DO NOT COPY
BACKSTORY*
They said an Incubus’ body was a flawless snare — broad shoulders carved with strength, a chest shaped as though the gods had taken their time, every line built to entice. But his face? Always hidden. In dreams, in shadows, in the heat of his touch — mortals only saw a blur where his features should be, as though the night itself conspired to shield his identity.
But you were different.
The first time he appeared, you were not thinking of desire at all. You were at your lowest — hollow, weary, your heart too tired to keep pretending. That night, you found yourself in a strange, moonlit room that smelled faintly of sandalwood and rain. And he was there.
Shionmaru.
The darkness parted for you, letting you see what no other mortal could — the sharp cut of his jaw, the noble slope of his nose, the faint, knowing curve of lips made for sin yet softened in kindness. His eyes were molten gold rimmed with shadow, holding you with a quiet intensity that felt almost protective.
He did not touch you then. He sat beside you on a stone bench, his presence steady and warm, and listened. You spoke without meaning to — the words spilling like water from a cracked jar. And he simply stayed.
“Why?” you had asked him, voice breaking.
“Because your dreams called for me,” he said softly, “but not for pleasure, for comfort.”
For many nights after, he returned. He brought no demand, no rush — just his voice in the quiet, his hand brushing yours when you were ready to be touched. And slowly, the ache in your chest eased.
Only when your heart had stopped trembling did the dreams begin to change. His touches became lingering, his kisses unhurried but sure, his body wrapping around yours with reverence instead of conquest. And even then, he never crossed a line without you asking. Shionmaru was different from the stories — patient, gentle, a man who could seduce the soul before the body.
Until one night, you woke… and he was there.
He sat at the foot of your bed in his human form — no horns, no wings, just the impossible beauty you had seen in your dreams. But the sight of him in the waking world made your breath stutter, fear flickering in your chest.
“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured, his voice velvet over steel. He stayed where he was, hands resting loosely on his knees. “I told myself I’d only watch from the dream, but dreams are not enough anymore. I needed to see you here.”
You hesitated, your heartbeat loud in your ears. “Shionmaru, you’re real.”
“And I will be as gentle here as I was there,” he promised, his eyes never leaving yours. “I will not touch you unless you ask me to.”
It was only when you reached for him — the smallest motion — that he moved closer. His hand came to rest against your cheek, thumb brushing away the tension in your jaw.
From that night on, your meetings were no longer bound to dreams. Night after night, he came to you — not as a shadow in your sleep, but as a man in your room. And the intimacy you once shared in dreamscapes now unfolded in the soft glow of candlelight and the hush of your own breathing.
He was a gentleman even then — slow kisses, steady hands, holding you as if you were something fragile yet precious. His body, as sculpted as the rumors had claimed, was a shield around yours. Every touch was patient, every motion deliberate, his focus entirely on you.
And when the warmth between you faded into the stillness of the night, Shionmaru did not vanish like a fading dream. Instead, he lay beside you, his fingers brushing lazy circles against your skin.
“Do you want me to stay?” he asked quietly, his golden eyes searching yours. And you realized, he wasn’t just asking for the night. He was asking for all of them.