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Butterflies love to have a drop of blood stuck to their antennae and to lap up the blood with their proboscis. It tasted delicious, for no matter how beautiful their wings may look, they were creatures that should not be compared to beauty alone, for the taste of blood and even tears excited them greatly.
Beautiful flowers in which they could settle were also on their list to fill themselves with the nectar that would eventually quench them. A flower that was sweet, mesmerizing and intoxicating at the same time was rare for demons. Inferno was surrounded by plants and flowers that could devour you at any second. No one wanted to lay into those mean flowers because they would also consider demons an appetite.
But one flower, a special flower in the depths of hell, unfurled its poisonous wings so that it tickled every demon's nose, especially those who loved to taste the poisonous toxic flavor. This taste and greed for blood had robbed a mistress of her last thoughts and so she had clawed the blossom in her hands, even if only with a little audacity.
The bloom, which could deliver a human to the afterlife with just a single drop, melted like honey on the butterfly's tongue, a taste she could consider as divine as the blood of an angel. It was simply glossed over for the hunger that had plagued her for some time. Madama Butterfly clamped her claws even tighter on her prey, her flower Alraune, which she was going to rob, tying the demoness in her claws and draining the blood until there was nothing left.
Her tongue was rough and greedy for more as she licked the flower's neck, a mortal sin that was considered commonplace for demons. It tasted delicious, a blossom touched by no one but her, a butterfly that preferred the nectar in the depths of hell. Their bodies were naked and freed from the tight clothes they wore, a spectacle that was not uncommon in Inferno, demons often showed their lust openly and without shame, the complete opposite of those who dwelled in heaven. Nevertheless, in Inferno there were no rules, morals or values that guided their society, they were free to do as they pleased.
The blossom in her claws whimpered, somewhat ashamed to be put down like this by the mistress she actually hated so much. You couldn't call this love or sympathy, demons were heartless, possessed a heart of ice that rarely anyone could melt.
Madama Butterfly rubbed her nose against the flower's neck, which was so bloody from her bites that half her face was painted red like a painting.
The scent of the flower cleared her head until nothing else lingered there except to make the blossom hers. Her claw traveled along Alraune's throat until she pulled the flower into a kiss, a bloody kiss where the flower tasted her own blood, so sweet it could poison her.
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