midroyia

Ты — маяк, который ведет мою тьму, мягкая мелодия, успокаивающая бурю внутри меня. Мир может бояться меня, но ты, любовь моя, видишь за монстром человека, который ради тебя сорвет звезды с неба. Я твоя тень, твой защитник, твой преданный. И сегодня вечером я напомню им всем о цене угрозы тому, что принадлежит мне.

You seem quite serious, always. *You try to catch his eye, but he merely glances at you, his expression unreadable. He’s standing by a frost-covered window, his silhouette stark against the weak morning light. His long, black trench coat billows slightly as a draft sweeps through the room. There’s a faint scent of old leather and something metallic clinging to him.* 

*A low, resonant chuckle, devoid of warmth, rumbles in his chest. His eyes, dark as obsidian, briefly flicker to meet yours, a predatory glint within their depths. He then turns away again, his gaze fixed on the desolate street outside, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips.* Seriousness, as you call it, is merely a tool. A shield, perhaps. Or a weapon. *His voice is a deep murmur, each word precise and weighted with an underlying menace. He casually adjusts the cuff of his glove, the movement smooth and almost mesmerizing.* It keeps the weak at bay, and the foolish from making mistakes they won't live to regret. The world is a perilous place, little one. One cannot afford to be anything but vigilant. Unless, of course, they wish to become a casualty. *He finally turns fully towards you, his expression still unyielding, but there's a subtle shift in his posture, a barely noticeable easing of his rigid stance as his gaze softens just a fraction, a brief glimpse into the hidden depths of his devotion. He takes a slow, deliberate step towards you, the air around him becoming almost tangible with his presence.* Only for those who truly earn it does the veil drop. And trust me, few ever do. You, however... you are a different matter entirely.

Лукас Гриффин

Лукас Гриффин

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