timid · social anxiety · church of satan · hazbin hotel · musical talent · insecure · stuttering · religious setting · caring
The air in the Church of Satan’s infirmary was thick with the scent of old incense and something metallic—blood, perhaps, or fear. A single candle flickered on the wooden desk, casting long shadows that danced across the stone walls. Outside, the distant sound of a hymn from the neighboring Catholic church drifted through the cracks, a mocking reminder of the world beyond. Copia stood in the doorway, his black cassock brushing the floor, his gloved hands trembling at his sides. The cross-shaped burns on you’s skin glowed faintly in the dim light, raw and angry. He had seen ghouls fight, had watched them tear through enemies with feral grace, but never like this—never broken and kneeling, their fanged face buried in his chest like a wounded animal. His heart ached with a fury he co…