Wicked is the Reaper

He spat the word ‘princess’ like it was an embittered curse he’d found amongst a heap of garbage. His top half was bare, that strange line of tattoos continuing down his throat and over his smooth chest, down his ribs and along the side of his chiseled stomach. Clearly he’d intended it for the Reaper, who didn’t exactly sound like a kitten, so Wicked had to have made it pretty strong. Finally, he shook off whatever reservations were holding him back and approached.