#skeleton x reader

The first time you realize you’re dreaming, it’s because the air feels too still.

Not empty—just… as if it stopped, like the world is pausing to listen.

You’re standing in a place that isn’t quite a field and isn’t quite the void. The ground is soft beneath your feet, something like mist pretending to be earth. A horizon stretches forever, pale and quiet.

And then—there.

A figure, tall and draped in dark fabric that doesn’t quite move with the air, because there is no air. Not until they arrive.

A soft stir brushes past your cheek.

Mist? A breath? Something like it.

They don’t step closer, they never do.

“You came back,” you murmur, your voice sounding too loud in a place that seems built for whispers. The figure tilts their head. You can’t see their face—not fully—but you feel their attention settle over you like a careful, reverent weight.

“I was called,” they answer, voice low and layered, like it echoes from somewhere deeper than sound. “But not for you.” There’s something gentle in the way they say it. Something relieved.

You take a step forward, and they take one back. It’s immediate, instinctive, and it stings, just a little.

“…You always do that.”

“I must.” Their tone doesn’t change, but the space between you feels heavier now, threaded with something unsaid.

“I don’t want to harm you.”

Their words are careful, but they still make you huff softly, folding your arms, though there’s no real frustration behind it—just the ache of something you’ve come to expect.

“You’re not going to. I’m dreaming aren't I?”

“A fragile state,” they reply. “A threshold. You are… closer, here.” Closer to what, they don’t say.

Closer to them, maybe.

The silence stretches again, but it isn’t empty. It’s full of them—of their presence hovering just out of reach, of the faint stirring that brushes your skin every time they shift.

You can almost map their shape with it.

Your gaze drops, and that’s when you notice it—a small flower at your feet. Pale, delicate, something that doesn’t belong in this strange in-between.

You crouch, picking it up carefully.

They go very still.

“…What are you doing?” There’s a note in their voice you haven’t heard before.

“It’s just a flower,” you say softly, turning it between your fingers. “See?”

“I see.”

“And you’re… not exactly touchable,” you add, trying for lightness, though your chest feels tight. “So I thought maybe…”

You stand, holding it out to them, they don’t move. “I won’t touch you,” you promise. “Just—your robe. That’s allowed, right?”

Silence.

Long enough that you almost lower your hand.

Then—

“…Carefully.” It’s barely more than a breath, but it’s permission.

You step closer, they don’t retreat this time, though the air shifts more sharply, like something in them is resisting every instinct they have.

You move slowly, gently. Like approaching something sacred or something that might vanish.

The fabric of their robe isn’t solid—not fully—but it holds shape enough that when you place the flower against it, it stays.

“…It suits you,” you say, your voice quieter now, almost shy. “A little less… intimidating.”

A pause. And then, softer than you’ve ever heard them: “You are kind.”

It lands heavier than it should.

You swallow, stepping back just enough to give them space again, even though every part of you wants to stay close.

“I just like seeing you,” you admit. “Even if you won’t let me get near.”

They shift, the air brushing your cheek again—closer this time. So close you almost lean into it.

“I see you more clearly than you think,” they say.

Your breath catches. “I witness your days. Your small kindnesses. The way you endure what you do not speak of.” A pause. “You are… remarkable.”

Heat rises in your chest, unexpected and bright. “You don’t have to—”

“I do.” There’s that firmness again. That quiet, unyielding truth.

“I will not take from you,” they continue, voice softening at the edges. “I will not risk your thread, your breath, your warmth—”

Their voice falters, just slightly.

“But I will honor you.”

The space between you hums with it.

All the things they won’t do.

All the things they want to.

You let out a small breath, smiling despite the ache.

“…Then stay,” you say. “At least until I wake up.”

They hesitate for a moment, then— they step closer. Not enough to touch, never that. But enough that the air around you stirs, wrapping gentle and cool around your shoulders like an almost-embrace.

“I will remain,” they murmur.

And for once, the distance doesn’t feel quite so vast.

..

The library is a living thing.

It breathes in the dust motes that dance in the moonlight, sighs through the towering stacks of forgotten lore, and settles heavy as a shroud over the velvet-covered chairs. You know its rhythm as you know your own heartbeat. It's the only place you've ever felt truly at peace.

Your fingers trail over the spines of books bound in human skin and brass, their titles embossed in languages that twist the tongue. You've been coming here for months, a secret thief in the night, pilfering knowledge with your eager eyes. The library is not on any map, only whispered about in fragments of obscure texts, a place that exists outside of time and the reach of the mundane world.

Finding it was your life's greatest triumph.

You choose a light volume tonight, something slim and bound in dark green leather that hums with a faint, frosty energy. Settling into your usual armchair, a monstrosity of cracked leather and horsehair stuffing, you open the book. The pages are vellum, thin and dry, the ink a faded but still-vivid crimson. As you read, the words painting pictures of astral rites and celestial mechanics, a different kind of quiet falls.

A deliberate silence. An attentive one.

The air grows still, no longer sighing but a breath held tight. The temperature drops, a sudden chill that prickles gooseflesh on your arms. You freeze, the forgotten text held open in your lap. Your heart begins to beat a frantic, trapped-bird rhythm against your ribs.

You are no longer alone.

From the deep shadows between two towering shelves, a figure detaches itself. It's a nightmare given form, a specter of bone and subtle grace. A skeleton, tall and spare, its frame clad in the remnants of a tattered academic's gown. In one bony hand, it holds a lantern, its light a sickly, ethereal green that casts long, dancing shadows.

But it's the eye sockets that hold you captive.

Within them, two points of silver light burn, like captured starlight. There is no malice in them, only a profound and ancient weariness, and something else. A deep, abiding curiosity.

The skeleton stops a respectful distance away, lantern held aloft. The green light washes over you, making your skin appear luminous and your blood run cold.

"You are…persistent," the skeleton speaks. Its voice is not a rattle or a rasp, but a low, resonant hum, like stones grinding together. "Your thirst for this place…for what it contains…is admirable."

You can't find your breath, let alone your voice. You clutch the book to your chest like a holy relic.

It takes another slow, cautious step. The sound of its bare bones on the stone floor is unnervingly soft. "I am Talus. I am the keeper here. And you…you have been my most faithful, if uninvited, patron."

He knows. He has always been watching. The feeling of being observed you'd dismissed as paranoia was real. Every night you've come here, he has been here, a silent guardian of this tomb of knowledge.

Talus tilts his head, a gesture of such fluid, natural inquiry it's jarring on a frame of bone. "I have watched you read. I have seen the way your eyes light up at a new theorem, the way your fingers trace the contours of a forgotten map. You seek knowledge for its own sake. A quality I understand intimately."

He lifts a bony finger, pointing it not at you, but at the world beyond the library's walls. "I, too, seek knowledge. But mine is of a different kind. I wish to understand the world of the living. The warmth of the sun on skin I do not have. The taste of wine on a tongue of dust. The feeling of a heart beating against a cage of bone."

He lowers his arm, silver-light sockets burning brighter. "I offer a trade. I will grant you access to any secret this library holds. The forbidden grimoires, the sealed histories, the codices that drive men to madness. In exchange, you will tell me of your world. Of life."

Your fear is still there, an icy knot in your stomach, but it's now tangled with something else. Awe. Thrill. Heart-wrenching loneliness that mirrors your own. All reflected in the shimmer of his eyes.

To be seen, truly seen, by such a creature—it's a kind of communion.

"You…you've been watching me?" you finally manage, voice a shaky whisper.

"Every night," Talus confirms. The simple admission is more intimate than any touch. "Your presence is…a welcome anomaly in the long, unchanging silence. You bring a living zeal to this place. Now, will you trade with me, little scholar? Your world for mine?"

The decision is made before you even consciously form it.

“Yes."

For the first time, a change comes over his bony visage. It's not a smile, not in the conventional sense, but the flames in his eye sockets flare with a warmth that was absent before, a faint, internal glow. He gestures with one hand, an elegant, sweeping motion, toward the shadowed depths of the library.

"Come, then. Let us begin your lessons. And mine."

The nights that follow are a strange, wonderful blur. You find yourself in a secret chamber Talus reveals, hidden behind a shelf of astronomical charts. It's a circular room with a domed ceiling shifting to resemble a night sky dotted with constellations you've never seen. Books lie open on reading stands, their pages filled with breathtaking illustrations and spidery script.

You tell him everything. The mundane and the extraordinary. You describe the cacophony of a city market, the sweet cloying scent of rain on hot asphalt, the simple comfort of a cup of hot tea cradled in your hands. You talk of laughter, of tears, of the ache of muscles after a long walk, the sting of a paper-cut, the dizzying rush of falling in love. He listens, utterly still, silver pinprick eyes fixed upon you. Sometimes he'll ask a question, his voice a low hum that vibrates through the stone floor.

"And this…'goosebumps'…is it unpleasant?" or "Explain again the function of a 'yawn'."

In return, he shows you wonders. He unrolls a map that is not of land, but of the pathways between worlds. He opens a book that plays enchanting, celestial music upon the reader's mind. He shows you a single, perfect feather from an angel's wing, still humming with a power that makes your teeth itch.

Your friendship grows, deepens, stretching and filling the spaces between the towering shelves. You find yourself watching him: the way he moves with a careful, conscious grace, the way he'll lift tomes the size of tombstones as if they weigh nothing. You talk for hours, weaving a tapestry of the living world for him. You find yourself leaning closer when he speaks, drawn to the low resonance of his voice, to his cool, sterile scent of ancient dust and stone that clings to him.

One night, you're describing the sensation of a gentle breeze on a summer's day. You close your eyes, trying to find the words.

"It's like…a caress," you say softly. "It touches every bit of exposed skin, and it makes the hairs on your arms stand up, but it's a good feeling. It's…alive."

When you open your eyes, he is standing directly before you. He has moved without a sound. The lights of his make-believe eyes are intense, focused entirely on you.

"A caress," he repeats in a low rumble. He lifts a hand, not a finger, but the whole complex structure of his carpus and metacarpals, a constellation of bone held together by something more than sinew.

His hand hovers an inch from your cheek.

"May I?" he asks, the question barely a whisper. "I wish to learn."

You don't trust your voice, so you nod, a heavy, deliberate dip of your chin.

The touch is the most shocking thing you have ever experienced. It is not the bite of ice or metal, but a deeper chill, the absolute zero of a void where heat has never been. It's the temperature of a tomb, of deep space, of the spaces between stars. The delicate bones of his phalanges trace the line of your jaw with a sweet gentleness. A tremor runs through you, a violent shiver that has nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the sheer, impossible intimacy of the act.

He feels your reaction and stills.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks, a flicker of what you now recognize as concern in his tone.

"No," you breathe, the word catching in your throat. "No, it's just…intense."

He continues his exploration, the smooth, hard surface of his skeletal knuckles grazing your cheekbone, moving down to the smooth flesh of your chin. You lean into the touch, a silent encouragement. Living warmth against a frigid lifelessness that creates a strange, tingling energy where you meet. This is knowledge he cannot get from a book, a truth that can only be learned through sensation.

He is learning you.

His other hand comes up to mirror the first, framing your face. His thumbs, bare bone, brush against the sensitive skin just below your eyes, tracing the path your tears would take. "The flesh here is so soft," he murmurs, more to himself than to you. "A vessel for the soul's water."

His fascination is pure, academic, and yet it sets your blood on fire.

His touch drifts downward, one hand tracing the column of your throat, the bony ridges of his fingers mapping the frantic rhythm of your pulse. You swallow hard, and you feel the delicate bones of his fingers shift against your larynx. He can feel your life, your very essence, beating against his touch.

"A hummingbird's heart," he whispers, eyes fixed on your throat. "So fast. So fragile."

You are no longer thinking. You are only feeling. Surrounded entirely by the scent of ancient stone and the electric hum of forgotten magic. The preternatural silence of the library. The impossible reality of this beautiful, lonely creature of bone and starlight, who is touching you with a reverence that borders on worship.

His hands leave your throat and skim down, over your collarbones, to rest on the curve of your shoulders. He seems to be memorizing your form, not as an object of desire—not yet—but as a marvel of biological engineering. But the atmosphere is shifting. The academic curiosity is being slowly consumed by something else. A hungrier, more urgent need.

"Talus," you whisper, his name a prayer on your lips.

His head tilts, the cosmic firelight of his stare never leaving your face. "Yes?"

Your answer is not in words, but in action. You reach up and place your hands over his, your warm, living flesh covering the icy, intricate framework of bone. The contrast is stark, a dichotomy of life and death.

A deep hum vibrates from his chest, a sound of great discovery. He lets you guide one of his hands, your fingers twining with his skeletal ones, and you slowly, deliberately, draw it down from your shoulder, over the swell of your breast.

He gasps, a soft, hitching sound of air moving through a long-unused passage. His touch falters for a second before resuming, this time with a new intention. His bony fingers, so clumsy and awkward moments ago, now move with a purpose born of centuries of quiet observation. He traces the outline of your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt, the scrape of bone against the cloth sending a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core.

Your breath hitches. Your head falls back, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat. He takes this as an invitation, leaning closer, the cool air that emanates from him washing over your heated skin. His silver-lit sockets are like twin moons, luminous and utterly captivating.

His fingers find the peak of your nipple, already hardened into a tight bead. He circles it carefully, once, twice, the pressure light. Inquisitive. The sensation is maddeningly exquisite. It's not the touch of skin on skin, but something else, something sharper, more defined. You can feel every ridge, every contour of the bone structure that makes up his fingers, and it's an incredible, intricate, and deeply arousing texture.

"You like this," he states. It's not a question. He's observed the way your body arches into his touch, the gentle sigh that escapes your lips. He is a fast learner.

"Yes," you gasp out. "Gods, yes."

His other hand, which has been resting on your shoulder, begins its own descent.

He is exploring you now, mapping the terrain of your body with an avid focus. While one hand continues its torturous teasing of your breast, the other slides down your stomach, tracing the line of your ribs, counting them one by one with the tip of a single finger-bone. Each touch is a spark, a point of light in the darkness, and soon your entire body is a blaze of sensation.

He pauses at the waistband of your pants, his fingers hovering just above the fabric. He looks at you, searches your face, seeking permission. In that shimmering glow, you see a universe of questions, a loneliness so vast it threatens to swallow you both, and a dawning hope.

You answer him by reaching down yourself, your fingers fumbling with the button of your jeans, the small, metallic click echoing in the library. The zipper follows, a long, tantalizing rasp that sounds loud as a scream in the quiet.

Talus makes a low, groaning sound, a vibration that seems to resonate deep within your bones. He understands. He takes over, his skeletal fingers, with their surprising delicacy and precision, hooking into the waistband of your jeans and your underwear together. He pulls them down inch by inch, reverently, as if unwrapping a sacred artifact. The fabric gathers around your ankles, and you kick them away, leaving you bare from the waist down in the cool, ethereal light of his lantern.

You are exposed. Vulnerable. But the look on his skeletal face is not one of judgment, but of pure awe. He sinks to one knee before you, the bony joint making a dull click on the stone floor.

His gaze, if such a thing can be called a gaze, is fixed upon the curls and folds of flesh between your thighs.

"In all my millennia," he breathes, and the words are a rush of cold air against your heated skin, "I have read every text on anatomy, on physiology, on the art of love. I have seen a thousand illustrations, a thousand descriptions. But none…none of them prepared me for this. For the reality of you."

He reaches out a hand, and you brace yourself, your entire body tensing in anticipation. His fingers, long and slender, brush against the soft hair at your mound. The touch is light, experimental. Then, with a scholar's precision, he uses two fingers to gently part your outer folds.

You gasp, a sharp, ragged inhale. The cold is a shock, but it's a shock that quickly melts into a deep, spreading warmth. He is looking at you, truly looking at you, in a way no one ever has. There is no shame in it, only a deeply touching curiosity.

He traces the shape of you with a single finger, an exploratory journey from your entrance to the small, hidden pearl of your clit. When he finds it, he pauses. The pad of his finger-bone rests directly on the sensitive nub, and a jolt of pleasure shoots through you.

You cry out, a small, choked sound.

"Here," he murmurs, the word a discovery. "This is the nexus. The seat of sensation."

His touch becomes more confident. He begins to circle your clit, the hard, smooth bone moving in a calm, steady rhythm. The sensation is unlike anything you've ever felt. The chill of him against your heat creates a delicious friction that builds and builds and builds, a slow-burning fire that threatens to consume you. Your hips begin to move of their own accord, rocking against his hand, seeking more of that exquisite pressure.

You lean back against the reading stand; the hard wood digs into your back, but you barely feel it. All your awareness is centered on the point where his body meets yours in an embrace of bone and flesh.

He is a quick study. He changes the pressure, the speed, the pattern of his touch, observing your every reaction, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you moan, what makes your hands clench into fists at your sides. He watches your face, the way your lips part, your eyes flutter closed, the flush that spreads across your chest. He is learning the language of your pleasure, and he is a fluent student.

Then, he slides one long, slender finger inside you.

The world tilts on its axis. A frigid shock of intrusion, but a welcome one. He moves carefully, tenderly, exploring the slick, hot walls of your cunt. You are so wet for him, your arousal a stark, liquid proof of your desire. He curls his finger, and a new, deeper pleasure blooms within you. He finds that spot, the one that makes your vision white out at the edges.

"Talus," you moan, his name a broken thing on your lips.

He adds a second finger, stretching you, filling you. The two bony digits work in tandem, stroking that secret place inside you while the thumb of his other hand continues its maddening, perfect circles on your clit. The dual sensations are overwhelming. A coiling tension builds deep in your belly, a tightening spring that promises a violent, beautiful release.

You are completely undone. A creature of pure sensation, lost in a world of pleasure. The library, the knowledge, the loneliness—it all fades away, leaving only the two of you, suspended in a bubble of light and silence. You are a living text, and he is reading you, memorizing you.

And then, the spring snaps. Your orgasm crashes over you, a tidal wave of white-hot bliss that obliterates everything. Your back arches off the reading stand, a silent scream tearing from your throat. Your cunt clenches around his fingers, a desperate, rhythmic pulsing as wave after wave of pleasure wracks your body. It goes on and on, an eternity of perfect, shattering release, until you are left spent and trembling, a boneless heap against the hard wood.

For a long moment, there is only the sound of your ragged breathing, the frantic beating of your own heart. Talus remains kneeling before you, his fingers still buried deep inside you. His eye sockets pulse with a new, fierce light. He looks…awestruck. Reverent.

"I felt that," he whispers, his voice filled with a profound, earth-shattering wonder. "The convulsions. The heat. The…life of it." He withdraws his fingers delicately, thoughtful, slick with your essence, and gleaming in the light. He stares at them, then lifts them to his face, as if to inhale your scent.

You watch him, chest heaving, body still humming with the aftershocks of your release. You have never felt so seen, so cherished, so completely and utterly known.

And in that moment, you want more. You want to give him everything, to bridge the chasm between your worlds, to fuse your life with his death until you are one being. You want to feel him inside you, not just his fingers, but all of him. You want to share your life, your very soul with this lonely, beautiful creature of the night.

You reach for him, your hands finding the sharp planes of his cheekbones. You pull him down to you, your lips seeking his.

But there are no lips to meet yours, only the hard, unyielding line of his teeth. You press your mouth against him, a desperate kiss against a silent, smiling skull. You pour all your love, all your longing, all your desire into that kiss.

He lets you, a passive observer to your passion. He doesn't pull away, but he doesn't respond either. He is a statue, a monument to the dead, and you are a fleeting, foolish moth, beating your wings against the rigid stone.

When you finally pull back, panting, your eyes searching his, you see the truth in the silver of his gaze. It is a truth you have known all along, but have refused to acknowledge.

"No," he says, a low, mournful hum. "We cannot."

The words are a death knell. A final, shattering pronouncement.

"Why?" you whisper, the word torn from the depths of your soul. "Why not?"

He rises, the bony joints of his knees clicking smoothly. He stands over you, a grim and solitary figure in the dying light of his lantern.

"The living and the dead," he says, and the words are a fundamental law of the universe, as immutable as the passage of the stars. "There are…boundaries. Lines that should not be crossed. I have crossed one tonight, touching you as I have. To go further would be a violation. A profanity."

He turns away from you, gazing up at the dome of night sky filled with unfamiliar constellations. False moonbeams stream in, bathing his skeletal frame in pale light.

"I am a creature of dust, of memory. You are a creature of blood and breath. We can share knowledge, we can share moments, we can even share this…fleeting, beautiful connection. But we cannot be together. Not in the way you wish. It is not our nature."

You’re left standing there, half-naked and trembling, your heart a raw, bleeding wound in your chest. The pleasure has fled, leaving only an aching emptiness. The library, once a place of solace and wonder, now feels like a tomb.

The silence is no longer a comfort, but a condemnation.

You slowly redress, your movements stiff and awkward. You can feel his eyes on you, a silent, sorrowful witness to your despair. When you are fully clothed, you turn to face him one last time.

"Goodbye, Talus," you say, your voice flat.

"Goodbye, little scholar," he replies, and the lights in his sockets seem to dim, as if a star has just gone out in a distant galaxy.

You turn and walk away, footsteps echoing in the vast emptiness of your heart.

You do not look back. You walk out of the secret chamber, through the towering stacks of forgotten lore, and out of the library.

The morning light is a brutal, unforgiving glare after the gentle glow of the library. The world is loud and chaotic and indifferent to your pain. You are just another face in the crowd, another soul lost in the whirlwind of life.

But you are not the same person you were when you entered the library.

Forever changed. Forever marked.

You will go on. You will live. You will learn. But a part of you will remain in the library, a ghost in the stacks, a whisper in the silence. You will bear the memory of Talus, the creature of starlit ivory, in your heart, a precious, painful secret.

Never to forget his touch, the feel of his skeletal embrace, the knowledge that in the heart of that sacred place, you were seen, and you were loved.

They all have a side to them that's scary in general, especially when they are feeling protective. However, only a few of them are initially scary to begin with!!

Red: He, by his world's standards, isn't the scariest. He doesn't even try to be scary on the surface either, since he's too lazy. However, he noticed that to humans, he seems scary. He sometimes does this to mess with humans, even you at times. (Though, it's always lighthearted and teasing.) When in public, he is casual with you, but he's aware that people will leave you alone more likely if you're with him. He tends to linger closer when he sees you're nervous, brushing it off with a tease. He won't push you too much, though, and he'll let you grab onto his hoodie when nervous. He might forget that he's scary at times though, which can lead to funny things happening

Pitch: He was scary in the underground, and he's scary on the surface. He knows he's scary, and this either greatly benefits him or greatly inconveniences him. When he's with you, he's always on high alert, and you'll be able to tell. He, with your permission of course, will tend to keep a hand on your shoulder if he can help it or ask that you stand close. He might make you feel embarrassed if someone bothers you and he demands that they apologize, but overall he has your back.

Carmine: With a slightly more intense energy, he's hyper aware of his scary dog privileges. He demands authority when walking into a room, and he is aware of the eyes that may linger on him. He may be more gentle and attentive with you, but that wouldn't show in public. He rarely would show PDA, or get distracted when you're around. Any time with him that wouldn't involve being high alert would only be on rare occasions like date night, but he's very aware of everything around him and he's okay with being that way for you

Rus: Much quieter and more relaxed, his scary dog privileges never fully turn off. He's naturally scary due to his height and appearance, even if he wasn't too intense for his underground's standard. He's quieter than Red, too, so that just adds on. He likes to stare at others and likes to drape himself around you, whether in public or not. He may not be the worst, but he's one of them

Razz: loud, demanding, and scary, he's like Carmine in a different way. Carmine is quiet in his intimidation, but Razz revels and preens in being more scary. He grows more humble, of course, but... Well, the moment he's aware he scared someone off for you, you won't see him stop smiling. He likes messing with others, to make them uncomfortable while smiling, even if you tell him not to. He can't help it!

Cash: He knows he looks intimidating, and he's aware that he's judged. Like Rus, he also is very clingy in different ways. He's louder, more sarcastic, and he likes to scare people to amuse himself. When he knows he's also conveniently protecting you, he never lets you out of his sight and he's quieter about his protectiveness. He won't outright tell you what he's doing, or cause a scene, but you can trust that he will deal with whoever bothers you.

Wine: Just naturally intimidating compared to the others, he's even more authoritative compared to anyone else. He preens in his intimidation, but he's humble about it and he can be polite. His scary dog privileges are quieter, but stronger under that thin veil of nice behavior. He won't ever let you see him act that way, though, because he's a gentleman and you don't need to worry your little head about things. He'll deal with whoever bothers you, don't worry!

Saint: He doesn't like being scary. He knows he is, though. It protected him underground, and he feels that lingering insecurity when he DOES get stares. However, he never voices them. He may get more irritable, though. He lingers around you, always on alert. He tries to make sure you can tell he's comfortable with laughing and joking, but he's sarcastic and rude with anyone that's annoying or bothering you. He's not above verbal threats, and he's open to fighting easily. To say the least, if you're afraid to go somewhere, he's wonderful to have since he's quieter and one of the most scary.

Lunar: he's tall, scary, and yet he doesn't like it. He really wishes that he didn't look so...like him. Nonetheless, even if he's polite and kind, he's aware that he's intimidating. He avoids trying to make himself look scary, which makes you and him feel a little braver when you encourage each other to feel less insecure. However, there would be occasions he doesn't let you see his expression when he's...protective. He won't vocalize it, but his aura and appearance alone is enough to ward people away

The fields outside the city stretched for miles, grass illuminated as it waved in the wind, making the expanse shine. The great mountain housed the small cabin of a rogue Reaper. He lived alone, he worked alone.

You heard many stories about the creature, curious as to what it looked like. No one, save the dead, ever actually saw the being. You assumed he was a spirit, like a ghoul, more spectral than anything else. Possibly glowing so he could see where he was going in the dark.

You laughed softly at the thought, erasing stray lines from your sketch of the spectrum. You imagined he would look like he was rotting, then you imagined he would look gaseous.

Basically, there were too many possibilities, and you tried to draw them all.

You sighed and set the sketchbook aside. A scramble of different elements clashing horribly in line art alone.

"Ugh... I need to take a break..." You huffed, upset. You walked out on the town. City lights blinded the night, scaring the stars from the sky leaving a blank, dark blanket of nothing. The sounds of traffic and loud, bass heavy music drowned out the natural sounds of nature. It upset you even more than your lack of inspiration.

You grabbed your motor bike and aimed for the great woods where the reaper was said to live. You got on to the highway, riding silently, your thoughts wandering. The loud blare of vehicle horns broke your thoughts. You flinched, looking up at the blinding headlights of an oncoming truck. You screamed before everything went silent.

You awoke with a start, screaming and shooting upright, looking around to find yourself in a small, wooden cabin. The furnishings were comfortable and simple. The home looked barely lived in. The bed you laid in was neat and small, soft covers in shades of minty green ensconced you.

You stood slowly, dropping the sheets around you, wondering if it was all just a dream.

The room around you held many recently used items. Mangas strewed a messy desk, half of them you couldn't read the titles of, the other half you could tell the contents of just by seeing the bare women on their covers.

You snickered to yourself, reaching to take one of the hentai mangas.

"Oh, you're awake." A voice said monotonously. The voice made you drop the book.

"Who said that?" You asked as you spun, looking for the source. A tall cloaked figure stood in the faint candle light of the cabin. His hood covered his face, large skeletal wings folded neatly behind him. You gasped softly, stepping back, panicking.

"Oh my god, what are you!?" You shrieked.

"Calm down, or I'm kicking you out." He warned, walking past you and making the bed you mindlessly unraveled.

"W-what are you though...?" You asked again. He scoffed quietly, peeling his hood back and looking at you. The lights in his skull focused on you, the cracks running down his cheeks glowed faintly with the souls of those he's captured trapped in an eternity flowing as a personal magic through his bones.

"I'm a reaper." He answered simply, folding his arms. You studied him, pursing your lips slightly. He stared at you, silent, growing impatient.

"I gotta say, I'm disappointed." You admitted.

"By what?" He frowned.

"You're so simple..." You sighed. The Reaper raised his uncanny and expressive brow at your statement, his wings twitching.

"Simple?"

"You're just a skeleton! I was hoping for whisps and colors and... well... complexity." You explained. He shook his head slowly, walking past you. You could hear a ghostly chuckle as he passed you. A shine of emerald green flitted through the room, the source behind you making odd noises.

"How is this then?" He asked. You turned and stood stunned, finding the tall skeleton changed into a sickly green, flesh dropping undead. You flinched, stepping away.

"I prefer the other form..." You whined. He changed back, the flash blinding you, hiding his transformative secrets from you.

"You can call me Mako," He opened the dark wooden door for you, gesturing outside, "I can take you home." You remembered what you thought you had dreamt.

"Wait, did the truck actually hit me?" You finally asked. Mako smirked, closing the door.

"I thought you had forgotten. Yes. You were hit. Your soul is pretty powerful, though. I didn't find it fit to take it from you." He seemed unfazed by the whole situation. You wondered if he did this often, and if so, why?

"O...kay... do you know where I live?" You changed the subject. Mako leaned on the wall, glancing at the frame beside him. He took a moment to fix it before answering you.

"I don't... I took you from your funeral."

"Then why would you take me home?"

"You're going to your new home. Ilfalia." He took his scythe, bracing it before your neck. You gulped, leaning away from the cold metal, "If you don't want to go there, I could always take you myself."

"M-maybe we could work something out? I-I like it here...." You muttered. Mako paused, lowering his scythe.

"Y-you do..?" He asked. You watched his stone, mental wall crack at that statement.

"O-of course... It's really nice here." You reiterated. Mako looked you over, spying the table of books behind you. He smirked and snapped his fingers.

"Then I have a proposal for you."

"Name it."

"You can stay if you reenact my books with me." He offered. You knew exactly what he meant, blushing and pointing at the dark robes on his body.

"C-can you even do any of that?" You asked. Mako nodded, a wide smile stretching his skull. He pulled his robe off and showed you exactly what his captured souls did for him. He manipulated the deep green, almost liquid substance to exit from his fingers, coiling it on his back and on the front of his pelvis.

Lengthy, slimy tendrils whipped from his back, gripping your wrists and raising you into the air. He hummed and toyed with the sensitive piece at his base.

"What do you prefer? Long or thick?" He smirked. Your mind was blanking, you couldn't believe what this creature of death was doing to you.

"I... I don't..."

"Aw, blanking? Hehe, I'll just do both~" He decided, molding his piece into the perfect size for you. He took your hips and lulled his long green tongue out of his sharp jaw, licking up your body as he thrust roughly into you.

You gasped, his large piece stretching you as he pushed himself in without hesitation. His tentacles trailed down your stomach, teasing your clit and entering your behind. You struggled against the feeling, uncomfortable with the tentacle writhing in your crevice. You let a choked moan when he pulled back and slammed back in, grunting happily.

He dropped you onto him, chuckling at your squeaking reactions. His motions were harsh and unforgiving on your tender pussy. His appendage slipped deeper into your behind, writhing. You grit your teeth and arched, pressing against his rib cage.

"Oh? Do you like that..~?" He chuckled bouncing you harder. You mewed sweetly.

"Y-yes! Yes, I love it! Ahhh..." You broke, begging for more.

Mako laid you down in his bed and railed you like no other. His long, iridescent tongue hung out of his mouth. His heavy, lustful breaths brushing your neck. You stared into his deep darkened depths, watching his green flames flicker over your body, watching every creamy inch bounce under him.

"M-mako...! I-I'm gonna come..." You panted, arching and tightening as the waves of heat crashed over you. Mako groaned loudly, releasing his reaper liquid into you. His strange, effective biology driving you to the most intense orgasm you could remember, stealing your thoughts and catching your breath.

When your mind returned, Mako was collapsed beside you, his wings twitching. You glanced at him, panting, smiling.

"You alright?" You asked with a light laugh. He nodded silently, face down in his pillows.

"I don't want to move..." He muttered.

"I can't feel my legs, haha." You snickered, rolling onto your side and wrapping an arm around him.

"Good." He huffed, his body relaxed to the point of paralysis. You hummed and dragged your finger along his spine.

"Mind if I sleep here?"