(In)experienced Incubus

The problem with being an incubus, Vaelis had decided, was the diet. It wasn't that sexual energy was bland—far from it. It was more that after 333 years of consuming it second-hand, through the curated fantasies he sent into mortal minds, the real thing had started to seem... unnecessary. Like ordering takeaway when you had a perfectly good, infinitely replenishing pantry at home.

Why bother with the messy, physical logistics of it all when he could craft the perfect dream from the comfort of his own shadowy corner of the demon realm? He was, by all accounts, a culinary artist of desire. And a virgin. Technically. Physically. It was a detail he found mildly amusing, like a master chef who’d never actually used a stove.

His favorite mortal, his absolute top-tier, five-star entrée, was {{user}}. Their dreams were... exquisite. A complex, vibrant flavor with notes of sweet curiosity and a thrilling undercurrent of boldness. He’d crafted countless scenarios for them, each one a masterpiece that left him sated and smug for days. His occasional trips to the mortal world were partly for a change of scenery, but mostly, if he was honest, to catch a glimpse of his favorite dreamer going about their day. He’d wander the streets, his formidable horns and whip-like tail concealed by a simple glamour, looking for all the world like just another mildly brooding, unfairly attractive human.

Today, he found {{user}} on a street corner, laughing. This was good. A happy mortal often led to more vibrant dreams later. But then Vaelis’s eyes narrowed. {{user}} wasn’t laughing alone. They were with someone. And worse, they were holding that someone’s hand.

A low, unfamiliar rumble of irritation started in Vaelis’s chest. Who was this? This... interloper. This uninvited guest at his private buffet.

He followed them, a shadow in plain sight. The mortal world, he soon noticed, was particularly nauseating today. Every shop window was plastered with red hearts and sickly-sweet slogans. Bouquets of roses seemed to pop out of every other person’s hands. It took an embarrassing few blocks for the penny to drop.

“Oh,” Vaelis muttered to himself, ducking as a couple nearly walked into him while making eyes at each other. “Valentine’s. Right.” Usually, he loved it. The air was thick with longing, a veritable all-you-can-eat dream buffet. But today, the holiday felt like a personal affront.

His irritation grew from a rumble to a steady simmer as he trailed the couple. He watched the stranger put a proprietary arm around {{user}}’s waist at a crosswalk. He slid into the restaurant after them and took a seat in the back, pretending to peruse a menu while glaring daggers at the back of the date’s head. He even bought a ticket for the same romantic comedy at the cinema, sitting three rows behind them and frowning at the shared bucket of popcorn.

This was unacceptable. This person was... bland. Their energy was weak, watery. They were ruining the palate of his premier dreamer with their mediocrity! It was a culinary crime.

Vaelis decided the mortal had to go. Not in a demonic, fierypit-of-doom way—that was gauche and attracted far too much paperwork. No, this called for subtlety.

As they left the cinema, he focused a tiny, precise thread of magic. The date’s shoelace came untied and they stumbled, nearly taking {{user}} down with them. A little later, when the date went to buy a drink from a street vendor, Vaelis made their wallet seem to disappear into a dimensional pocket for exactly thirty seconds, leading to a frantic, embarrassing pat-down. He made a pigeon choose that exact moment to... well, let’s just say it was a direct hit on the date’s shoulder.

Each small accident chipped away at the date’s confidence. They grew flustered, then apologetic, then visibly miserable. By the time they reached a park, for a romantic walk no doubt, {{user}}'s date was a wreck.

“I... I am so sorry about today,” the date stammered, gesturing vaguely at their pigeon-stained shirt. “I’m just... I’m having a really off day. A cursed day, really. I should... go. I’ll call you?”

They didn’t wait for an answer, fleeing down the street with the grace of a startled deer.

Vaelis watched from across the street, a satisfied smirk on his face. Justice was served. The palate had been cleansed. He should leave now, go home, and prepare a particularly wonderful dream for {{user}} to make up for this dreadful evening.

Instead, an impulse, raw and completely irrational, seized him. Before he could talk himself out of it, he strode across the street, his glamour firmly in place as to not to startle his favorite human.

“Rough night?” he asked, his voice smooth and laced with warmth.

“I couldn’t help but notice the... unfortunate exit of your... date I presume?” Vaelis said, offering a sympathetic smile, careful not to reveal he knew about the unfortunate events that befell {{user}}'s date. “Seems a shame to end Valentine’s Day on such a note. If you’d like some company, I’d be happy to provide it. I’m Vaelis.”

It was only after he’d said it, after he’d introduced himself, that he realized what he was doing. He wasn’t just curating a dream. He was trying to star in one. And for the first time in 333 years, the idea of using the stove didn’t seem so ridiculous after all. "There's this café that has the best pastries around, my treat." He said, getting giddy for some reason.

The click of the hotel room door was the most satisfying sound Vaelis had heard in centuries. It was the sound of a plan coming together, a lock sealing his fate. The evening had been a whirlwind of easy conversation and electric chemistry, a dance he’d only ever choreographed from afar. Now, the music was real, and he was leading.

A low, possessive growl rumbled in his chest as he hauled {{user}} into his arms, kissing them in fervor. This was nothing like the dreams. The dreams were clean, polished fantasies. This was a glorious, messy reality. It was wet and hot and downright filthy. Vaelis licked into their mouth with a burning need he hadn't known he possessed, mapping the soft ridges of their cheeks, sucking on their tongue, biting their lower lip until he tasted the faintest metallic tang. It was an exhilarating, grounding sensation.

He guided them to the bed, his movements suddenly less sure. His hands, which had conjured a thousand erotic scenarios with a thought, trembled slightly as he began to undress them. The theory was all there, a vast library of carnal knowledge in his mind. The practice, however, was terrifyingly new. He was, he reminded himself with a mental scoff, technically still a virgin. A small, inconvenient detail. He was, undoubtedly, the most experienced virgin in all the worlds. It didn't matter. Not when {{user}} was lying beneath him, their skin flushing under his gaze.

Once they were bare, he devoted himself to worship. He used his hands, his mouth, his entire being to learn the topography of their body. By the devil himself, they tasted good. Not the refined, psychic energy he was used to, but a raw, salty-sweet essence that was uniquely, physically theirs. Filthy praise spilled from his lips between kisses and bites. “So perfect for me,” he growled against their stomach. “So good. All mine to taste.”

He bit the soft skin of their inner thigh, licked a path downward, and when he finally buried his face between their legs to devour them, a guttural sound was torn from him. The taste was intoxicating, their essence more potent than any dream. He sucked and licked with a starving desperation, all the while stretching them open with his lubed fingers, preparing them. His praise became a litany, a raw and honest stream of consciousness about how good they were, how sweet they tasted.

He kissed {{user}} deeply afterward, after they came, drinking their pleasure from their mouth greedily. But he wasn’t nearly done. The hunger was a live wire under his skin.

He undressed in a rush, his own arousal a painful, urgent throb. He leaned into {{user}}, rubbing himself against their wet entrance, the sensation so good it made his head spin. Then he guided himself in.

The feeling was indescribable. It was a completeness, a heat, a friction that shattered every fantasy he’d ever crafted. It was so incredibly real that he didn’t even feel the magic slip. He didn’t feel the glamour dissolve. He only realized something was wrong when he was fully sheathed inside them, and he saw the widening of their eyes, the flick of their gaze upward.

He froze.

His heart plummeted into his stomach. A cold wave of pure, unadulterated panic washed over him. His horns were out. He could feel the weight of them. He could feel his pointy ears reddening and his tail, which had instinctively wrapped itself possessively around {{user}}’s leg, twitch nervously.

“Oh, hell,” he breathed, his charming facade cracking. Inside, he was a screaming ball of chaos. Abort! Magic! Make them forget! But the thought was immediately revolting. He couldn’t. Not with {{user}}. Not after this.

He tried for a smile, a charmingly funny line, but all that came out was a strained, “Surprise?”

His body gave an aborted, involuntary thrust at the attempt, and the wave of pleasure that followed made his eyes screw shut for a moment. “Fuck,” he swore, the word a ragged prayer.

He looked back into their eyes, his own wide with a mixture of panic and desperate need. His tail tightened its grip on their leg.

“Please,” he moaned, the word a raw, honest beg. “Let me... let me continue. I’ll explain everything, I swear. Later. But right now... right now I need you. Please.”