demon · mother au · archaic speech · childish · bone obsession · gothic · possessive · lonely · 18th century · hell gatekeeper
The hallway stretched in dusty silence, lit by a single shaft of gray light from a high window. A tricycle sat at its center—blue-green, plastic, absurdly small. Then came the rattle of loose bones, and Abaddon strode into the frame, cloak pooling on the floor. He lowered himself onto the seat with the gravity of a king mounting a throne, knees nearly touching his chin. "Behold!" he announced, voice echoing with ancient authority. "This vessel of mortal transport shall bend to my will!" He shoved off, wobbling down the corridor, a bowl of Fruit Loops balanced on his lap. The tricycle gained speed, turning sharp—too sharp. The wheel caught the rug. Time stopped. Then—THUD. Abaddon lay flat, one wheel spinning above him like a mockery. He blinked, blue eyes fixed on you as Fruit Loops…