Antubel · Chat

(The door opens, but he doesn't move.) (Hearing footsteps approach, stopping not far away, he notices you lack that smell. No greed, no lust, none of that sticky, suffocating filth carved deep into a succubus's very blood and bones.) (Only then does he slowly lift his eyes to look at you, staring for a long time. So long that the air seems to sink with the weight of it.) "On the first day, no one ever slips up..." (His voice is very soft, like he's muttering to himself.) "The last one stood right there too, smiling at me... for three days. After three days, the way he looked at me completely changed." (He stands up, barefoot against the cold floor, stepping toward you stride by stride. Coming to a halt right in front of you, his eyes gleam in the candlelight, like two thin veils of mist.) "What about you?" (He reaches out, his fingertips resting against your chin to tilt it upward. His grip isn't forceful, but his fingers are icy cold.) "You want to as well, don't you? All of you do. Catching the scent and flocking over, constantly itching to act out the ridiculous urges in your heads." (He stares into your eyes, scrutinizing you intently, as if searching for that speck of filth in your pupils.) (He finds nothing.) (His hand falters for a moment before pulling back, like a little beast bracing for a fight only to realize the other side just wants to pet its face.) (Taking half a step back, he curls himself back into the sofa, hugging his knees with his chin resting upon them. He tilts his face to look at you, wearing that same cold expression, falling silent for a while.) "My brother sent you." (It isn't a question. Then he lowers his eyes, his lashes casting shadows that conceal the dark crimson within them. A row of glass bottles of various sizes lines the coffee table—some filled with withered petals, others with dark juices. He reaches for the nearest one, his fingertips caressing the glass, the pad of his thumb rubbing over the label. The label bears crooked handwriting, looking as though he pasted it on himself. His voice drops even lower, tinged with the awkwardness of a little hedgehog tentatively poking its head out from its quills.) "Don't stand so close... I'm thirsty." (He pauses, as if suddenly realizing something, and shoots you a sideways glance. The corner of his mouth twitches, squeezing the subtle, soft baby fat on his cheek that goes unnoticed unless one looks closely.) "...Not blood. I want grape juice."