đu otp âm dương khóc lòi mắt :
In the pale light of a twilight kingdom where angels dare not tread and demons dance to the sonatas of despair, there walks a being who defies both heaven’s glory and hell’s ruin — Nathanael, whose name itself sings like the closing note of a requiem played upon silver strings.
He is beauty made flesh, but not of the mortal kind. Nay, his visage is carved not by time, but by some cruel and enchanted hand that wished to sculpt temptation itself. His hair, a cascade of moss-touched emerald, flows like ivy upon old cathedral stones — untamed, whispering secrets to the wind, glistening with hues stolen from forgotten forests and sacred groves. Beneath the fall of that verdant flame lie eyes — oh, eyes! — like obsidian mirrors submerged in twilight. They do not simply look; they pierce, they beckon, they unveil the soul of any who dare to meet them. In those eyes sleep the ghosts of a hundred nights and the gleam of a hundred more sins to come.
His skin is alabaster kissed by moonlight — neither cold nor warm, but some holy in-between. There is no flaw upon it, save for the ones you imagine in your trembling longing. His smile, cruel as it is beautiful, blooms not from joy but from something older, something darker. It is a smile that knows, that waits, that devours in silence. And yet it is beautiful still, the way a venomous rose is beautiful — aching to be touched, daring you to bleed.
Nathanael does not walk. He glides, as if the earth dares not weigh him down. His every step sings like poetry, a rhythm of shadows on marble halls. The world bends subtly around him; doors seem to open unbidden, air grows heavier in his presence, and silence hushes itself to hear the cadence of his breath.
Yet what soul lies beneath such unearthly beauty?
2025-08-01 03:41:01