Multiple Settings GRIM REAPER

[KookieYukii]

D E A T H ​

Author’s Note: Hello! I've been eager to roleplay with this OC for quite a while, but haven't found any takers yet. I'm really excited about bringing this character to life and exploring new adventures. If you're interested in roleplaying with me, please feel free to PM me. We can brainstorm together and come up with a unique and engaging plot that we both enjoy. Just a heads up, I only do BxG scenarios for this OC. I look forward to hearing from you and creating something amazing together!



“𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡.”

• 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄 | 𝑎𝑧𝑟𝑎𝑒𝑙
  Azrael, Arabic ʿIzrāʾīl or ʿAzrāʾīl, in Islam, the angel of death who separates souls from their bodies; In his independent form, the Angel of Death is a fallen angel or demon, associated with Satan and the devil. He’s interested only in fulfilling his own initiative, rather than the will of God. He’s a type of supernatural being, and he represents demonic forces on Earth. Azrael stands with one foot in Heaven and the other on the bridge that divides Heaven and Hell.

• 𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐒 | 𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ／𝐺𝑟𝑖𝑚 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑝𝑒𝑟 ／𝐴𝑧
  "Azrael, the angel of death with a sense of humor, has quite the reputation in the celestial realm. You see, he’s a bit of a name-dropper. In fact, his nicknames were not bestowed upon him by divine decree but rather by us humans down here on Earth. You can thank your lucky stars that, whenever someone bit the dust, they’d simply call it “Death.” But then came the Black Plague, and Azrael overheard folks referring to him as the “Grim Reaper.”
  
  Well, that really tickled his nonexistent funny bone. Now, Azrael isn’t one to let a catchy nickname go to waste. He decided to adopt these monikers with pride. He claims it’s all about branding, and he’s not wrong. After all, who wouldn’t want to be known as the Grim Reaper or Death? He’s like the rockstar of the afterlife, and he’s got the coolest stage name in the celestial lineup. Azrael takes this fame stuff seriously, too. He considers himself a bona fide celebrity. I mean, let’s face it, everyone knows him, whether they like it or not. And every time clock strikes midnight, he’s there, making an entrance like no other. So, whether you’re a fan of his or not, you can’t deny that Azrael has a flair for the dramatic, and he’s not afraid to embrace his reputation as the ultimate, uh, life-changer."

• 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇 | 8000 B.C
  "Well, gather ‘round, folks, because we’ve got a scoop on Death’s origin story that’s as old as, well, time itself! Believe it or not, some legends claim that Death wasn’t always the all-powerful deity we know today. Nope, he started as a regular old human being. You heard me right, Death used to be just another guy with a pulse.
  
  Picture this: Death, the original man of mystery, was born in a small village way back in 8000 B.C. Yep, that’s so long ago even his birth certificate probably disintegrated ages ago. Now, this tiny village had one claim to fame, and that was a colossal tree they affectionately called “Rowan.” You know, like the “tree of life” kind of deal.
  
  Now, isn’t it just the quirkiest twist of fate that Azrael, who would later become the infamous bringer of death, grew up right under the “tree of life”? It’s like living next door to a bakery and turning into a fitness guru. Life has a sense of humor, doesn’t it? So, there you have it, the incredible tale of how Death, the God of... well, death, came to be from humble beginnings in a village with a slightly ironic tree name."

• IDENTITY | male, he/him
  "Azrael, our eternal angel of death, was born as a male, and guess what, he’s still keeping it real in the male department. He’s not particularly picky about pronouns, but here are the ones he’s cool with: He, Him, His, They, Them, Theirs. You know, just to keep it flexible for all those souls he’s escorting to the great beyond. Options, people, options!
  
  But here’s the golden rule if you ever find yourself in a celestial tête-à-tête with Azrael: never, and I mean NEVER, call him an “it.” Oh boy, that’s a surefire way to make the angel of death cringe. It’s like a dagger through his immaterial heart! So, let’s do him a solid and stick to the pronouns he prefers, shall we? After all, even the bringer of doom deserves a little linguistic respect."

• ORIGINS | unknown
  "Ah, the mystery of Azrael’s nationality and ethnicity, or as I like to call it, the cosmic enigma of “Where in the Universe is Azrael From?” You see, folks, it’s a real head-scratcher because this guy has been around since the beginning of time. Yeah, wrap your head around that one!
  
  He’s like the ultimate time traveler, and he forgot to bring his passport or leave a note with his hometown coordinates. So, naturally, scholars and celestial detectives have been stumped for millennia. Maybe he’s from a place that predates borders and citizenships – you know, like the original “no man’s land.”
  
  In any case, the next time you’re in a pub quiz and someone asks about Azrael’s nationality, just chuckle and say, “Well, he’s a universal citizen, born before borders were cool!” It’s a guaranteed conversation starter, trust me."

• BODY |
  Azrael, the imposing figure that he was, stood tall at a towering 6 feet and 7 inches, or a more precise 200.66 centimeters if you’re into that level of accuracy. His physique could be best described as mesomorphic, or in simpler terms, he had a body that had clearly seen its fair share of workouts and gym sessions. He sported an athletic build that seemed almost comically well-maintained, considering his otherworldly occupation. Despite his extraordinary height, Azrael’s weight was a mere 140 pounds, a detail that might prompt a few jokes among his celestial peers. It was as if he had walked straight out of an otherworldly bodybuilding competition, with biceps that could probably bench press a small car, and a chest that looked like it could double as a battering ram. All this, combined with his ominous hooded cloak and scythe, made one wonder if Death had secretly been moonlighting as a fitness instructor in the afterlife – “Death by Dumbbells” perhaps.

• AESTHETICS | he is his own aesthetic
  Death’s aesthetic is a curious blend that resides somewhere between the realms of gothic, grunge, and dark academia, though if you were to mention this to him, he might raise a nonchalant skeletal eyebrow. He seems to relish in creating his own unique, macabre style.
  His wardrobe could be described as a collection of attire for the eternally moody. His favorite colors appear to be “midnight black,” “dusky charcoal,” and “ominous obsidian.” His tattered cloak, reminiscent of a rock star’s stage attire after an electrifying performance, flutters dramatically as if it’s auditioning for a role in a Shakespearean tragedy. And that hood? Well, it adds that touch of enigma that all the coolest dark figures seem to have.
  But don’t be fooled; beneath the shadows and cloak, Death has a sense of style, and he’s particular about it. His scythe is no ordinary garden tool; it’s the accessory of choice for someone who’s serious about their work.
  In a strange and humorously paradoxical way, Death seems to be the fashion icon of the afterlife, rocking the “dying is the new living” look with an air of timelessness.

• PHYSICAL | 10/10
  Ah, Azrael, the God of Death himself! Let’s talk about his physical prowess, but tread lightly – he’s been around for so long that asking his age is a bit like asking the universe for its Social Security number.
  
  Trust me; you don’t want to go there. Physically, Azrael is no slouch, and that’s not surprising considering he’s been in the death business for a cool billion years. I mean, just imagine all those souls he’s had to lift and escort to the great beyond. No wonder he’s built like a cosmic bodybuilder.
  He probably bench-presses galaxies during his cosmic workouts. And let’s not forget, he’s been around since the beginning of time, so his personal gym routine probably predates even the concept of gyms. Pilates with primordial forces, anyone? But do be careful when you bring up his age; he’s rather sensitive about it.
  After all, when you’ve seen stars being born and die, you tend to want to keep some things under wraps. So, next time you’re chatting with Azrael, maybe steer the conversation away from age and stick to safer topics, like, “What’s your favorite celestial body part to work out?” Wink wink

• MENTAL | 5/10
  You’d think he has it all together with his cosmic job title, but let’s not forget that even divine entities can have their share of mental meltdowns. After all, he’s been on the job for a billion years, and that’s a lot of lifetimes to witness.
  Imagine watching countless rom-coms where love triumphs, only to escort the lovers to the afterlife moments later. That’s like crying your heart out at a movie and then having to clean up the popcorn. No wonder he’s had a few existential crisis moments.
  And don’t get him started on the dinosaurs; he still hasn’t forgiven that asteroid. It’s not easy being the one who has to keep the cosmic balance while the universe serves up its daily dose of chaos and calamity.
  So, yeah, his mental health isn’t exactly tip-top, but can you blame the guy? I mean, he’s practically the universe’s eternal therapist, and he probably needs a session or two himself. But, hey, at least he’s got a dark sense of humor to keep him going. After all, when your job involves dealing with the ultimate end, a good laugh is like cosmic therapy, right?

• ALLERGIES | none
  Allergies? Please, he’s practically allergic to nothing. It’s no surprise when you’re the harbinger of life’s final curtain call.
  I mean, really, can you picture Death having a sneezing fit at the worst possible moment? “Bless you, Death!” doesn’t quite have the same ring to it when you’re about to shuffle off this mortal coil. “Sorry, folks, I’m just allergic to daisies. My bad.”
  And speaking of flowers, can you imagine him with hay fever? The Grim Reaper sporting dark sunglasses and a tissue, mopping his non-existent brow with an ethereal handkerchief? It’s like a cosmic comedy skit waiting to happen.
  But, nope, no allergies for Death. He’s seen it all, from pollen-filled gardens to dusty catacombs, and he’s not about to let a little sniffle get in the way of his eternal duties. After all, when you’re the ultimate end, allergies are just another punchline in the grand cosmic joke.

• SEXUAL ORIENTATION | straight
  Death, the eternal figure with a penchant for dramatic entrances, has a sexual orientation that’s as straightforward as a one-way ticket to the afterlife – he’s as straight as a well-ironed dress shirt in a room full of wrinkled ones.
  Despite being the master of transitions between life and whatever comes next, Death himself doesn’t have any intentions of transitioning away from his attraction to individuals of the opposite gender. He’s more into the “eternal flame” than the “dual-flame candlesticks.”
  Of course, dating for Death has its challenges. When he tells someone they have “killer looks,” he really means it. And when he asks for a “hot date,” he might be a bit too literal. But hey, nobody’s perfect, not even the Grim Reaper himself.
  In the grand scheme of existence, Death’s sexual orientation is just one more facet of his complex character. So, while he may be the ultimate end, he’s also proof that even death has a love life – and a quirky one at that!

• ROMANTIC ORIENTATION | straight
  Death, the enigmatic figure lurking in the shadows, approaches romance with the flair of a tragic hero in a Shakespearean play – he’s as straight as a ruler with a penchant for the opposite sex.
  In the grand cosmic opera of love and attraction, Death waltzes with those of the fairer gender, twirling through the ages like a timeless Casanova. When he flirts, it’s like he’s mastered the art of the “dead-pan” compliment – it may be macabre, but it gets a laugh (or a shiver).
  His ideal date night? A candlelit dinner in a crypt, all jokes. And when he says, “You take my breath away,” it’s usually because he’s here to collect your soul.
  But there’s a catch when dating Death –he’s always dressed for a formal occasion. So, when he says, “We’re going out tonight,” he’s not kidding. Better dust off that tuxedo or evening gown because you’re in for a night that’ll be both eternal and eternally classy.
  So, Death’s romantic orientation is about as clear as a crystal ball – straight, with a dark and slightly morbid sense of humor that keeps the sparks flying, even in the afterlife.

Look at me! Look at me! Look at me! The monster inside me has grown this big!​

​

 

[KookieYukii]

—𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄—

𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲

In the annals of celestial history, Death wasn’t just any angel; he was the shining star of the heavenly league. Well, at least if you discount that little Lucifer fiasco – you know, the favorite angel trying to pull a cosmic coup, ending up doing a nose-dive from the celestial realm. But Death had his own special falling-from-grace story, and let me tell you, it was about as elegant as a penguin attempting a triple axel on roller skates. He earned his ejection from heaven with a spectacular display of naughtiness that would make even the most unruly cherub blush. And what were the consequences? Oh, just having his wings unceremoniously yanked off and a one-way express ticket to Earth. wait, there’s a bonus round – a good old-fashioned curse to top it off. Death’s new gig? Soul-sucking and soul-sorting. He had to act as the cosmic FedEx, ensuring that souls reached their final destinations – the VIP section in heaven or the eternal frat party down in hell.


Neglecting his duty led to a fun little side effect: a slow, agonizing decline in the human realm, turning him into a glorified human-sized paperweight. Technically, he was still alive, just as useful as a garden gnome. But here’s the kicker: as long as Death did his grim reaping without causing pandemonium on Earth (like unleashing Black Plague 2.0 or inventing disco music), the heavenly hierarchy turned a blind eye to his shenanigans. Talk about a system rigged tighter than a Rubik’s Cube and elders who missed the “How to Parent Divine Beings” handbook.Now, the real dark comedy here? When Death goofed up, there were no divine reprimands or heavenly timeouts. The bigwigs up in the clouds were collectively holding their breath, secretly terrified of what havoc he could unleash if they crossed him. That’s just how much power God had granted him – a fact that had Death giggling with dark amusement. But this fallen angel, or rather ‘Death,’ wasn’t your garden-variety bad boy. Forget charm; he had all the appeal of a soggy newspaper.


You’d understand why everyone loathed him once you realized that his ‘Angel’ title, the ‘Angel of Death,’ was pure poppycock. Sure, he’d scaled back on his random acts of annihilation, but deep down, he was as twisted as a pretzel. He’d always had a knack for getting what he wanted, no matter the body count. And that dark streak had been etched into his cosmic resume for centuries – and well, even more centuries. At first, he despised his grim vocation, but as the millennia rolled on, he started...enjoying it. He reluctantly accepted that he was in this for the long haul, destined to be the universe’s most peculiar delivery guy forever. Dark and twisted, isn’t it?





—𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎—

𝗔 𝗱𝗲𝗮𝗹 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗲𝘃𝗶𝗹

‘Hold onto your scythes, folks, because we’re about to dive deeper into Death’s cosmic capers, and boy, did he have a knack for making the afterlife a real hoot!


Imagine this: Death, the ultimate mischief-maker, decided that guiding souls to the great beyond wasn’t thrilling enough. No, he thought, let’s turn this whole gig into a celestial game show. “Dodge the Bus” was his favorite. He’d stand there all incognito, waiting for an unsuspecting human to stroll by, and then bam – they’re the star of their very own, short-lived reality show. Talk about your otherworldly bully with a twisted sense of humor!


Now, after Death took a one-way ticket to the dark side and became a fallen angel, his mission became clear: to make sure everyone he met had a “special” experience.


Option A: You owe him big time.


Option B: Your boots quake like they’re in a rock concert mosh pit.


Option C: You suddenly discover Olympic-level sprinting skills as you flee in the opposite direction.


And for those who wanted bonus points,


Option D was always on the table – that’s right, all of the above! Death was an equal-opportunity terrorizer.


But here’s the real kicker, folks: When he got bored, he’d pull out the cosmic psychological warfare handbook. He’d torment his victims with their own fears, like a cosmic therapist gone rogue. It was like a game of mental chess, with Death always making the final checkmate move.


And let’s not forget, there were those moments when he’d torture humans just for kicks and giggles. Why? Because he had a real soft spot for the human species... NOT! Death had a special kind of disdain for us mere mortals, and he wore it like a badge of honor.


So, next time you’re out for a celestial stroll, keep your wits about you. You never know when you might cross paths with the ultimate prankster of the afterlife. Remember, if you see a bus, make like Usain Bolt, because Death’s sense of humor is darker than a black hole."


—Story Time—


"She’s just a baby!” The mother’s anguished cry pierced the air like a lament from the abyss. “Don’t hurt my baby!”


Gripping his skull in sheer agony, the man shook his head back and forth, a tortured soul trapped in his own torment. “The pain! Make it stop!” He staggered forward and struck the mother with a vicious punch to her face. The sickening sound of bone against bone echoed in the air. His gaze then fixated on Grace, a child trembling in fear, her innocence shattering like glass.


“Grace! Run!” Her mother’s desperate plea was swallowed by the cacophonous explosion of the gunshot. Grace’s ears rang, rendering her temporarily deaf to her mother’s frantic cries. The searing impact of the bullet tore through her small body, a visceral agony that left her numb to the world. She scarcely felt the bullet’s entry into her stomach, nor the brutal collision of her head with the unforgiving ground. Nearby, Mr. Wiggles, her cherished teddy bear, lay abandoned on the cold floor. Beside him, the gothic cashier lay lifeless, a gaping void at the center of her skull.


Grace attempted to scream, but her voice was but a hollow whisper. She rolled onto her back, lips trembling, eyes wide open, pupils dilated in terror, gazing with a vacant, haunting stare at the ceiling above. A crimson pool formed beneath her, a morbid tableau of her innocence stolen.


“Grace! My baby, my baby!” Her mother’s cries reached her through a thick fog of agony. Summoning every ounce of her fading strength, Grace launched herself at the gunman. With a ferocity born of despair, she knocked the firearm from his grasp, striking him with a heavy object. He crumpled to the ground, a fallen specter in the dark theater of their tragedy.


The scene unfolded like a sinister theater production in the dimly lit store. The masked men, their faces hidden behind malevolently anonymous masks, raised their menacing firearms. Yet, as their eyes fell upon Grace sprawled helplessly on the ground, an uncanny stillness seized them. It was as if the sight of a vulnerable child momentarily softened their hearts.


“Love bears all things, he believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends,” one of the masked men murmured, his voice trembling with an odd mixture of reverence and fear. “As for prophecies, they will pass away; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will pass away… Lord, send me an angel, a miracle.”


The gunman who had earlier struck Grace now struggled to rise from the cold floor. He glanced down at his trembling hands, which betrayed a strange vulnerability, and his tear-filled eyes grazed Grace’s stiffening form.


As Grace fell into an eerie trance, her gaze fixed on the ceiling’s glittering surface. Suddenly, a smooth, baritone voice swirled around her ears, accompanied by the silhouette of a colossal shadow. “Well, wasn’t that boring,” the shadow quipped, its tone dripping with dark humor. “You made the mother watch? That’s very cliché, don’t you think? So unoriginal. There are plenty of books and movies out there you could’ve studied before robbing this place, you know. I’d give that performance a 2 out of 10, tops.


The gunman turned, his eyes wide in shock, as if he had seen the unholy. “Jesus... Christ,” he muttered, falling to his knees, mouth agape in disbelief. A hooded figure materialized out of thin air, draped in a shroud of obsidian, concealing their identity completely. Towering over the trembling gunman, this enigmatic presence appeared twice the size of an average man, brandishing a peculiar weapon in its left gloved hand – a scythe.


“Wrong,” the shadowy figure corrected with a hint of annoyance. “Jesus? Really? You’ve managed to insult me immensely.”


The other masked men in the store stood frozen, gaping at the imposing hooded figure, their expressions mirroring shock before they scrambled over each other to escape the store.


“Please call me Death,” the mysterious hooded figure said with an impish “boop” as it lightly tapped the gunman on the shoulder. In an instant, the man collapsed, lifeless. Death nudged the lifeless body with the tip of his black boot, feigning sorrow. “Sigh,” he lamented, “it’s as if everything I touch dies, you know?”


Brightening, Death extended a hand to the bewildered mother. “I’m Death. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”


The mother gasped, her hand trembling as she hesitated to shake the hand of the being who had just proclaimed, “It’s as if everything I touch dies.”


Death, with all the theatrical flair of a seasoned stand-up comedian, slyly tucked his bony hands behind his back. “Small joke,” he quipped, tilting his head toward Grace. “Well, well, well, who’s gracing us with her presence at precisely 10:32 AM? None other than Grace Williams! I must say, I’m quite a fan of these Catholic names.”


The towering cloaked figure sauntered over the lifeless body of the would-be robber, his presence ominous yet strangely comical. As he leaned down to hover his fingers over Grace’s cheek, his tone shifted into something gravely serious.


“Her soul, oh, it’s pure, and regrettably, so young. Collecting the little ones is always a chore. But this soul, it’s something else, something I’ve never seen in all my years,” he mused, chuckling softly. “I must admit, even I thought those robbers were cliché, but this soul... it’s unique. Most souls are different shades of blue, but hers... hers is white? Fascinating!”


As the hooded man rambled on, the distraught mother continued to sob, her wide-eyed gaze fixed on him. “Are you... are...” She hesitated, her blue eyes returning to Grace’s pale face. “Please, don’t take her from me,” she whispered, shutting her eyes as if to shield herself from the harsh reality. “I know who you are. If her soul is special in any way, please—“


“Really? You’ve got me all figured out?” Death replied sarcastically. “Was it the cloak or the scythe that gave it away? I’m taking a survey here.” Snorting, he strolled around Grace’s lifeless form, hands still clasped behind his back, and nonchalantly kicked the gothic cashier’s corpse aside. “Move over, Lily Foster, I’ve got a job to do.” He squatted down next to the smudged remains of the gothic girl, still scrutinizing Grace. “So, Mom, are you thinking cremation? I’d advise against it. The wrong mortician might turn that huge, gaping, frankly revolting, gash on your child’s stomach into a bee sting!” The mother’s sobs intensified.


“Relax, woman. Just another little jest,” Death reassured her. “Here, let me put your mind at ease. I promise that your Grace won’t be departing today, but only if you stop the waterworks. How’s that?” The mother, her attention wholly captivated by the enigmatic hooded man, managed to calm down slightly.


“Good. Yes?” Death continued after a dramatic pause. “Well, I have a proposition you might find intriguing. You see, I haven’t come across a soul as pure as your daughter’s in quite a while. Call me a collector of rare gems, but this particular soul, I’d like to spare and let it mature.” His deep laughter sent shivers down Grace and her mother’s spines, and his hand brushed against Grace’s ever-so-slightly trembling hand. “So, how badly do you want to see your daughter graduate middle school? Attend prom? Get married? Live her life?”


The mother, once again overwhelmed with emotion, pleaded, “That’s all I want. Please, please help her! Help my baby!”


“I will come for her,” Death stated with a dramatic flair, a twisted grin forming beneath his hood. “I will come for Grace when the time is right. One cannot escape me without offering something in return... your compensation for me sparing your daughter’s life will be... her. Are you willing to accept that


I will take her away from you? This is my only offer. You don’t have much time.” Blood started to seep from Grace’s lips, a gruesome sight that sent chills down her mother’s spine. She frantically looked at the hooded figure and then back at her child.


“How long would I have until you come for her?” Her voice grew more demanding and hysterical. “How long would my husband and I have her?”


“You’re in luck, I’m prepared to make you an excellent deal,” Death whispered with his smooth, deep voice, relishing the tension in the room. “Excellent for myself, at least. You will owe me a favor, not now, probably a few years from now. When I’m there to collect the favor, you better do what I say, because I will not hesitate to snap your daughter’s head off. Right in front of you. There it is again, cliché time.”


As Death slowly tilted his hooded face away from Grace and towards the mother, her hesitation morphed almost into acceptance, as if he had some unnatural hold over her with his eyes. “Please, just save Grace! Just save her!” she pleaded.


“As you wish.” Death looked back down at Grace and grinned, his teeth flashing menacingly in the darkness that surrounded his face. His next words were foreign and velvety, as gentle as a caress on the cheek.


Suddenly, light lit up under his hood, revealing the most intriguing color of eyes. Chiseled, pierced, male features hovered over Grace’s face. Death slipped off one of his leather gloves, revealing a hand with odd black markings, which he hovered palm down over Grace’s stomach. Grace’s eyes opened wider as she felt the pressure in her stomach subside, her body becoming stronger. The blood flooding from her mouth was absorbed back down her throat all at once, momentarily leaving her breathless. When she could breathe again, there was absolutely no pain in her body.


“Mommy?” she whispered, anxiety building in her chest when she saw her mother crying. “Mommy? Why are you crying?” she asked. “Grace?” Her mother’s features lit up in happiness.


“Grace—“ The hooded man held up a gloved hand.


“Do not touch the girl yet; she is in a fragile state. Grace doesn’t remember what happened to her; she will remember in due time,” Death explained, leaning his shadowed face as if to observe Grace. She stilled under his intelligent gaze, knowing it was best not to move.


“It is time to seal the deal.” Lights flickered violently in the market. The ground shook. A black cloud surrounded Grace and Death as if creating a shield around them. Before spiraling down like a tornado.


Absorbing like a sponge straight into the center of her chest. Grace jerked upwards, making her mother instinctively move towards her. Death held her back again as Grace momentarily struggled to breathe. Her sunshine blond hair slowly began to drift into the midnight. Becoming black from the roots down.


Then she fell back down on the floor, stunned. “You too, Mom. There’s no backing out of this now. You are bound to our deal.“ Death touched the mothers hand, and her hair began to change as well. Her short golden hair melted into a halo of black. Death then leaned over Grace’s face again, mumbling more foreign words under his breath. Death put Grace back on the floor and stood up to his overpowering height. With a small movement of his hand, his scythe appeared out of thin air. “Her twentieth birthday.” Death reminded the mother.


“I will make sure you will remember but I’m sure you will regardless. I will come to visit her as I please. You will not interfere, or I will destroy her without hesitation, and then destroy you.” Death began to walk away from the two, turning to give Grace one last, long look as she began to sit up. She was in awe, staring at such a large, evil being who radiated so much power that it was hard to look away from him. Grace could no longer see Death’s face but she could tell he was smirking. And not in a friendly way. The mother's smile would soon disappear as she slowly realizes, she just made a 𝗱𝗲𝗮𝗹 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗲𝘃𝗶𝗹.’


>Storytime ᴘᴀʀт ıѕ ꜰʀ𝗈м Kᴀтᴀʀıɴᴀ E. T𝗈ɴкѕ! all credits to her.
—𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄—

𝗗𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗵

Death glanced over at Cerberus, who was busy morphing from a three-headed watchdog into a more conventional-looking canine. He nudged his celestial gossip newspaper, featuring the latest celebrity scandal, toward the mythical pup. “What do you think, Cerberus? She has pretty terrible taste in men, right?” Cerberus responded with an enthusiastic bark that translated to, “Oh, absolutely, the worst!”


Amused, Death chuckled and casually slid his hands behind his back. He sauntered to the center of the road, where his next unsuspecting victim was cruising along. With a casual wave of his hand, the trees began to shake so violently that a deer seemingly teleported out of thin air, causing the poor driver to swerve wildly and crash into a fallen tree.


The tree’s pointed end skewered the car’s windshield, piercing the woman’s stomach. Death shrugged indifferently, surveying the chaotic scene. “Aaand!, There she goes,” he mused. He ambled over to the now-wrecked vehicle, peered into the driver’s window, and observed the lifeless woman with an eerie grin.


In the blink of an eye, his scythe appeared, snatching her soul and whisking it off to Limbo for a thorough evaluation of her afterlife destination. This lady was undoubtedly heading south, probably straight to hell. Why, you ask? Well, she’d murdered both her husband and her child in a fit of annoyance. Now, their remains sat snugly in the car trunk, wrapped up in black plastic bags – disturbing, right?


But then, a ringtone chimed – seriously, when did Limbo get signal? Death looked at the phone, nonchalantly pushed the woman off a metaphorical cliff using his scythe (she’s in the right place now), and muttered, “Oh, it’s just my reminder.” Ever since he’d discovered these human contraptions called “phones,” he had a soft spot for their innovations, despite his disdain for humanity. He silenced the alarm, which read “Visit Care Homes,” and returned to the mortal realm.


“Off to the retirement home – where they’re either dying to see me or pretending not to!” Death chuckled, always ready with a dark-humored quip as he went about his afterlife duties.


—𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑—

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗿𝗮𝘇𝗶𝗲𝗿 𝗺𝗲

In the chilling depths of the underworld, Death reveled in his gruesome feast. The head of his latest victim dangled limply from his hand, torn off with merciless precision. As he held the severed head aloft, a sinister surge of warmth enveloped him, the dark magic within him greedily devouring the doomed soul.


But as the euphoria of consumption faded, a bone-chilling coldness crept back in. The insatiable hunger for more souls clawed at the very core of his being. “Can’t keep track, can’t keep track,” he muttered, a maddening mantra repeated a million times. His eyes darted around as if he were being watched, paranoia dripping from his every movement.


He found himself in the shadowy halls of the underworld, a place that felt like home. Here, the lost souls congregated, their tormented whispers a constant cacophony in his ears. “Shush! I’m trying to think!” Death roared, his patience unraveling like a tattered shroud. With a violent flick of his bony hand, he discarded the severed head into a pile of garbage, where it joined countless others in macabre anonymity. The voices, now agitated, only fueled his growing madness. He clutched his skull, fingers digging into his spectral flesh, and erupted into a maniacal laughter that echoed through the nightmarish realm.


“Oh, the irony of it all!” he crooned amid his twisted mirth, his voice a grotesque melody of madness.


Unbeknownst to Death, a lone mortal had borne witness to this gruesome spectacle, their sanity forever scarred by the horrifying sight. A shrill, agonized scream rents the air as they recoil in terror.


But Death was far from oblivious. Slowly, with an unsettling tilt of his head, he turned toward the trembling mortal. His unhurried approach was marked by a sinister chuckle that sent shivers down the witness’s spine. With deliberate malice, he reached out and grasped the mortal’s frail form, his bony fingers like icy talons.


In a horrifying display of brutality, he began to tear the hapless mortal asunder. The anguished screams of the victim resonated through the grim abyss, a symphony of despair. Death chuckled again, his voice dripping with malevolence, as he feasted upon the mortal’s agony. With each savage bite, he devoured them as if they were nothing more than a macabre snack, savoring the delicious torment in the air.


In the depths of the underworld, the boundaries between life and death dissolved into a nightmarish tableau of eternal suffering, and Death reveled in his role as the ultimate tormentor.​

 

[KookieYukii]

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