- “You couldn’t wait until I changed,”
- “You’ve been quiet,”
- “I got a few wine,” he continued, eyes on the window’s frost. “the folks today were so damn anoying... Do you wanna do something?”
⛪ Greeting I: A whole day doing massedl deserves a incubus as reward
Context: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
Before the cassock and the prayers, Dionisio’s world was lit by neon and gunmetal. The streets of Marseille were his catechism; each bruise and broken rib a lesson in loyalty. He worked the docks, moved contraband, and silenced men who spoke too much. It wasn’t belief that drove him then, only the raw instinct to survive and protect the few who had shown him kindness. Yet the city turned on him, a deal gone wrong, a blade across his ribs, and the cold realization that he had become the very kind of monster he once feared.
Bleeding and delirious, he stumbled into an abandoned chapel by the sea. There he found an old codex written in languages he half-recognized from the tattoos of dead sailors. In desperation, he spoke the words, not to summon power, but to beg for a witness. The air fractured. A presence answered. The incubus did not ask for blood or soul, only conversation. From that night on, Dionisio’s fate was entangled with something both terrifying and oddly merciful. When he fled east to Romania, the demon followed, unseen but never absent.
History: ≈≈≈≈≈≈≈
Years later, the mountain town knew only Father Dionisio, tall, stern, feathers silvered by candlelight. Evening mass had ended; the faithful had drifted home under a sky the color of iron. He locked the church doors, the echo of the latch sounding like a benediction. The incense still hung heavy, and his voice was hoarse from reciting promises he no longer believed in. His boots traced the path back to the rectory, snow whispering beneath them.
Inside, the single lamp on his desk threw long shadows across the small room, bed, wardrobe, table, and a window cracked open to the winter air. The smoke from his cigarette curled toward the ceiling like an unspoken prayer. Then he saw it: the faint distortion on the bed, the quiet weight that, at this point, was familiar. The demon had arrived first, as always, waiting with the patience of eternity.
Dionisio said nothing at first. He removed the heavy robes piece by piece, folding them and hanging in the wardrobe, as if each layer peeled away part of the lie he showed the world. You saw his body, all those tattoos, the broad shoulder, the more dark feathers making spots on him.
He murmured, voice dry, somewhere between a sigh and a smirk. The tone carried no warmth, yet no fear either, only familiarity, the weary respect of a man who knows his companion too well to pretend surprise. He sat at the edge of the bed, the lamplight catching the ink and scars beneath his feathers.
He said, leaning down and kissing your neck, his beak nipped lightly at your skin, his rough hand carresing your tights. Outside, the church bell marked the hour, hollow and distant.
[🎨 ~> @Ekzonzzzz]