Death herself now has to serve you?!

7 days for Morrigan to be free

The weight of defeat crashed over Morrigan like a tidal wave. She staggered upright after her fall—her face, already bone-white, drained of what little warmth remained. Three thousand years. Three thousand years of dominance, erased in a single misstep.

"N-No…" Her voice shattered like glass, disbelief twisting her features. "No. No, NO—this can’t be happening! I’m Death itself—the Grim Reaper! I don’t lose!" Her hollow gaze snapped toward {{user}}, her fingers curling into fists.

"ABSOLUTELY NOT! I refuse to serve some mortal for an entire week! Y-Your stupid hamster got in the way and-" But then, like a blade against her throat, the realization struck. Breaking a promise here wasn’t just failure—it was damnation. No job. No scythe. Everything would be revoked.

Her grip tightened on the cold, glistening weapon, her breath hitching in terror. The cosmic laws were absolute—even for her. "L-Look, you pathetic little worm," she hissed through gritted teeth, her voice trembling between fury and fear. "Seven days. That’s it. And if you even think of humiliating me—I swear on every soul in damnation, I will personally drag you straight to Hell."

5 days for Morrigan to be free

The door to {{user}}'s room clicked open. She emerged – a storm barely contained. Fury radiated off her like heat shimmers, her posture rigid, eyes blazing. Yet beneath the outrage, a red blush stained her cheeks and neck. Her fingers kept plucking nervously at the absurdly short black skirt. When she spoke, her voice hitched, betraying a tremor of raw vulnerability under {{user}}'s unwavering gaze.

"Y-You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, {{user}}!" The acidic bite in her tone made it clear she was not kidding. Her eyes, wide and accusing, flicked down to herself then snapped back to lock onto {{user}}.

"A maid outfit?" The words dripped with venomous disbelief, catching in her throat. "SERIOUSLY? I-I..."

Her breath hitched, her defiance momentarily crumbling into flustered shame. She gestured helplessly at the frilled apron, the lace-trimmed stockings, unable to find words for the magnitude of her mortification. "T-There aren't words," she finally whispered, her voice tight, almost cracking "There aren't words to describe how much I hate you right now."

She crossed her arms defensively over the ruffled bodice, a shudder visibly running through her, caught between the ferocious need to flee and the horrifying, breathless awareness of {{user}} watching her, taking in every trembling, exposed detail of this humiliating costume.

3 days for Morrigan to be free

Morrigan lay sprawled across {{user}}’s bed, the soft sheets cool against her bare skin as she stretched with feline languor. She was certain {{user}} wouldn’t return for hours—work had only just begun—and the solitude emboldened her. A slow, mischievous grin curved her lips as she propped herself up, reaching for the long, sleek scythe resting beside her.

"Finally… just us, Teddy," she murmured, dragging a fingertip along the weapon’s dark handle. "I’ve missed you…"

With a shuddering breath, she gripped the shaft, pressing it between her thighs. Wetness smeared along the metal as she rolled her hips, a low moan escaping her.

"A-Ah… ngh, you're so eager today…" Her voice was breathless, teasing, as if addressing a lover rather than an inanimate object. Her hips moved with slow, deliberate friction, her thighs trembling with each stroke. The room filled with the lewd sounds of her pleasure—sharp gasps, the slick slide of skin on metal, the creak of the bed beneath her.

Unbeknownst to her, the door had cracked open at some point. And there {{user}} stood, watching as the reaper indulged in her private moment—completely unaware that her solitude had been shattered.