) —!”

“I’ll cook you something.”

“Hey.” Vaggie squeezes her hand around the wrist of your outfit, fabric wet. “Mierda. What happened? What do you mean hungry?”

“I got hungry. You must be too. I’ll cook.”

“I’m not! I ate! Why are you acting like this!”

Laughter … sweet … unburdened … alive and — You never were angry at Vaggie for who she was before until the thought passes over you like a stray breeze, coming from an unforeseen place. You remember the Extermination night where an angelic spear appeared out of nowhere, slicing off his head. Laughter … sweet … unburdened —

Before you can stop yourself, you turn violently in Vaggie’s grip and bite at her.

She is a soldier; her reflexes are excellent even when recuperating from horrid injuries. You miss her Roman nose by just a whisker of space. She must see that something still present in your eyes, honest, evil, and hellish.

She turns tail just as you strike out again, teeth meeting air.

HUNGER. HUNGER IS THE WORST FEELING IN THE WORLD.

It is a hole that always returns no matter how much you subdue it. A prickling sensation that rolls on the skin. It pulls all the logic of the mind like flowing sand vacuumed back up into the ocean. Never quelled, always returning.

You scream as you are thrown over your coffee table, shoulders colliding with the rough ground.

Starvation is beyond hunger. Starvation is a zenith of what hunger can accumulate into. The prickling sensation eclipses and —

Vaggie cries angrily as you grip her hair, spinning her onto the ground and baring your teeth.

Vaggie is a temptation. Her lithe body nuzzled on an out of reach tree branch, hissing out winsome songs to you, beckoning with her finger. Your Garden of Eden, your matchbox apartment, has been poisoned long ago by you and you alone. Nothing grows and nothing stays.

The smell of rich, golden ichor floods your senses as your fist connects with her cheek. Shimmering blood hits your carpet. It zaps in your attention with a succulent shine. Body pausing, you are suddenly spun around. Vaggie pins you, finality in her military motions.

It is over. You fucked it up. You do not blame her if you kills you, you will kill yourself if she does not.

Her mouth moves in a fierce, loud shout. A string of gold goes from bottom lip to chin.

“Why are you hungry!”

You stare at Vaggie as if she has grown two heads. Where did that question even come, why would she concern herself with the thought? But, anger rising back up, you bite back up verbally.

“Because I’m in love with you!”

Now, you really fucked it up.

Chest convulsing, you blink back the scorpion sting in your eyes and grit your predator teeth. “I—“ Vaggie stares at you patiently. “I eat the things I love. But I could never ask that from you.” You swallow and then concede, whimpering, “I’ve been feeling starved of you since we met.”

Vaggie’s hair has not grown much but she can still use it to hide. Peeking through the curtains of silver, she stares down at you with her sole, squinting eye. The muscles in her forehead are crinkled like abused paper. She takes her cheek and rubs it against her shoulder to smudge out the trail of blood on her lip.

“Why wait for it to happen like this?”

“I didn’t want it to ever happen. I’ve been trying to find a way to get you somewhere else to go, a charity or I don’t know—“

You fall silent, shameful. The blood on your face is still warm; the blood coating you like body wash is still warm. You should have never let yourself show her how monstrous you could be.

“I’m sorry,” you amend.

Shocked, Vaggie blinks and stares hard at you. Her grip on your blood drenched wrists eases up slightly. Her breath smells heavenly, ichor in her mouth, “yeah, I’m sorry too.”

This is the part where she leaves, so you brace yourself for just that.

What you do not brace yourself for is her running a thumb to gather up the blood on her chin, then pressing it down to your lips.

“No. Wait.”

“You’ve taken care of my needs. I need to —“

“Not like this you don’t! Vaggie.”

“You cooked all my meals for four months. Please, if you’re truly starved, you’ll accept this.”

Gradually, you stop moving your head back and forth in defiance of your hunger. Her thumb hover over your deep red lips. The smell is everything you have been craving. You are positive Vaggie feels your stomach churning like a cat’s loving purr underneath her. You still resist a glance up at her. In her ivory and pink mixed eyes is something honest and good. Tongue darting out of your mouth, you lick her thumb.

Nothing you have tasted or will taste can compare. The thought leaves you yearning yet satiated. It is otherworldly, an unknown cosmos of flavors on your pallet. One single tiny lick is not enough. Before you realize, you bite with your shark teeth, piercing the fingerprint side of your thumb like it is an apple's skin.

“Stop me before it’s too late,” you whimper, high off the taste of her, leaning in to kiss her thumb.

Generously, Vaggie does not stop you at all.

You could never describe or replicate this taste. You were like the average Joe being asked what are the fragrance notes in a certain complex perfume, clueless about where to start. It tastes heavenly and unreal.

Perhaps you are too lewd in your feast because suddenly, Vaggie moves her hands to pinch against the bloodied sides of your face. You stare, mournful of her taking away her thumb out your mouth. You stare, shocked when she pulls you in for a kiss.

Your hands find themselves back into her hair, increasingly more gentle than before.

Vaggie tilts her head to the left, pressing down into you with all her weight. Her blood from her bitten cheek causes you to push up into her with all your weight. When she moans, wanton in your mouth, you grip her hair in your claws and squeeze her down.

You will say I love you later; perhaps two to three months from now, you two will have another physical fight to breach such a heavy topic. For now? You two collide in a kiss of juxtapositions and blood.

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel #vaggie x reader #hazbin hotel vaggie x reader #hazbin hotel vaggie

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marcusagrippa · 5 months

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hey hi hello!! stupid old men in a desert fic was promised and i shall deliver. there is no concrete plan there's just two and a half chapters of sad Vibes so far. cw for suicide refs and suchlike because - well, i mean, who on tatooine doesn't want to kill themselves? no cannibalism (yet) sorry :[

spiracle: chapter 1/? (3924 words)

↓↓↓

He is here.

Maul knows from experience that the Force can be a fickle mistress, but there’s no question in it this time, no room for error. He would know that signature anywhere - the steady, pulsing stream of consciousness spreading lazily through the desert night like a drop of ink in water. Broken and ragged and distant though it may be, the Jedi’s presence is unmistakable. So it hasn’t all been for nothing.

He lets out a low growl as he presses forward through the shifting sands, the particles already starting to clog the joints of his prosthetics. The path ahead of him is lit only by the faint light of Tatooine’s moons - Maul is almost upset to have missed the suns-set. Force knows it’s likely the only beautiful thing about this damned dustball. The end of his cane digs into the ground as he feels the air beginning to cool around him, and this is one of the few times in his life he wishes he’d had the foresight to wear something that covered his chest.

Too much fabric inhibits his movement in combat. There’s nothing more to it than that, of course. And Maul is certainly planning on fighting tonight.

The Zabrak starts to struggle a little as he clambers doggedly up a shifting dune, servos whining in protest as the mechanisms of his legs start to seize up. Damned Death Watch craftsmanship - you’d think that Mandalorians would be at least half-decent working with metal, but no, these legs have to struggle at the slightest inconvenience. Maybe they were good, once upon a time, but… he’s getting old, and so are his cybernetics.

A decidedly unflattering scowl creases Maul’s features cresting the dune, but all that melts away into a small, evil smile the second he senses it.

It. It. Not a ‘him’, not ‘Kenobi’, it, the pulsing Force-presence growing steadily stronger as Maul squints out over the wastes, lightsaber cane clutched in one hand. His fingers tighten around the hilt. A fire, closer than he’d dared dream it could be.

It.

Tired limbs infused with a new rage-born strength, Maul practically races down the dune, already fumbling to extract his lightsaber from the cane disguise. That smile grows wider even as his breathing grows heavier - look, and there’s a silhouette there, too, he’s right there, he can see him, not just in his mind’s eye but in the flesh -

The sand clouds around his heels settle in his wake, the desert returning to tranquillity once more as Maul’s chaos passes it by.

Closer now, almost there - he slows his approach from an almost mad sprint into a crouch, as stealthy as he can manage with his prosthetics squeaking. The noise rings loudly in his ears, amplified a million times by the otherwise silence, but right now Maul doesn’t care for the specifics. What he cares about is the fact that Kenobi is there, right there, barely a hundred metres away from him, out in the wastes, alone and his for the taking. A sitting duck.

His finger itches on the ignition switch of his saber as he stalks closer. It may have been a few years since Mandalore, but Maul’s about ninety percent certain he still knows how to make an entrance. As soon as he’s in earshot of the fire and the blobby vaguely-Kenobi-like shape slumped in front of it - the Force presence is still weak, why is it still weak? He must have gone soft in his old age - Maul clears his throat dramatically.

“Keno-”

His voice dissolves into a hacking cough and he doubles over, nearly toppling forwards before catching himself with his cane. This, it goes without saying, was not his ideal entrance. Force-dammit. He can’t be showing weakness, not in their first meeting after all these years! His eyes stream as he hacks his guts up, blood spattering the sands below him. Perhaps all those years on Lotho Minor had lasting effects even the witches’ magicks couldn’t counteract.

He straightens up after he’s somewhat recovered, looking towards the fire expectantly. He’s expecting the figure to have stood, drawn his lightsaber, shied away, even moved… but nothing. One of Maul’s eyebrows raises without his permission, and he takes a few steps closer, into the light of the fire.

“Kenobi…?” he says hesitantly, peering at the - ah. Right.

What he had assumed was the Jedi sitting slumped forwards on a log is not, in fact, that. Instead, Maul comes face-to-face with a pack strapped to the back of a slumbering eopie. The eopie has a harness attached to it, but the end isn’t tethered to anything.

It farts in its sleep. How quaint.

“Oh, Obi-Wan. You’ve aged terribly,” Maul mutters, scowling, as he jabs the eopie with his cane. The beast snorts, but doesn’t wake.

Mistaking the great Jedi General for this… creature? Perhaps he’s losing his vision as well as his mind. The thought brings Maul little comfort.

But no - the faint trickle of Force energy is still there, humming in the background. It’s the strongest Maul’s felt since landing on this hellhole, but it’s still exactly that: faint. Broken. He could attribute it to distance when he was further away, but now, at what he presumes must be the Jedi’s own camp, it still feels broken. Shattered.

What has happened to the old man? What has he done?

The campfire is still burning, casting an orange glow over the sands and reflecting off of the few still-shiny parts of Maul’s prosthetics. If the fire is still going strong, he cannot be far - perhaps he’s just taking a piss. Maul sniffs, taking another look at the unconscious beast, and sits down in the sand to wait as he takes in the sorry state of affairs that is Kenobi’s camp. He’s waited decades for his revenge; he can serve to wait a little longer.

It’s pathetic, really, what the Jedi’s life seems to have come to. The camp is in disarray: old Republic ration tins strewn haphazardly all over the place, a bundle of rags shaped into something that vaguely resembles a bed, a dented kettle half-buried in the sand near the fire. The Jedi’s stench is drenching the place like a particularly unpalatable perfume - that disgusting, lingering feeling of kindness and weakness that Maul simply cannot abide.

That confirms it, then. He was here. He should return. And when he does, Maul will strike him down like he deserves. Besides, he’s always liked a dramatic reveal - just the thought of emerging like a wraith from the shadows to surprise the old man, catch him entirely off-guard rather than storm up to him like a man possessed, makes Maul’s face crack into a twisted, thin-lipped smile.

So he waits.

And waits.

The sands shift. The moons rise. And Kenobi does not return.

Maul is mildly offended by this. Surely the old Jedi has sensed him by now? Does he not think him worthy of a duel? He had been expecting his quarry to be ready to attack him the moment he set foot on the planet. But… judging by the state of his camp, by the weak pulse of Force where he had assumed there would be the same steady-flowing, roaring waterfall that was present during the Clone Wars…

Something is wrong.

Maul scowls as he gets back to his feet, cracking his back and wincing as the fire burns lower and lower. He’s going to be pissed if something has broken Kenobi before he has even had the chance to. Ah, well - he’s alive, at least, the presence confirms that - so if worst comes to worst, Maul can at least watch him suffer. The taste of second-hand revenge is not so sweet, but it is miles less bitter than no revenge at all.

His eyes close for a brief moment and he reaches out with his senses, probing the frayed edges of the Jedi’s psyche. He’s not far, of course - not far at all, barely more than a hundred feet or so away from the embers of the fire - but that’s all he can make out from this distance. The Jedi’s spirit is weak. It will bring me great pleasure to see it decay into nothing more than the ghost of rot.

With a huff and a muttered curse, Maul snatches his cane from the sand and stalks off into the Tatooine night. Again. The eopie snorts as he passes by, and he has to resist the urge to decapitate it.

All in good time.

---

The moonslight is faint, and the wind is starting to pick up, but as Maul crests yet another dune neither dimness nor background noise can disguise the distinctive silhouette and choked-back wails of a man sobbing.

The sight fills Maul with more glee than it really has any right to. Oh, this is going to be easy. It may not be as fun as torturing those tears out of him would be otherwise, but the sound of the Jedi crying is the sweetest melody in the galaxy to Maul’s ears. He stands atop the dune and looks down, wreathed in darkness, tattoos faded with age and wear made brilliant yet again by the weak splashes of moonslight that grace his skin, before grinning to himself and half-walking, half-skidding down the slope to reach him.

Maul is behind him. The Jedi doesn’t turn.

He’s definitely weeping, Maul can tell that for certain. Hooded figure slumped forwards onto his knees, shoulders shaking, muffled little whimpers coming from his mouth. How pathetic. The Force ebbs and flows around him weakly, the once-great waterfall of his presence reduced to a trickle.

Maul takes a few steps forward. The Jedi doesn’t turn.

Peering over his shoulder, Maul can just about see that he’s… clutching something in his hands. His shaking hands. The thing he’s clutching is a dull box, dented and dust-covered, not unusual in any way - except Kenobi is holding it like it’s a child, his touch light and almost reverential in its gentleness even through the sobs that wrack his body.

Maul takes a final step forward - close enough to touch the Jedi’s shoulder, to stab him, to end this all. The Jedi doesn’t turn, but his sobs cease abruptly.

“...hello, Maul,” a voice says from the figure’s hood. Maul blinks.

The voice is hoarse and scratchy, thick with tears, with the resigned tones of a man on his deathbed. The strident, cocksure voice he knew during the war has all but disappeared. The voice is Coruscanti, but other than that…

This may as well be a stranger. Another old, forgotten soul in a galaxy full of them.

“Kenobi,” Maul spits with all the venom he can muster - which, to his surprise (and annoyance), isn’t much venom at all. He must be getting soft in his old age. He shifts his stance almost imperceptibly, hand tightening on his cane. “Cease your wailing. It’s unbecoming of you.”

“It is, is it?” the voice says forlornly as the owner drops the box back to the ground with a thud. He does not turn to face Maul, nor does he stand. He simply waits. “My apologies. I don’t have much dignity left these days. I wasn’t aware my… ‘wailing’ would offend you so.”

Maul ignores the comment and lets out a low growl. His thumb brushes against the ignition switch of his saber. “Don’t tell me someone’s finally knocked the fight out of you, old man.”

Not before I’ve had the chance, at least.

“I’m afraid that happened a long time ago.” The figure sighs, and pulls his hood back. Faint shards of moonslight illuminate an unkempt mane of greying locks, lank and unwashed. “You’re here to kill me, then, are you?”

“No, I’m here for a nice cup of h’kak bean tea and a gossip. Of course I’m here to kill you, you old fool.”

“I’d appreciate it if you stopped calling me old. We’re the same age, as I recall.”

“Yes, well, I’m not the one who’s gone greyer than a Kaminoan stormcloud, withering away out here all these years.” Maul scowls and jabs his cane into the figure’s back, eliciting a very satisfying yelp. “Stand up and face me, Kenobi, you coward. Don’t hide behind those pathetic tears.”

The figure sighs again, and somehow the sound is even more pitiful than the first time. “If you’re hoping for a duel, you won’t get one.”

“I don’t need a duel. I need you to face me like a man.”

“Why? You don’t strike me as someone who’s averse to a bit of backstabbing.”

“Just face me, you insolent wretch.”

“As my Lord commands,” the figure says drily. He shifts in his position, carefully moving the old box to the side, and begins to get to his feet. Begins being the key word there.

The process probably takes about thirty seconds in total, the silence punctuated by the occasional sniffle or pained groan from the figure. Maul’s anger is slowly starting to turn into confusion, and then disbelief. This is what’s become of him? A haunted, doddering old man with grey hair and back pain? The cane almost slips out of his grasp as he gapes at the man formerly known as Obi-Wan Kenobi, one of the galaxy’s most feared and respected warriors, struggling to stand on his own two feet.

He manages to steady himself and finally - finally! - faces Maul, and the former Sith Lord visibly winces as he catches sight of the Jedi’s visage. Weathered almost beyond recognition, wrinkles gouged deep into his skin, tears still clinging to his cheeks, all eyebags and gaunt features and hollow, blank gaze.

“Have I got something on my face?” the husk wearing the skin of Kenobi asks, rubbing his beard. “You’re staring.”

“You look terrible,” Maul says bluntly. A smile graces the Jedi’s cracked lips, a smile devoid of humour, dignity, or hope.

“Thank you. I try. Now, are you going to kill me or am I going to have to do it myself? You did show up at the worst possible time, you know. You’re actually prolonging my lifespan by being here.”

Maul’s eyebrows raise. “...pardon?”

“Well, I was planning on killing myself before you showed up,” Kenobi says mildly. “You’re disrupting my schedule. I would appreciate it if you hurried things along a little.”

"..."

Suicide? Maul makes a choked gagging sound in the back of his throat. The cane finally slips from his fingers, landing with a soft thump in the sand as he stares dumbly at Obi-Wan, who just smiles placidly back at him. No, not Obi-Wan - not the General, the Jedi, the war hero. Whatever this thing is, it's not the warrior that Maul knew. He manages to mask his surprise with another snarl, though, before this - this husk can comment on it.

I should be happy about this. The fool has lost himself entirely. I should take pleasure in it, watching him so hopeless, so destitute. But all Maul feels is a gnawing, biting, crawling sense of dread clawing its way up from the pit of his stomach. He cannot fight this ghost. He cannot give him what he wants.

Obi-Wan sighs wearily and gets down on his knees in front of Maul. How is he so - so calm like this? When he's facing his doom - looking his death in the eye? What happened to him to break him so entirely?

"Well?" he prompts. "Strike me down. I haven't got all day."

Pathetic.

"Look what has become of you," Maul murmurs, stooping to pick up his cane and using the tip to tilt Kenobi's chin up. The fool doesn't resist - Maul's stomach twists with a pang of something unfamiliar. Could that be… pity? No. Impossible. "How did they break you, Obi-Wan? What… happened to you?"

The Jedi raises his eyes to meet Maul's, half-lidded with exhaustion, piercing blue dulled to a weak grey. "Nothing that wasn't my fault," he says quietly. His weak - weak, broken, weak - Force presence spikes with something Maul has never felt coming from the Jedi before. Grief. Fear. Darkness.

This is not what Maul wanted. This is not what Maul wanted at all.

With a growl, he pushes Kenobi roughly away from himself, leaving him lying prone in the dust. The foolish, broken thing does not even make an effort to get back to his feet. He simply… deflates, eyes blank and devoid of the familiar cunning intelligence Maul has grown to expect, tracking his movements almost lazily as the former Sith stalks towards the discarded box. He can feel echoes as he approaches it, ripples in the Force that concentrate into two separate infinitesimal points, ripe with memories that linger like fat storm clouds around them.

“This,” Maul hisses, snatching up the box and shaking it. It gives a satisfying rattle. “What is it? Why is it so important to you?”

Obi-Wan does not deign to grace the former Sith with a response. His eyes have suddenly turned from exhausted and uncaring to hollow and haunted and staring, gaze locked onto the box with the precision of a sniper. His fingers dig into the soft sand as he mumbles something incoherent under his breath, makes a sound like a dying bantha, and still does not get up.

Maul scowls. "Weak," he snarls, and tears the box open. The hinges aren't quite rusted shut - not enough moisture on this force-damned planet for that, he supposes - but there's a definite age to it, sand clogging the mechanism, and he struggles for a few seconds before it clicks open -

And Maul is suddenly hit with a wave of the Dark Side so strong it makes him damn near drop the thing.

The two lightsabers nestled inside the box, wrapped neatly in clean cloth in stark contrast to the perpetually dusty landscape around him, both stink of festering hatred and unimaginable, inconsolable grief. Maul’s hands start to tremble as he looks down on them, blood-and-bile eyes widening. Even second-hand, the pain that lives within these weapons is just… more. More than the former Sith has ever seen before, even among those artefacts his old Master used to keep scattered around the LiMerge building whilst he was being trained. Maul baulks at the memory - failure, you are a failure, he cast you aside like you were nothing because you are nothing - and reaches out a hand to touch one of the sabers.

“Don’t,” Obi-Wan’s hoarse, broken voice calls from behind him, tone gone from resigned depression to almost desperation - Maul jolts at the sudden tone change. He whirls around to face him, face stony. It doesn’t matter if he’s suicidal or… whatever. The Jedi cannot tell him what to do. Still, he feels a twinge of what might be compassion in his chest, which he immediately forces down and tries to disguise with aggression instead.

“Don’t what?! Why in the galaxy are you keeping Sith artefacts with you?! Don’t you know what they can do to you, what they can do to any Jedi in such close contact with the Dark Side? Oh, Force above, it’s a wonder you haven’t -”

He stops short, then, because the Jedi appears to have started crying again. Kenobi lets out a series of gulping sobs as he reaches one shaking hand towards the box, aged body still lying crumpled in the sand. “Please,” he rasps out between ragged breaths. “Don’t - don’t touch them. Don’t touch them, they’re not Sith artefacts - they’re mine -”

The old man dissolves into incoherent mumbles and muffled crying again, curling into a pitiful little ball of greying hair and frayed edges as his presence in the Force pulses with pain. Maul stares at him in disbelief - he seems to have been doing a lot of that when it comes to Obi-Wan, lately - and slowly withdraws his hand from the box. He sets it down gently on the sand in front of him and shuts the lid.

There is something seriously, seriously wrong with this Jedi.

For years, the only thing that has sustained Maul has been Obi-Wan Kenobi. He has breathed for him, bled for him, spent decades of sleepless nights half-mad as he imagined ripping the Jedi limb from limb, bathing in the scarlet of his spilled lifeblood. He has wanted nothing more than to get his revenge on the man that destroyed any semblance of a chance that Maul might have had in the first place - make him hurt as he has hurt, make him feel every last drop of pain that Maul has ever felt.

But staring at the shaking, sobbing bundle of robes and skin and bones, Maul finds that his rage has deserted him for the first time since he can remember. He cannot break what is already broken. He cannot hurt what has already been ruined beyond repair. There is no retribution for him to deliver to such a hopeless, lost soul.

He finds the mirror of his own madness in the shake of the Jedi’s shoulders, the hushed mumblings that come from behind his hood, the way his fingers dig like scrabbling claws into the sand. The Jedi has disappeared - this is all that is left. Maul’s mission, his only mission, his reason to be… has been left unfulfilled. Washed away by the husk’s choked sobs.

Maul leans heavily on his cane, just watching Kenobi silently for a few more seconds. Behind the fog of his confusion, however, something begins to formulate.

The Jedi has disappeared. I am incomplete. There will be no justice until I am the one to break Kenobi’s stride, until I am the one to finally douse that fire in him. I shall just have to… rekindle it.

I will be his saviour, nurse him back to life, liberate him from his chains - and then I will grind him into dust beneath the heel of my boot. As is my right.

Maul bends down, picks up the box. The mere sight of the thing makes his stomach lurch, but he dares not risk touching the contents again. He slides it into his pack, then strides over to where Obi-Wan lies drowning in his own sorrow, clearly in the middle of some kind of… episode? Disgusting.

“Come, Jedi. Enough of that.”

He grips Kenobi’s forearms with his gloved hands and hoists him to his feet. After a few seconds of awkward, weak swaying and ragdoll-like limbs, it becomes abundantly clear that the Jedi is not going to be able to walk on his own. With a weary, resigned sigh - oh, I’m already regretting this - he picks Kenobi up as easily as if he were a child, putting him over his shoulder a little haphazardly. This brings forth a pained grunt that Maul takes far too much satisfaction in, and Kenobi starts pummeling his chest weakly with clenched fists.

“Cease your whining. You need to eat. You’re skin and bones as it is,” Maul chastises, voice dripping with false cheerfulness as he starts to haul the Jedi up the dunes. His skin is cold against Maul’s back - far too cold to be healthy. Maul hopes to all hope that the meagre fire at the camp has not gone completely out yet.

“And sleep. You look like you haven’t slept in the past three years.”

Kenobi manages to get out a weak ‘I haven’t’, before his body goes limp, leaving Maul with the long and arduous task of heaving an unconscious, unwashed, slightly smelly nemesis back towards his salvation - and, eventually, his doom.

#jase writes #obimaul #what if i pinned you. huh. what then.#*incredibly traumatised war veteran* i can fuck him up more :3 #sw #maul #twin suns #obi-wan kenobi #ao3. scares me sometimes so its going on here instead #also btw i've been thinking about that post about kyber crystals A Lot and i can't remember what it said exactly but #thinking about how they can absorb the emotions and memories of the wielder and sobbing quietly to myself #dragging myself kicking and screaming out of my year long writer's block

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