Angus Finnegan

There wasn’t even the slightest chance of denying his angelic features, though they were tainted by his awful expression; he was seemingly frozen in a constant state of acrimony. His light blond hair fell gracefully like a waterfall of silken strands, framing his face recklessly, his hair a disoriented mess. His fringe dusted over his brow precariously, a filmy veil screening his dark brows, which were sculpted into thin arches; both knotted at the center in annoyance. His eyes were a stunning shade of icy blue, a piercing glint of contempt ever present in their depths. His eyes barren of all but malice were framed beautifully by his long dark lashes. The features of his face were all rather sharp, his nose, cheekbones and jaw all held a certain, aristocratic air to them. His skin was a light powder peach colour, flawlessly distributed across his person. His skin felt of the softest satin; even a newborn with no real comprehension of thought and emotions would look upon him jealously. Lips of the lightest pink graced his face, devoid of cracks. The corners of his mouth turned down, his lip curling in obvious distaste; had he smiled he would’ve exposed a barricade of snow-white teeth, aligned in perfect symmetry.



His neck was drawn out but without looking abnormal, it ran delicately into his collarbone and broad shoulders, hidden beneath his white button up.  His white cotton shirt was ruffled nonchalantly; the two first buttons left undone, displaying more of the creamy skin at the base of his neck. His green tie was knotted carelessly, hanging loosely round his throat. Held by a black leather belt, done tightly around his thin waist, he wore black polyester pants, running sublimely down the frame of his long, powerful legs. His posture looked somehow relaxed and careless whilst also appearing formal and refined.



The scent that wafted off of him was sweet, almost floral but retaining an overtly masculine train to it, even his breath withheld a delicious scent. When he spoke his voice carried like a song through the air, every word held such power albeit, spoken softly. His tone was light, yet serious and his speech unwaveringly eloquent. The boy seemed to be a walking contradiction, so profoundly resembling an angel whilst occupying such a putrid expression, his every action, every word spoken with such care and done so gently, held such hatred that regardless of how gentle he made himself it never ceased to seem negative.



His name, Angus Finnegan, though he was 18 years of age, he seemed so much older than his birth allowed. Despite the maturity to his nature, he also retained a certain reckless and dangerous aura.