One on One Thing? (Closed)

Sooo I don’t really have a major plot so far but I was thinking along the lines of fantasy/horror themes? I also was wanting to use a pansexual male character (does prefer other males over others just a bit more) of mine in an rp so this will definitely be LGBTQ+.

Guidelines:

• Rated R/MA for possible violence and gore, profanity, and sexual situations (will be taken to PM though).
• LGBTQ+ is accepted (even preferred for this!).
• Characters can have abilities/powers/be other races, but please try not to be too OP.
• Please be literate, can’t stress that enough! (Preferred sentence count is three. Two if fine I guess, but make the two sentences strong ones. No one liners though, they are hard to go off of).

Character Sheet:
Name:
Age:
Gender:
Preferred Pronouns:
Sexuality:
Race/Species:
Appearance:
Personality:
Strengths/Talents:
Weaknesses:
Background:
Other:

(Yeah, totally!)

Name: Thatcher Wain.
Age: 928 years, but looks to be around 21-24.
Gender: Male.
Preferred Pronouns: He/Him/His.
Sexuality: Pansexual (prefers males), possibly polygamous.
Race/Species: Reaper (names appear on a sheet and those are the only people he can heal/kill. Can do something like teleportation by turning into a ‘murder’ of crows).
Appearance: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/617345061395939577/, toned/slender build/features, very tall (around 6’4), black tattoo of the silhouette of a scythe.
Personality: Ambiverted, independent, calm, proper, friendly (when not working), standoff-ish (when working), passionate, affectionate, romantic, generally quiet, almost seems to be emotionless.
Strengths/Talents: Manipulation, lying, observation, can speak multiple old languages.
Weaknesses: Showing his feelings, tends to look down on humans/other creatures, not good at keeping what he is a secret.
Background: Developing…
Other: When he was around 636 years old, he found a female three headed hound puppy, which he raised and named Nike.

(Let’s see if this works now https://www.pinterest.com/pin/396387204697090672/)

(Okay, cool. So, should we start?)

(Yeah, I can)

Thatcher’s night was going to be a terrible one. It was at least midnight when a name to reap appeared on the slip of paper that he carried around with him. He had followed his senses, Nike’s large form following behind him. And where did he find himself? On a beach, staring out at the ocean. Whoever he was supposed to be reaping must be on a boat or swimming out in the water. He glanced down at the name on the paper. It was a males name- John Marc.

Thatcher turned to Nike, giving a series of clicks that varied in pitch. One of Nike’s heads growled, while another made a few similar clicking noises. His lips pursed as he turned away and back towards the ocean. Of course he could understand the hounds language. He had been alive for centuries, so he had the time to do so. He sighed heavily, shrugging off his black trench coat so he was now in just his long sleeved button up, trousers, and dress shoes- everything black, just the way he liked it. After a moment of concentration, he had shifted into a ‘murder’ of crows, the birds flying over the water in search of the man he was to reap.

The crows flew through the air, eventually spotting a decently sized boat and swooping down towards it. Before the birds landed, with a sweep of darkness, Thatcher was standing in their place. With a flick of his wrist, a tall scythe appeared in his hand. His eyes flicked around, not seeing anyone above deck at first.

Thatcher walked across the deck with the scythe, humming lowly as he did so. He could hear the faint sound of a voice, a man talking on a phone below deck. He headed below deck, surprisingly quiet despite how large his frame was. He came up behind the man, grabbing him by the back of his neck and throwing him f the ground with a surprising amount of force. “John Marc, your time has come for you to pass into the afterlife,” he said, adjusting his grip on the scythe.

“Please, whoever you are, don’t. I’ll give you whatever you want. I have a family, two daughters, please,” the man, John, pleaded desperately.

“I will send them my condolences,”he said simply, suddenly swinging the scythe and slicing the man open across his whole torso, blood splattering.

Thatcher had already finished with the man, calling the police to report a body. He frowned softly, hearing what almost sounded like singing. Was there someone else on the boat? He put the bloody scythe away, heading back up above deck. If there was someone there, he couldn’t kill them, not unless their name was in the list. He glanced around, hands loose by his sides.

Thatcher ran a hand through his thick hair as he frowned. He walked around deck for a moment longer, but didn’t see anyone. He next leaned over the side of the deck, lips pursed as he squinted down into the water. He could still hear the singing, but he didn’t know where the source was coming from.

Thatcher saw movement in the water, and his light colored eyes widened a tad as he saw the man. No, that wasn’t just a man… He took a step away from the side of the boat jaw clenched tightly. If he could just touch the man, then he could learn a lot of things about him- His name, age, species, how soft his skin felt… Mind out of the gutter, he scolded himself.

Thatcher took a step away from the man, eyes narrowing in a dangerous way. He suddenly wished that Nike was around. He wasn’t able to kill whenever he wanted, but he couldn’t say the same for Nike. “Work, but I would tell nothing more to the likes of you,” he hissed. He didn’t like being interrupted during his work, and he really didn’t want to be around when the police showed.

Thatcher considered his options before eventually deciding that intimidation would be best. “Reaper, so I suggest you don’t try anything. You’re lucky I don’t have my hound,” he growled, eyes staying narrowed as he watched the man.

Thatcher’s eyes narrowed as he didn’t say anything to the man, simply watching him leave. He exhaled sharply, slowly shaking his head. After shifting back to the crows and heading to land, he picked up his trench coat from the ground, brushing a stray feather off of his shoulder. One of Nike’s heads sniffed at him and gave a low growl at the scent. He gave a few clicks of his tongue, assuring the hound that it was nothing to worry about.