What We Usually See Of A 'grim Reaper' Or A Demonic Figure - Tumblr Posts

Welcome back, Violett!! 💖 For the ikepri halloween costume challenge, may I request Chevalier + devil + spooky? 🤗 Hope you have a lovely week! 🥰

A/N: Here you are @skiagrafia! I really enjoyed this! I was inspired by a short story by Tumblr legend Neil Gaiman called "Other People." You can read it here

Chevalier x Reader

WC: 900

The wooden bench in the church is rough to the touch. The end of it is splintered and there are scratches in the wood of the pew in front of you. A shudder runs through your body as you wonder how they got there. They’re too small to be from any wild animal. Certainly too shallow to be a bear or anything like that.

In the distance, you hear a lone cry, a faint howl that momentarily chases away the silence of the church like a broom violently scattering cobwebs. But outside the windows there is only gray, a gloom that seems to have wrapped itself around the small building in the middle of the woods. It's latched onto the peeling paint and loose nails and clings, territorial.

You nervously pull at a hangnail on your index finger, pull until it comes right off, taking a sliver of skin with it. You frown as you stare at the angry red stripe on your finger. That should hurt. It doesn’t.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you glance back at the church's double doors. They are as scratched as the pews and look somehow heavier than they should. The iron hinges are shaped like tridents, their points wickedly sharp for something decorative. Uncomfortable, you turn away again, smoothing down the folds of your white skirt.

You know you’re meant to wait. But for what….?

You can’t quite remember. It’s that elusive scratching at your mind when you know that you know something but can’t for the life of you call it forth.

The howling sound breaks the silence again.

This time it is louder. Closer.

You pull on the ends of your sleeves, curling your fingers inwards to clutch the white material.

In front of you, the altar is cracked, a jagged line like black lighting running through the stone. The cross on the wall above it hangs crooked, as if it is considering letting go, allowing the fall to the tiled floor to do what it will.

A loud whooshing sound pulls your attention back to the church entrance. The wooden doors have opened and in steps the most beautiful man you have ever seen. Dressed from head to toe in pristine white, broad of shoulder, long of leg with a face that could make a person weep at its classical perfection. His hair is pale as bone and rising from his head are twin horns of curling onyx. Striking as all this is, it's his eyes which catch you attention the most, a piercing blue the color of cruel frost, of endless frozen skies. When he fixes his gaze directly upon you, it feels as if winter itself is blowing through your bones, sending a corkscrew of cold fear straight through your body.

He stops walking and looks down at you, where you are sitting on the pew bench, his expression smooth as polished glass.

“We must go.”

His voice sends another rush of cold through you and you feel yourself starting to shiver. You glance at the church doors, now wide open. All you can see is gray gloom. Impenetrable. Suffocating.

“Where?” How your voice shakes, how small it sounds.

Again a howl pierces the church. It is louder now than before.

The window panes of the church tremble.

His gaze remains steady, although there is now a glint of something in his eyes. Something sharp and bright.

“You know.”

You rise to your feet on legs that feel numb. The man starts back down the aisle, then turns when he sees the way you grip each wooden pew you pass, your body tilting like a willow in a violent storm. The grip of your fingers is so strong, your nails dig little half-moon crescents into the wood.

He pauses, waiting for you to catch up and then takes hold of your arm. Despite the black gloves, his touch feels as hard and cold as frozen iron. The cold rushes through you and you can barely walk for all of your quivering.

You are almost at the open doors, at the mouth of all that opaque gray.

“W-w-what’s out there?” Your voice is barely a whisper, a wisp of smoke on the precipice of fading.

You’ve reached the doorway; his hand is still on your arm. He turns his head, looking down at you with those eyes of the most unearthly, startling blue.

“Nothing,” he answers. “Absolutely nothing.”

And then he slings you forward, forcing you into the gray. A flap of your white skirt. The white of your wide eyes. And then you are gone, utterly and completely, swallowed by the nothing. No trace of you left except the frightened marks of your fingernails in the scarred wood of the pew.

He reaches down, tugging once on the edge of his black glove, making it fit perfectly again. He turns his artic gaze towards the gloom. A second later there is a rush of wind, a burst of turbulent energy that continues its howling as it enters the church. It shakes the windows, jostles the crooked cross on the wall, skims the broken altar before growing still.

Slowly a figure fades into view, another lost soul slumped forward in the wooden pew. It will need time before it awakens, notices its surroundings.

Just like you did.

Just like they all do.

And when it does, he’ll be there.

Silently as fog he steps outside the church, closing the heavy wooden doors behind him.

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