𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙈𝙖𝙣

[new concepts] Death Devours (devil/demons vs angel/human) I've been playing a lot of Hellblade lately, which slightly inspired the idea I have for this story. An angel (or mortal female) must travel to Hell to save the life of their loved one. This can be anything from a husband to a relative, such as a little sister (Labyrinth vibes). To enter Hell, she will, of course, need to die. This is more figurative, in the bodily sense, and not the spiritual one. Once in Hell, YC will notice that her right hand has started to rot and decay. The pigment is lost, veins turn black, etc. To save the one she loves, YC will need to stand against the trials, temptations, and tribulations of the Devil. Each time she is killed or seduced by his monstrous minions, the infection grows further along her arm. Once it reaches her brain, your character will become insane, turned into the Devil's plaything. Will she survive and save that special someone or perish on a precipice of pain and pleasure? Krampus (monsters, evil elves x lolicon) We all know the story. Good little boys and girls get a present on Christmas from ol' Chris Cringle, but the bad little brats will earn themselves on the shitlist of a frightening, Baphomet-like faun known as Krampus. This is more of your festive holiday one-shot. Looking for a spoiled, bratty little shit to brutalize on the night of Christmas. Got quite a few frightening ideas for this and is a growing craving.

What magic trick—?! Gascoigne glew ghastly, garishly grinning. A brow lifted, intrigued by her sense of excited skepticism— and rightfully so— he had done little when it came to pulling out any tricks from his sleeve, or even being half the father they deserved. Annabelle was his dreary daddy's girl, but Isabeth was by far his favorite from the litter. It was nearly a decade ago, as the story goes, that Gascoigne hovered over their shared cradle at the orphanage and chose to rescue Isabeth first. At such an age it might have been hard to decipher his methods, displaying more affection to one than the other as one hand brushed the back of her sister's head, silver sights sternly set upon her. He required more direction— more discipline from his brave little nightmare. Raise her strong. “Yes, you heard correctly— a magic trick.” Gascoigne mockingly mused, his tone threading mischief. He eased back, staying squatted behind him when rolling up both cuffs above each wrist. Silver sights landed on Annabelle — his little believer — beaming brightly, boisterous in bragging bravado: “I know a great deal about it.” Their father turned to his little know-it-all, his stature more serious, cocky, Mr. matter-of-facts. “The best magic, of course, comes in threes.” Then to Annabelle: “This is called a seance.” Eyes set upon the carnage they created. There is always order through chaos. “For this to work, however, I need you to both follow along after me:” Gascoigne cleared his throat, suspiciously eyeing out into the corridor that had caught Isabeth's attention before mentioning magic. He didn't see what she saw, nor would he, had the gory head gotten tossed into the room like a rock skipping over the river crest, splashing crimson in thudding, wet knocks to stare up at him between the knees in gouged-out fish eyes. Although that didn't go to show he felt the fear in the air, the chill of disturbance— but if he imagined back to the earliest days of remembrance, the mad mage might remember he, too, seen dimensions divide. It is they who provide, after all. “With life from a painful pinprick—” Gascoigne started off the seance, reaching down to unpin a ruby and gold rose ornament worn in constant memory of their mother; something to keep close at heart while in a moment's mourn. He took out the needle, positioned it into the palm of his hand, and squeezed, whipping his wrist around to let the punctured flesh leak into the standing substance. “Glue some soul of sweetened spit—” He said, revealing little pain when gazing into the eyes of his first choice. Blood beaded onto the floor in distracting drips. A soft nudge to help her along, watching in wait to see her cutely spit at the floor. “And hair to stitch its innocence—” Gascoigne kept from gleefully goddamn giggling, turning to give Isabeth's earned loving smile to his sweet little Annabelle. He reached toward her face, trailing three strands of her fair, velvet hair. Knuckles caressed her cheek, a doctor's distraction, then swiftly yanked them from her scalp. She was too sweet for her own good. A treat to the terrors he swore to protect. The man squirmed, knees bending together as sadism stirred, tossing the hair into the air to feather lightly down in three separate strands before finally shouting: “Bring forth our pet of pestilence!” Poof—! Nothing happened. Not at first anyway. Gascoigne seemed to have confidence that it worked while neatly cleaning the adornment, replacing it where it belonged. But by the time he went to stand, something strange began to happen. Something rather ordinary that can only be best described at that moment as morbid, black magic. Cappuccino bubbled, brackish in the blood that rendered it a crude, thick oil. Time almost seemed to play backward, the spider webs of sweet sticky sap slithering back to congeal into a strange shape. Porcelain pieces melted, and melded together in a skeletal structure, absorbing the sable substance. By magical hands, threads of hair splintered, stitching the groveling glob of gore. Swarthy sinews tied, braiding with the white laces to form the shape of a single Siamese dumbo rat with four beady red eyes, two pink ears, and two heads. Down the center, they were stitched, each with a tail that resembled more of unearthed roots that sprawled out the length of each side. At the center of its spine revealed a small opening, unveiling the singular rapid-beating heart as the two beings meeped and cheeped. “Let's try not to tear them in two— but if you do—maybe don't stitch them back together.” He teased, tying up his hand. They needed a healthy distraction. “Rather than going on about these little nightmares—perhaps your minds will focus on a proper name for the both of them.” A strange and drunken look glossed his gleaming globes. “Now shoo— the two of you— to my quarters. I expect you girls to keep me comfy and w a r m.”

Such two gentle embraces to calm the chaos. Gascoigne wasn't sure what word described him more. At times, he was a monster, tarred and feathered and outcasted from society's standards yet moments such as these return him from the madness, back to a man— their father. Though he desired nothing more than to snap— to saw them in half down their cute centers and sew them to their other better halves for one single night of sleep stoked his mental hellfire, couldn't at that menacing moment. Their words tied the monster inside to the whipping post, little arms burning their blister upon him in ways that made him both cringe and melt. They smelt of Amelia. They loved like Amelia. His bated breath inhaled them deeply, red rutilant eyes closing to remember when their mother was last in his arms. He spiritually wept, drawing them closer in his cruel, cold confines in a hug better suited for a funeral. “Girls—” Gascoigne sighed softly, his voice low in bravado. The monster had died, confined above them in a state of bardo waiting for the next chance to return a demon inevitably to repossess him. They inquired to sleep in his chambers, too choked, all the cruel count could do was give a gentle nod. Gascoigne broke away. Tears brimmed behind black lashes, shimmering now in more familiar silver sights. He didn't let them fall from his face, carrying his countenance as a bleak, black cloud passing by that wouldn't break and bless today with fresh rain. Rather, he sniffled, dissolving through the pain. “It won't be necessary.” He put a hand up to dismiss the new maid, both his girls in the comfort of their father's wings. “We all need our rest.” His eyes trailed to the creaking coming from the ceiling.“The house request it.” Eyes locked to his servants. “I want everyone in their chambers.” The warlock waited for the staff to dismiss themselves while rolling up the paisley-printed scarlet silk robe running the length of both lithe arms. His hands prayed between the twins, rubbing them together to warm both palms, eyes tentative to the porcelain pieces soaked in a thick pool of fragrant cappuccino as if the blood stains cascading out from a busted babydoll. “Before bed—”A grin shaped his lips, feeling the flutter beneath his fingers. Sorcery was something most held in strong secret. So much so, that not even the mage's magic was shown to his girls — until now. “How about a magic trick?”

Enter Ms. Grimshaw— cobblepot to some, crackpot to others. She earned her voice through centuries of combatting Gascoigne's constant cruelty. The old crow was an unspoken grandmother of sorts, one that brought clarity and comfort in her womanly wisdom. And like the corroding chateau that they inhabited, carried his closest secrets. “Ms. Grimshaw” He straightened, never having the right words to bleed his gratitude. “Haunting, are you— at this hour?” Gascoigne got eye level with his girls, hovering over the carnage cluttered in their startling wake. His face calmed, snarl shifting to a faint smirk as their melody replayed: Please, papa? He's going to unstitch us— and stitch us back together. The brooding bastard hated to admit that they were a wonderful, welcomed weakness. They were the duality of their mourned mother. Isabeth with her fearless pursuit of danger was more akin to what any man might ask of a son. Annabelle— softer than powdered sugar, sweeter than caramel, shined so brightly at times she could very well be the crystal glitter dusted over iridescent icing. Both of which wore Amelia's innate imagination and intoxicating interactions. If only he could concurrently stitch the siblings would he ever again rediscover the magnificence that was their mother. How he missed her… Though, that wouldn't go with a dark, dreary dungeon. Odd how things you swear an oath to protect wind up so sweetly smothering at times. He played with the devil's fire with each long gaze that trailed them from head to toe. A sickness stained the blood coursing through his veins, one the mad mage gambled like a monster ready to be let loose on them at a moment's notice. They're our children, Gascoigne. “Girls—” He repeated, his evil exhausted from his breath. A motion of his wrist began beckoning: “Nobody— neither here on Earth, nor in the Heavens, nor those that dwell beneath our heels will ever take either of you away from me.”

Leading to the small scullery was the kitchenette that served mostly as the break room for the remaining servants and staff. This chateau used to host an odd array of outcasts, their talents trained by no other than their master. The twins weren't the only ones playing hide and seek as a towering figure stood with his back turned between them and their secret hiding spot, groaning like a ghoul recently bloomed from the earth. A fabulous fragrance filled the air, and with it came the peculiar noise of percolation. Milk froth, aromatic mist carrying the notes of crushed coffee beans, tinges of cocoa and cinnamon. The tall black shadow seemed to be hard at work concocting some chemical creation. There was a whistle from the steam, arms activating levers in sequence while pressure valves seethed their vapor, powering grinders atop the workstation grounding the coffee into tiny grinds. He turned on his heel, revealing the half-dead state of their father staring sleepily into his mitts. Cupped between both hands and held dear to his heart was a dainty little teacup smoldering like a cauldron bubbling the beautiful bouquet. Like a fine wine, he brought it up to bask in the fabulous fragrance. The gold brim had nearly touched those long, thin lips before his somniferous silver coins caught a glimpse of his ghostly little girls, causing a startle that slithered through a crooked spine. The china clattered onto the floor, hurling shards in every direction and riding in the braise of a newly crafted brew Gascoigne knew as cappuccino. Something had to fight back the terror of these two twins meddling around into the wee hours of the night. How could some things so small have so much life? Constantly scurrying around like little mice. He stared at the mess, imagining his mind scattered across the floor in chunky shards. “Girls—” Gascoigne growled. Days have become a blur of countless restless nights, coping through their string of night freights. Despite the demon-like spirits running amuck inside his mind telling him to remain calm and patient, the harder his last nerve became latent. Time stilled, slithering out a sadistic sneer came those elongated fangs. The night was seemingly becoming more bleak, a redness twinkling its carnage through the chasm of silver. What on earth could it be this time? Scrapbeak? The goblin beneath their bed bartering the tiny toes on their feet? He summoned the court within the confines of his cranium, only for a mysterious maiden to mourn through his mind: They're only children, Gascoigne.

𝐥 𝐢 𝐭 𝐭 𝐥 𝐞 𝐍 𝐈 𝐆 𝐇 𝐓 𝐌 𝐀 𝐑 𝐄 𝐒

Kill. I love a good shotgun wedding.

Marry, then, is it?

Fuck.

Kill. Sorry, Chuck.