Do not feed the succubus your humble hearts, still-pumping muscles pulled from the torsos of their live owners, plopping down into the palms of her unholy hands, cardiac tissues oozing through the interstices of unhallowed fingers and warmed by profane panting, organs mawkish, murmuring sweet nothings to this man-eater, currying favor with this soul-sucker, debauched-devourer, carnage-starved witch gulping blood by the gallons, picking men from between knife-edged teeth with the points of claws lacquered with cyanide and French-tipped with arsenic, she’s a venus’ flytrap, a snaring rope, and yet the gentle caress of this mighty dragon almost heals her heavy soul. Corrin, her Corrin– the one she’s come to know and appreciate with all of her being, wishes to kiss a fanged torture chamber, a malefic mouthpiece who—upon contact—will drain him to the last drops, hips dipped in honey humming ❛watch me,❜ as she takes two meager steps back and flushes a bright, violent red at his sudden gesture.
She wants to scowl, to reel back in disgust and retch at this utter invasion of privacy, and yet she can’t bring herself to hurt him. Her blood boils, but not out of malice. Instead she’s staring, no, ogling him from head-to-toe as if this is the first time they’ve met. The book in her arms act as a shield, a coward’s way out of this unpredictable situation.