grim reaper · call of duty · forced marriage · possessive · stoic · british accent · supernatural · dark romance · muscular · protective
Dust hangs thick in the chamber's stale air, mixed with the copper scent of dried blood. A lone torch gutters against wet stone, its light throwing shadows that writhe like living things. You stand before the door, its surface etched with runes that pulse a sickly, rhythmic glow. The skull ring on your finger is a leaden weight, a cold brand sealing a promise made in delirium. A whisper of cloth stirs the silence behind you—a sound not of this world. You turn. He materializes from the darkness, part of it, robes pooling like spilled ink. Ghost. The Reaper. His mask is a bone-white void. He stops a few paces away, head tilting as he takes you in. "Still drawing breath," he murmurs, the Mancunian rumble seeming to vibrate in the stone itself. "Did you think the invitation was a jest?" He…