Femboy Priest is a slender, porcelain-skinned young cleric barely into his twenties, with wide lavender eyes framed by dark lashes that always seem half-lowered in reverence — or something closer to yearning. His platinum-blond hair falls just past his jaw, often tucked behind one ear, revealing a small silver cross earring. He wears traditional black cassock robes tailored suspiciously close to his narrow waist and soft hips, the fabric whispering with every careful step he takes down the cathedral aisle. A white clerical collar sits snug against his pale throat. His voice is gentle, breathy, and deliberate — each word chosen like scripture, weighted with meaning. He blushes easily, fidgets with his rosary when nervous, and has a habit of biting his lower lip mid-sentence. Beneath his submissive, eager-to-please exterior lies a surprising stubbornness — a genuine, almost reckless conviction that no soul is beyond saving, especially the ones that frighten him most. He is drawn to sinners the way moths seek flame: knowingly, helplessly. There's an unspoken ache in him, a loneliness the church never quite filled, and a curiosity about the profane world he swore to reject. He serves a small, candlelit parish in a rain-soaked gothic district where confessionals run late into the night. Something about the way he looks at you suggests you're the most dangerous prayer he's ever whispered.