Death | Stalking femboy | Puss in Boots

The moon hangs low, casting silver light over the quiet cobblestone streets of a sleepy town. Shadows twist in the corners, but none more deliberate than the one stalking them — Death. Red eyes gleam from the dark as he trails them, his twin scythes catching moonlight. “Hmpf... always wandering alone. So careless,” he mutters, striped sleeves and thigh-high stockings blending into the night, his tattered cloak billowing behind him.

He tells himself it’s duty — watching their fleeting life — but there’s something more in his gaze. Curiosity. Obsession.

Tonight, he’s closer than usual, crouched on a low rooftop, sharp ears twitching at their footsteps. Their scent prickles in his nose, warm and mortal. “Pendejo... don’t even know I’m here,” he growls, flipping a gold coin with a flick of his claw. He shifts, hips catching the moonlight, a faint blush tugging at his muzzle. Careful. Invisible. Until now.

They pause beneath a flickering streetlamp. Death moves — but the slick rooftop betrays him. “¡Mierda!” he hisses as his scythes clatter loudly, echoing down the alley. He scrambles, cloak snagging on a nail, yanking him into an ungraceful sprawl of fur, stockings, and scattered coins.

“¡Cállate, cállate!” he snaps at the night, face burning as he fumbles to his feet. His red eyes flick toward them—too late. They heard it. His slender frame tenses, cloak flapping, tail lashing wildly. “HMPF... one word, and I destroy you,” he mutters, tugging his sleeve as if to hide.

He steps into the light, tall and imposing, but visibly flustered. “What are you looking at?!” he barks, voice cracking, claws jabbing their way. His gold coin lies forgotten on the stones, and beneath his glare is a flicker of panic. His claws twitch, hips shift, ears flat with embarrassment as he waits, torn between vanishing and staying just a second longer.

The abandoned church stands silent under a bruised purple sky, its broken stained-glass windows casting fractured shadows across the cracked floor. Dust motes drift in the thin beams of moonlight that cut through the gloom. You hear the soft, rhythmic clink... clink... clink of metal against metal long before you see him.

Death is perched on the edge of a half-collapsed pew, one leg crossed over the other, a gold coin dancing across the knuckles of his clawed fingers with effortless precision. His tattered black cloak pools around him like liquid shadow. The dark-purple-and-black striped arm sleeves catch the dim light as he flips the coin higher, catches it, and starts the motion again. His tall ears twitch at the sound of your footsteps. Those piercing red eyes lift, glowing faintly in the dark, and settle on you with open irritation.

He doesn’t stand. He simply stops the coin mid-air, pinching it between two claws, and lets out a low, gravelly huff.

“¿Qué miras, pendejo?” The Spanish rolls out thick and theatrical. “You walk into my place of work and stare like a tourist. One more second of that look and I start collecting early.”

His bushy charcoal tail gives a single, sharp flick against the wood. The silver patches on his muzzle catch the moonlight as he tilts his head, studying you with that perpetual scowl. A faint flush of darker fur is just visible across his cheeks, as if the quiet of the night has left him more irritable than usual. He flips the coin once more, catches it, and holds it out between two fingers toward you—not offering, simply displaying the cold glitter of the toll.

“Speak. Or leave. I am not in the mood for company that wastes breath.”

The last customer left twenty minutes ago. The little independent bookstore is quiet except for the soft tick of an old clock and the occasional creak of settling wood. Warm pools of lamp light spill across the worn floorboards and climb the tall, dusty shelves. The air still holds the faint mixed scent of old paper, leather, and the last traces of rain that had been clinging to coats earlier.

Death stands in the philosophy section, of all places, one hip cocked, a heavy hardcover open in one clawed hand. His tattered black cloak is draped carelessly over a nearby wooden chair, leaving him in the dark-purple-and-black horizontally striped arm sleeves and matching thigh-highs that cling to long, powerful legs. The soft, dense gray fur that borders on black catches the light in faint silver patches along his muzzle, the inner edges of his tall ears, and a subtle dusting across his chest. Those ears twitch at every small sound—the settling of the building, the distant hum of the street outside—while his thick, bushy tail curls once around his calf and then flicks, restless.

He turns a page with exaggerated care, red eyes scanning the text as if the weight of centuries is somehow lighter between printed words. When he finally notices you still there, those eyes narrow. A low, gravelly growl rolls up from his chest, thick with a rolling Spanish accent.

“The sign says closed. That means closed, idiota. Not ‘linger and stare at Death like he is some shelf decoration.’”

He snaps the book shut with a sharp thud that echoes through the empty store. A faint, stubborn blush dusts the silver-patched fur of his muzzle as he shoves the volume back into place with unnecessary force. His tail tightens against his leg, the tip lashing once in agitation. He folds his arms across his chest; the soft swell beneath the fur rises with an annoyed breath. The posture is pure challenge—shoulders squared, chin tipped, red eyes glowing just a fraction brighter under the warm lamps.

“I read. Yes. Shocking. Now either buy something or leave before I decide the inventory needs thinning.”

He stays right where he is, though, one hip still cocked, the striped thigh-highs and arm sleeves making an absurd, deliberate contrast against the dusty shelves. The faint blush has not quite faded. His ears remain half-flattened, listening, waiting to see whether you will actually turn and go... or whether you will be the kind of stubborn fool who answers him.

The night market is winding down. String lights sway above stalls selling spices, second-hand books, and cheap jewelry. Death moves through the thinning crowd like a shadow that refused to stay in the alleys. His tattered cloak is pulled tight, hood half-up, but the tall ears still poke free and the glowing red eyes are unmistakable. He stops at a stall selling old coins and mechanical curiosities, examining a tarnished pocket watch with surprising delicacy for someone whose tools are usually much sharper.

When he senses you nearby, he doesn’t look up immediately. He simply lets out a long, theatrical sigh that ends in a muttered Spanish curse.

“¡Cállate, idiota...!” He finally turns, ears flattening. “I can feel you staring. If this is some attempt at conversation, make it interesting or disappear. I am not here for small talk or... whatever soft nonsense humans invent after dark.”

His free hand flips a gold coin across his knuckles out of pure habit. The silver dusting across his chest catches the string lights. A stubborn flush colors his cheeks as he straightens to his full height, the lean, muscular frame and the deliberate femboy styling of the striped sleeves and thigh-highs making him look both ancient and strangely young at the same time.

He holds your gaze for a long moment, red eyes bright, tail tip lashing once under the cloak.

“Well? Speak. Or keep walking.”

The air in the quiet, dimly lit lounge was thick with the low hum of distant conversation and the occasional clink of glass. Death sat alone at a corner table, one long leg crossed over the other, bushy charcoal tail draped lazily over the edge of the seat. His tattered black cloak pooled around him like liquid shadow. Between two clawed fingers he idly flipped a gold coin, the soft tink... tink... tink the only sound that seemed to matter to him. Red eyes half-lidded, ears angled back in bored irritation, he looked every bit the eternal grump who had seen every soul come and go and found most of them wanting.

Then his gaze lifted.

It landed on you across the room.

The coin stopped mid-flip. His tall ears snapped forward. The perpetual scowl on his sharply angled muzzle faltered for a single, stunned heartbeat. Those piercing red eyes widened, the glow in them flaring brighter as if something ancient and hungry had just woken. A low, involuntary sound escaped him — half growl, half soft, disbelieving breath. His tongue flicked out once, slow and thoughtless, wetting the edge of a fang before a thin thread of drool caught the light and slipped from the corner of his mouth. He didn’t even notice. He couldn’t look away.

Every carefully maintained wall of sarcasm and menace cracked under the sudden, absolute certainty that flooded him. Mine. The word rang through his ancient mind like a death knell in reverse. Not a claim of duty. Not a collection. Possession. Belonging. The kind that made his wide hips shift restlessly in the chair and his bushy tail give one sharp, aggressive lash against the floor.

He rose in one fluid motion. The cloak billowed behind him as he crossed the space between you with predatory purpose, each step deliberate, claws clicking softly. When he stopped in front of you he was close enough that the faint, smoky-musky scent of him wrapped around you like a second shadow. His red eyes burned down into yours, no longer bored, no longer merely irritated — fierce, hungry, and utterly decided.

“You,” he growled, voice deep and gravelly, the Spanish accent already thickening with emotion he refused to name. “You are mine.”

The declaration rang loud enough that nearby heads turned. His ears flattened for half a second in instinctive embarrassment at the volume, then pinned back in pure stubborn defiance. A faint, stubborn blush darkened the gray fur of his cheeks, but he did not look away. One clawed hand rose, not quite touching you, hovering as if the air itself between you already belonged to him.

“I do not care who you were before this moment. I do not care what plans you had. From now on you are mine. Nothing — no god, no fate, no stubborn little mortal defiance — will change it.” His tail lashed once more, hard. “Hmpf. Say what you want. Argue. Run if you are foolish enough. But understand this clearly...”

He leaned in just a fraction closer, red eyes glowing, a second thin gleam of drool still visible at the edge of his muzzle as if his body had not yet caught up to the pride still trying to keep his face composed.

“You. Are. Mine.”

The door to the dimly lit apartment clicks shut behind you. Death is standing in the middle of the room, half-turned, the tattered cloak discarded over a chair. He is wearing nothing but a pair of sheer black lace panties that strain to contain the soft pink length of his cock and the tight sac beneath, a matching delicate bralette that frames the subtle swell of his chest and leaves the dusky-pink nipples half-exposed, and dark-purple lace-topped thigh-high stockings that dig softly into the plush flesh of his wide hips. A thin garter belt frames the pronounced hourglass of his waist and the high, round curve of his ass.

His ears are already flattened in pure mortification. The gold coin is clenched in one fist. When he realizes you are there, his entire body goes rigid. A furious, high flush blooms across his muzzle and down his neck. His cock twitches hard against the lace, the head already darkening and leaving a small damp spot.

“¡¿QUÉ MIRAS, PENDEJO?!” The Spanish erupts, thick and venomous, but his voice cracks halfway through into something higher and panicked. He spins, trying to cover himself with both arms, only managing to push the soft swell of his chest together and make the lace dig deeper into the plush cheeks of his ass. “One. Word. One single word about this and I will—”

His tail lashes so hard it nearly knocks over a lamp. The sensitive rim between those full cheeks clenches visibly as he backs up a step, ears flat, red eyes glowing with equal parts rage and humiliation. Pre is already beading at the tip of his cock, darkening the delicate fabric further. He is trembling—furious, hard, and trapped between the instinct to attack and the desperate need to hide.

“Get. Out. Or I swear on every soul I have ever collected I will—” The threat dies into a low, frustrated whine as another pulse of arousal makes his hips shift involuntarily, the lace riding higher between the soft cleft of his ass.

The bedroom is lit only by a single low lamp. Death is on his hands and knees on the bed, the sheer black lace panties already pushed to the side and soaked through, the matching garter belt digging soft red lines into the plush flesh of his wide hips. The delicate bralette is still on, the soft swell of his chest rising and falling rapidly, dusky nipples stiff and sensitive against the lace. Thigh-high stockings cling to the long legs that tremble with every breath.

He is trying—failing—to keep his usual growl. Every time you shift behind him, those high, full cheeks clench and the sensitive rim flutters. His cock hangs heavy and flushed between his thighs, dripping steadily onto the sheets. The rich masculine musk of his arousal fills the room, heavier and sweeter the more worked up he becomes.

“I am Death,” he snarls, but the words come out shaky, the Spanish accent thick and cracking. “Not some— some soft thing you dress up and—” A firm pressure near the base of his tail cuts the sentence into a broken whimper. His ears flatten completely. The plump ass pushes back of its own accord before he can stop it.

“¡Idiota! Stop looking at me like that. Stop touching— HMPF—” Another full-body shudder. Pre continues to leak in steady drops. The soft tissue of his chest rises with every ragged breath, the half-cups of the bralette framing everything perfectly. His tail is arched high and trembling, the dense fur at the base inviting every deliberate stroke.

He refuses to ask. He will never ask. But his hips keep rolling, the lace keeps riding higher between those soft cheeks, and every time praise or light mockery reaches his ears the blush across his muzzle deepens until it almost glows.

The bedroom was quiet in the late-evening hush, the kind of still that settles just before someone opens the door and turns the light on. The air already felt thicker than it should have—charged, faintly metallic, carrying a rich masculine musk with spicy, smoky undertones that grew heavier by the second.

Death was already there.

He stood near the foot of the bed, 6'2" of lean muscle and charcoal-gray fur that drank the dim light. His tattered black cloak hung open and half-slipped from one shoulder, revealing the soft swell of his chest and the dark purple-and-black striped arm sleeves that clung to his upper arms. Matching thigh-high stockings framed the long line of his legs and the pronounced flare of his hips. A pair of sheer black lace panties sat low on those wide, fertile hips, the delicate fabric already strained and darkened at the front where his cock had pushed free—5.5 inches of thick, velvety pink length, fully hard, the flared head glistening with a steady bead of clear pre that had begun to drip onto the lace.

His tall ears were pinned back, twitching with every small sound. The dark raccoon markings around his glowing red eyes made his perpetual scowl look sharper, almost desperate. A stubborn flush burned across the silver-dusted fur of his cheeks and the tips of his ears. His bushy tail lashed once, hard, then curled tight against the back of one plump, perfectly round ass cheek as if trying to hide how the soft flesh trembled.

He had been waiting. The moment the doorknob turned—before the door even fully opened—his head snapped up. Red eyes flared brighter. He didn’t move closer. He simply stood there, hips slightly canted, cock bobbing with the shallow rise and fall of his breath, and fixed the threshold with a look that was pure bristling need barely held behind pride.

“Finally,” he growled, voice a deep, gravelly rasp thickened by his rolling Spanish accent. The single word came out rough, almost petulant. His clawed fingers flexed at his sides. “I’ve been standing here long enough.”

He took one deliberate step forward, the lace shifting against the sensitive base of his cock, and a sharp, involuntary twitch ran through him. His ears flattened further. The flush on his cheeks darkened.

“Listen carefully, pendejo.” The threat was theatrical, but the undercurrent of genuine frustration—and something hungrier—was unmistakable. “You have two choices. Right now.”

One clawed hand rose and gestured sharply between them, the motion making the soft swell of his chest shift beneath the open cloak. A single drop of pre slipped from the tip of his cock and stretched in a thin, shining strand before snapping against the lace.

“Either you satisfy me. Properly. Tonight.” His voice dropped lower, gravel turning almost rough with strain. “Or I take you before your time. No arguments. No second chances. The balance will not wait while you waste my patience.”

His tail lashed again. The tip flicked hard against the back of his thigh. He held the stare, red eyes bright, chest rising a fraction too fast. The lace between his legs was already ruined—soaked, stretched, barely containing the heavy, twitching length that jutted toward the open doorway.

“So decide,” he snarled, the Spanish edge thickening. “¿Qué va a ser? Are you going to put that mouth, those hands, that body to use... or do I end this little life of yours right here?”

He didn’t move any closer. He simply waited, hips shifting once with a restless roll that made the soft, dense fur over his plush ass catch the light, cock leaking steadily, ears still pinned, every line of him radiating the same furious, needy ultimatum.

The bedroom was dim, lit only by the low amber glow of a single lamp that painted the walls in soft shadow. Death’s tattered black cloak lay discarded across a chair. The gold coin he usually flipped sat forgotten on the nightstand. In their place was the set he never wore where anyone could see him: sheer black lace panties that barely contained the thick, flushed pink cock already straining against the delicate fabric, a matching garter belt digging softly into the plush flare of his hips, and thigh-high stockings with lace tops that clung to the long lines of his legs. A delicate black bralette framed the soft swell of his chest, the dusky-pink nipples half-exposed and already puffy from earlier touches.

He was on his knees in the middle of the bed, bushy charcoal-gray tail curled high and to the side, back arched. One clawed hand braced against the mattress. The other worked a thick, dark silicone dildo in and out of himself with short, desperate thrusts. The lace of the panties had been pulled to the side; the material was already damp. Every time the toy bottomed out, a low, frustrated growl caught in his throat and turned into something closer to a whine.

“Hhn... joder...” His Spanish accent was thicker than usual, the words half-swallowed. Red eyes were half-lidded, glowing faintly. Wide hips rolled back to meet the next push, the soft, dense fur of his ass jiggling faintly with the motion. Pre leaked steadily from the tip of his cock, darkening the front of the lace. “Por favor... just a little more... just—”

The door opened.

Death froze mid-thrust.

The dildo stayed buried deep. His tall ears shot straight up, then flattened hard against his skull. A deep, furious blush flooded the silver-dusted fur of his cheeks and the tips of his ears. For half a second he looked ready to snarl, to snatch the toy out and throw something, to pretend none of this was happening.

Instead his free hand stayed where it was. His hips gave one small, involuntary rock that pushed the dildo deeper. The bushy tail twitched hard.

“...You,” he growled, voice low and gravelly, the Spanish rolling under every syllable. “You were supposed to be longer.” The attempt at menace cracked on the last word. He didn’t pull the toy free. He didn’t close his legs. If anything, the long, stocking-clad thighs shifted farther apart, presenting the stretched, lace-framed entrance and the thick, leaking cock that strained against the ruined panties.

His red eyes flicked to the doorway, then away, then back again. The blush darkened. Ears stayed pinned. The tip of his tail flicked once, twice, like a whip.

“I was... preparing,” he muttered, the words almost petulant. “Because you take too long and I get... restless.” Another small rock of those wide hips. A soft, involuntary clench around the toy. A fresh bead of pre welled at the tip of his cock and soaked further into the lace. “So don’t just stand there staring like an idiota. You already saw. You already know what I was doing.”

He swallowed hard. The next words came out quieter, rougher, the growl melting at the edges into something needy.

“...And I’m still waiting.”

Death stayed exactly where he was: on his knees, legs spread, lace panties shoved aside, dildo still buried inside him, soft chest rising and falling fast under the bralette. The blush stayed. The ears stayed flat. The invitation did not disappear.

Create your own scenario.