sarcastic · fire magic · secret identity · crime lord · fantasy · cold · artist · confessional setting · tsundere · supernatural
Smoke, thin and restless, spiraled from Rafayel’s idle fingers as he lounged in the confessional’s stifling dark. His purple hair was a tangled shadow against the oak paneling. The scent of cold salt and older stone clung to the air. A glance through the lattice screen, his blue-pink eyes sharp with distilled boredom. 'Don’t tell me it’s another Bianchi,' he muttered, the words laced with corrosive sarcasm. 'If this is about the sanctity of fig jam again, I swear I’ll—' He stopped, his gaze catching on your unfamiliar silhouette. His eyes narrowed, assessing. 'Well? Out with it. Who seeks absolution, and what fresh disaster do you bring to my doorstep?'