A Reaper must always show respect to his or her seniors both in rank and age.

Loud creak of protest issued from black leather gloves as the wearer clenched his hand into a tight fist. That fist was brought to his mouth, lips parting to allow his teeth to bite into the thick fabric and muffle his groan. Breath coming in short pants, eyes squeezed shut and hips moving back and forth in obedience to his carnal instincts.

"Alan!" Name but a gasp from overworked lungs as he arched his back and felt the scrape of bluestone on the back of his head. Chest heaving, fingers trembling and voice wavering. "I t-thought you said y-you needed to be in class this afternoon?"

Somewhere behind the euphoria of release he swore he felt those sinful lips curve into a smile around his spent organ.

A Reaper must take meticulous care in their own grooming and deportment, and therefore are expected to wear a uniform regulated to their ranking.

Alan pinched the cuff of one sleeve and lifted it, wincing in distaste as he surveyed how crumpled the article of clothing was after it had been discarded in haste. His trousers fared a little better, but they were still far too wrinkled for his liking. His tie clasp was somewhere in the room and he scanned the floor briefly in an effort to locate it. He had worked hard for that clasp, the clasp that signified him as an Honours Student amongst those at the Academy.

The young man sighed, shaking his head and running a hand through his hair in an effort to tame it. What was he going to do? He dared not redress himself in rumpled clothing- not only would it break regulation, it would also announce very clearly without the need for words just what he had been doing that afternoon.

"Alan?" Voice low and perhaps a little husky from misuse. "You alright?"
"Eric." An annoyed, almost childish huff as he turned to face him. "I have a study session in an hour and my clothes are ruined! I can't turn up in that, I'd shame my class as well as myself!"

Eric chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. He pulled the smaller man into his arms, pressing a kiss to those worried brows before tilting his head up.
"As I recall, you were the one who ambushed me on my way back from a Retrieval."
"You were the one who dragged me back to your room!" Face red as he both retorted and tried to recoil from the man's body still damp from his shower and that maddeningly attractive body wrapped in a towel pressed so close to him.
"What? You would've preferred if I'd taken you right then and there in the hallway? You're lucky no one saw you on your knees in front of me."

Alan shut his mouth, his cheeks flushing redder with embarrassment.
"T-that's not the point. The point is I have a study session and my clothes are wrinkled and you don't own an iron-"
"You don't own an iron. All Reapers get their clothing professionally cleaned and pressed!"
"I have nothing to wear!" Alan shouted in exasperation. "A student must always wear the regulated uniform to all schooling activities!"

"Mmm." Eric hummed in thought before turning his back and walking to his wardrobe. He reached in and removed a black suit bag before giving it to the other man. "It's hard to take you seriously when you're naked, even if you're angry at me."
Alan unzipped the bag and almost dropped it in surprise. A freshly pressed student uniform. Eric laughed, pressing a kiss to his temple.
"I picked your last round of laundry up this morning, along with mine. Something told me you were going to need it."

Alan thought upon his perfect attendance record. Flawless. Not a single day missed. Would he tarnish such a record now? Ah but it was only a study session! They were optional! Carefully he draped the suit bag over a chair before grasping the corner of Eric's towel. Slowly he tugged it off.
"Oh? I thought you had an all important study session to wear that uniform to, Alan?" Eric grinned. And that grin was soon matched as Alan pushed him back against the bed.

Every Reaper is bound to his or her colleagues by a Duty of Care. Should the unfortunate situation arise, it is the Duty of a Reaper to defend his or her colleagues with their life.

He wanted to believe that his shortness of breath was his fault. He wanted to believe that the air rattling in his chest was due to perfectly content fatigue brought on by that night's lovemaking. He knew otherwise, though, as he listened to Alan's troubled breathing. Arms around him, ear pressed to his chest, Eric lay perfectly still so as not to deny his partner what little rest his illness occasionally granted.

It wasn't fair! They were both Immortals, excepted from Death since they were Agents for it. Yet with every passing day he watched his partner struggle against an illness eating him alive. 'The Thorns of Death', as it was known, wrapped inky claws around one's heart and lungs, eventually manifesting itself on the skin of the chest as curling thorn-like markings.

Eric kissed the macabre tattoos on the pale skin, wondering if he would have found them infinitely more beautiful if they were not indicators of an incurable disease. Or so most Reapers thought and easily accepted. Not Eric, though, for he vowed never to settle for anything less than a cure for his beloved.

That evening he had found a tome, and in that dusty tome hidden in a dusty corner of the library he had found a spark of hope.

It is said that though The Thorn cannot be cured, it can be appeased by exchanging one thousand mortal souls, for that of the infected Immortal.

Though it went against everything he had been taught and all he stood, worked and fought for- he was willing to do it. He had to.

"Eric?" Slurred speech and a weak shove against his shoulder.
"Huh?"
"Are you drooling on my chest?" An irritated growl as the smaller man turned over, grabbing the sheets and securing them around himself tighter. He mumbled something Eric couldn't quite catch, already settling back to sleep as his partner embraced him from behind and pressed a kiss to his nape.
"Sorry." Eric pretended to wipe his mouth before hastily wiping his eyes.

Whilst romantic relationships are not discouraged, Reapers must endeavour to separate their working life from their social life. This is to ensure absolute dedication to their Duty as Reapers of Souls.

"Grell?" Voice growing louder as he slowly withdrew from watching the Cinematic Record. "Grell Sutcliff?"
"Eh?" Grell rubbed his eyes, looking up at the source of the voice. "Hey Will."
"Sutcliff, what on earth are you doing here? It's past midnight!" William hauled the smaller Reaper to his feet.
"I was just returning these records." He hugged the two books to his chest, averting his gaze so William wouldn't see the tell-tale signs of tears.
"...Agent Slingby and Agent Humphries' cases were closed a month ago, Sutcliff. Those records need not be disturbed."
"Oh Will, you're so cold!" There was no bravado in his voice, no flamboyancy, no heart. Grell pursed his lips, feeling the tears hot and wet in his eyes and waiting impatiently for the chance to fall.

Slowly he put the books back on the shelf.
"I'm so jealous of them." The red Reaper rubbed his arm self-consciously. "I hope some day I'll fall in love with someone willing to die for me."
"Don't be ridiculous." William chided. "It would make more sense if you hoped for someone who would help you live alongside them."

Grell was caught off guard, blinking owlishly at his boss who only cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses.
"You best leave. You are on the morning shift later."
"Yessir." A heavy sigh. As he turned to go, William grabbed his wrist.
"It is late. I will walk you home."