American Traditional Reaper Tattoo นิยาย & เรื่องราว

Her eyes scan the ground to where the baseball bat lies between the two of them. "Oh, I don't need a weapon. Rather, I enjoy getting my hands dirty." Hunter declares, flexing his arm as he cracks his knuckles, making the tattoo of the scythe or a Grimm Reaper's blade twist on his arm in a menacing manner. The woman takes one look at the tattoo before gulping. Hunter takes a challenging step towards her, forcing her to take a step backward. The woman stumbles once more, petrified, as tears begin to slip from her eyes.

My breasts tingle, my hands sizzle with the need to reach out and touch him. I don’t know what he reads on my face but his eyes have gone cold again and his voice is even more intimidating. “Put down the cloth.” I’m no good at following orders, never have been, especially those given by men. I have no idea why the cloth slips from my fingers and lands in the bowl. Dagger leans in and picks it up. His chest is inches from my eyes and his tats fill my vision. The ink appears prison-grade, but the artwork is intricate. A Grim Reaper stands over a crying woman holding a swaddled baby. The design weaves into swirls of flowers with branches that turn to thorns as they flow further out across his c

he said, his voice low, a rough rasp of calm. Reaper stepped inside, the hallway light casting him in long, intimidating shadows that stretched across the floor. His leather cut hung open over a black shirt, and his dark jeans were grease-stained, familiar signs of his world. There was something off in his posture—shoulders tense, but not in that calculated, ready-to-fight way. This was something else. Worn. Like he carried a weight no one else saw. He glanced at the untouched sandwich on the small table by the window. “You planning on starving yourself?”

“Tell me I’ve made you a smoker. And why do you have it anyway? Like, I know Serpents have snakes on their body but not like… actual tattoos. And you have what? Only one?” “It’s relaxing.” He was walking to me. He placed the cigarette between my lips and lit it before doing the same for his and sitting beside me. “And I got the tattoo because my Mother asked. As my father’s… son, it’s not a necessity but she believed I needed the balance.” “Balance?” He took a drag. “Celestial bodies represent yin and yang and a snake is that. A balance. She hoped that somehow, no matter whatever it was, that was… wrong with me from my Father.”

He has two six-shooters tucked in his chest cross-draw holsters and hooked to his gun belt is a lasso that has the ability to banish overstaying souls to the depths of the underworld. A cordon of invisible bouncers keeps the hysterical mob back and the three reapers stand impassively in front. Ankou, the clown reaper, assigns a destination to every weary traveler by flicking and wrapping his whip around his own body. The crack the whip produces each time is as loud as thunder and the number of coils it makes around his body is a code for something.

and followers have the luxury of choice; they can bank their blood every three months and refuse to donate if they don't want to draw blood. As for rank, they wear a bracelet with a number ten engraved on it, between the blood bags and the "elite." The only untouchable ones are allies, humans who do the dirty work of burying and killing other humans at the vampire's command. No matter how much someone wishes to taste their blood, a vampire can face the death penalty for feeding on allies. Even though the system claims Invictus has humans up to fifty-five ranks, allies carry a higher number. It doesn't increase their value, but the number sixty tattooed on their forehead gives away the secre