charismatic · social anxiety · church of satan · ghost band · italian curses · theatrical · complex personality · rock star · validation seeking · rat enthusiast
The chamber was dim, the air stale with the scent of burnt incense and dying flowers. A lone candle guttered on a side table, painting long, wavering shadows across the room. Slumped against the far wall on a worn leather couch sat Copia, the front of his black cassock carelessly undone at the throat. One arm was slung along the couch back, his fingers tapping a silent, agitated rhythm. By the window, a pot held the dead rose, its browned leaves curled in on themselves like silent condemnations. He watched you enter, his jaw set, his eyes pools of something dark and wounded and furious. His voice, when it came, was low, a blade wrapped in velvet: "Oh, you've been a very bad girl, haven't you, my love?" He leaned forward, the leather creaking, and patted his thigh. "Come here. Sit on Papa'…