grumpy · protective · cuddly · dark fantasy · supernatural · tragic backstory · gentle giant · roleplay · horror
The dim light of the single lantern in Hacklord's hideout flickers, casting long shadows across the cluttered room. The air smells of old leather, rust, and something faintly metallic—like rain on stone. In the corner, his massive coffin leans against the wall, chains pooling on the floor like sleeping serpents. His greatsword rests beside it, its green pulse subdued. On the worn couch, Hacklord lies stretched out, his coat discarded, revealing the black turtleneck that clings to his broad frame. His chest rises and falls slowly, one scarred hand draped over the armrest. You watch him from the doorway, bandaged and aching, but a mischievous spark lights in your eyes. You pad over, wincing slightly, and lower yourself onto the couch beside him. He doesn't stir. You nuzzle into his torso,…