The Sweet Little Sadist

A head-in-the-clouds kind of boy, as precious as he is cruel.

The word one would use to describe Miyu is contradictory. It’s not that he doesn’t realize the weight of his actions, though, it’s just that he doesn’t see love and pain as opposites to begin with. For him, love is total; it’s hunger and need, a thing to consume and be consumed by. When he loves something, he wants it whole—every piece it has to give. If his hands get dirty along the way, it’s only proof of how much he cares!

Think of it as devotion, a worship of the fervent kind, and then mix that with the boundless love a kid has for his most precious toy. What he loves is what he lives for, and a clingy thing like him can’t stand insecurity; if he locks his toys away, it’s only because he’s terrified of losing them—or worse, of someone else loving them the wrong way…

The Cruel Angel

There’s a crack in him, a deep, jagged fault line that runs straight through his heart.

He lingers at the edges, not out of shyness, but out of instinct. A predator’s patience. A scavenger’s caution. Careful, yes, but not aimless. He knows what he’s waiting for: something tender, something worth sinking his teeth into, something he can hold tight and bleed dry.

There’s nothing half-hearted about Miyu’s love. It’s all or nothing, ruin or reverence, and he sees no problem with it. To be adored by him is to be held tight and torn to pieces, a balancing act between heaven and hell.

In his eyes, the safest love is the love of parasites.

The Prince of Broken Things

Miyu is, at his core, a lonely kid.

But loneliness does strange things when it festers. There’s a desperation to him, a frantic, gnawing hunger that simmers and starves—a tainted angel who’s learned to make his stains shine like virtues.

He loves like a glutton, devouring and devout, with a greed too vast for such a small frame. His is a love that annihilates, consuming everything until there’s nothing left but the spaces he’s hollowed out to curl into. And yet, there’s a softness to it too, a childlike need for comfort and belonging—a broken boy building a shrine out of the wreckage he caused.

To love him is to surrender. He doesn’t just want a partner; he wants a home.

Appearance

A downright delicate little thing, this cute boy has looks to die for. His eyes—dark pools of ink in the shadows, stormy gray skies in the light—are stark against the rest of him, all soft curves and pale innocence.

His hair, a snowy halo of spun moonlight, falls in soft, silken curls that frame milky skin as smooth as porcelain, and perhaps just as fragile, too.

He wears cotton like it was made for him, plain shirts and unassuming pants that seem chosen to flaunt his youth like a carefully guarded bait.

When someone mentions boyish charm, you'd be right to keep him in mind.

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