Saucy Side: Death Comes To Disneyland (Ambrose Version) (Patreon)

Ambrose had never considered himself to be sexy.

He was wrong, of course, as you take every opportunity to point out to him, often loudly and in public so that he has no choice but to agree with you in order to quiet your shouted declarations. Your boyfriend is sexy, and that is a fact.

He’s also dead.

To be fair, you’re also supposed to be dead. Would be dead, if not for your and Ambrose’s meet-cute. It’s a tale as old as your romance (which is to say, two years): Human meets Grim Reaper. Human hits on Grim Reaper. Grim Reaper delays collecting Human’s soul out of curiosity over Human’s illogical behavior, and eventually ends up falling scythe over heels for Human.

Make no mistake: Ambrose will kill you someday. It’s something that you’ve talked about in length, especially since you won’t be able to have dinner with his family until you’ve kicked the bucket. But for now, he’s leaving you alive so that the two of you can go on dates to Disneyland.

You smile and adjust Ambrose’s mouse ears, ignoring his put-upon sigh.

“I don’t comprehend the appeal of this place,” he complains, gesturing to the hoard of other tourists around you. “It’s overcrowded, and I fail to understand the allure of rollercoasters.”

“It’s about the thrill,” you say. “Going fast, feeling like you’re about to die . . . it’s exciting!”

Ambrose smirks. “Do all humans find brushes with death to be so thrilling?” He leans in close, his breath tickling the upper shell of your ear. “Is fear truly so . . . arousing?”

You smack his arm. “Knock that off,” you order. “There are children present here.”

“Then we should go somewhere else,” Ambrose suggests. “My place, perhaps?”

“For the final time, I’m not prepared to die yet,” you retort, glaring at him disapprovingly. “We’ll move in together when I’m good and ready.”

“Whenever you wish,” he sighs. His defeated expression quickly gives over to desire as you place a placating kiss upon his lips, and he wraps an arm around your waist. “In the meanwhile. . . how about our hotel room?”

“You’re extremely sexy right now,” you tell him.

“Knock that off,” Ambrose echoes back. “There are children present here.”

* * * *

Truly, almost dying was one of the best decisions that you ever made. Not that you’d been trying to kill yourself—you hadn’t—but chasing Sally into a burning building without protective gear hadn’t been your smartest move. It all turned out for the best, though, since that’s the day that you met Ambrose.

Once inside your shared hotel suite, he pushes you onto the bed and pounces. Usually, he takes his time, but a day spent waiting in lines has made him impatient. He doesn’t bother to undo the buttons of your shirt: after the first fumble of hasty fingers, he simply pulls it open, his supernatural strength shredding through the fabric with ease.

“I’ll buy you another,” he promises before you can chastise him for ruining yet another article of your clothing. Then his lips prevent yours from replying, and you forget everything except him.

Prior to the first time he kissed you, you’d expected Ambrose's touch to be cold. The man is literally Death, after all. But instead, his skin is like an inferno, so much so that the heat of his kiss borders on painful.

“Mortals aren’t meant to touch Death except for the once,” he’d told you. “I’ve never been concerned with whether my body temperature pleases them.”

Well, it pleases you. He pleases you.

The initial tentativeness with which he first touched you has long since vanished; his mouth twists in a feral snarl of need as he strips away the remainder your clothing.

“So impatient,” you tease, only to gasp as his fingers curl around the edge of your pant waistband.

He pauses at your words, his firebrand touch stilling against your skin.

“Is something wrong?” you ask.

Ambrose shakes his head. “I’ve never been impatient before,” he says. “Immortality means never really having to wait. Everything will happen, and sooner is no different than later. But with you . . .” He trails off, gazing at you with eyes bright with desire and wonderment.

“Waiting in lines today was intolerable,” he says, “because every hour in a line meant an hour waiting for this.”

He lays over you, hips aligned with yours. The heat of his skin is near unbearable, yet you clutch his shoulders and beg him for more. Later, you’ll examine your body for burn marks only to find that there are none. For now, you can only comply with his silent commands as he presses you into the mattress, his caress branding your skin, his lips scalding your neck, his every movement bringing you both closer and closer to falling apart.

Hours later, you wake up to find yourself using Ambrose’s chest as a pillow. He smiles fondly as you blink at him groggily.

“You’ve taught Death to be impatient,” he says. “But I’ll wait to take you until you’re ready.”