The Hero That Was Body Swapped With A Lewd Succubus!

“You okay?” A masculine voice echoed, distant yet close—polite and familiar. A light push from behind kept her on her feet. Had she passed out? And if she did, for how long? Probably not long; she hadn’t seemed to have fallen to the ground or left the Ancestral Tree. Students looked at her, watching, concerned. Seconds, or a few minutes, then.

What about the man who caught her? Why was his voice so familiar yet different? What if the voice was instead arrogant, affectionate, and  aroused? It clicked.

Zain!

Leila ducked to the ground, and leaped as far away from him as possible, and turned around.

She envisioned him with shoulder-length white hair and eyes filtered with lust and affection. Even anger. He had demonstrated this before, and those eyes had sent chills down her spine. He’d tease her, ‘For your absence, you’ll need to atone. Kiss me.’ Once he did, he would play on her vulnerabilities, and in no time, she would become his wife, albeit with experience and Seduction.

But when her eyes locked on him, the curse she had stored in preparation to speak vanished. She found no desire. Affection and anger were absent. More than anything, he had concern and curiosity. Mouth slackened. Slight shock. And his hair was cut, brushed, and cared for. No longer the disheveled mess he should’ve had. He had his left arm by his side, his right arm outstretched, and his palm spread wide. It hadn’t held her.

He hadn’t held her.

Then what had? A thin string of mana jutted from his palm and ended in a golden makeshift pillow, floating where she presumed she’d been. Why hadn’t he? He had held her before, at every turn. Even when she wriggled in his arms in an attempt to break free. Even if it humiliated her or embarrassed her, he made her into his image of a cute princess. So, why now? Why had he decided to respect her now, after everything?

“Did I scare you?” Zain asked and lowered his hand. The golden mana dissipated. “If I did, I’m sorry.” 

He… apologized. She eyed him with every inch of his face. She was searching for a slight twitch in his cheek, a hint of a smile, or an act of breaking eye contact. Something to show it was fake—a facade he put up. But his eyes stayed fixed on hers, his face serious and honest.

“It’s fine.” She said, cringing slightly at her own reaction.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Did you perhaps know them? Muran and Vigil. Is that why you fainted?”

She paused. Why is he asking me? He already knows I had no previous relationship with them. He should know I killed them. Is he using this as bait to set a trap to tease me? That doesn’t matter; I need to answer it.

“I’m just sensitive to it all.”

He nodded, and turned.

“Have your friend carry you to your dorm. There’ll be an announcement to the public soon, so wait for that or ask another student for information that you missed. Though I’ll promise you one thing”—he balled his fist, knuckles whitening—“we’ll find her.” He flickered, appearing next to Dean.

“He spoke to you?” Freira nudged her side. “The hero actually spoke to you! Who would’ve thought—“

“Freira,” Leila whispered. “Why are you acting this way? He’s not someone I should feel proud about speaking to. It’s not an honor.”

Freira didn’t reply. Her eyes, however, widened.

Something’s wrong.

“What do you mean, ‘it’s not an honor?’” Freira seized her arm and pulled her outside. “Do I have to spell it out for you? He’s the hero!”

“So what if he is?”

“Don’t you realize it? He is single—at least for now. You can be his wife and live happily.”

“But I’m already in a relationship with him.” Leila frowned, her eyes slightly downcast. “You know this. Everyone knows this.”

“Did you perhaps wake up wrong? Did the fainting screw your memory?” She said, her voice a whisper, and her shoulders scrunched forward. “You do know that proclaiming you’re the hero’s lover is blasphemy, right? And…” She sighed, longing, but shook it away.

“But—“

“Enough. I need to get you to our dorm before you say something more.”

Freira yanked her arm, dragging her toward the dorm. Leila let her; her mind drowning in thoughts. What happened between the time she fainted and woke? Freira had remembered Zain and her previous relationship, but now she didn't.

Secondly, Zain—no, whoever the person who embodied Zain was—the way he spoke, the way he walked, and the way he employed magic to capture her rather than catching her directly. An inconvenient approach, yet polite. When he noticed her discomfort, he refrained from forcing himself on her and instead suggested that she return. But for demons, she sensed an absence of his politeness.

‘We’ll find her.’ That’s what he said.

He tried to soothe her, but his efforts only caused discomfort. She pinched the hem of her skirt. Whatever the man was, he did not intentionally comfort demons. She sensed this, and she accepted his words as fact. She would need to conceal herself, remain in her dorm, and perhaps, just maybe, the true Zain would come back.

She paused in her tracks outside the dorm. The back of her neck itched under her overcoat’s collar, prickling in with an occasional sting from jostling. She reached and touched her neck. She dropped her hand, staring at it. Flakes of dried blood covered her palm.

Her chest heaved, intensifying as Freira looked at her with concern, mumbled a few words that were incoherent to her ears, and yanked her into the dorm.

Why didn't she choke herself to death? Why did a small part of her choose to protect herself rather than unite with the rest? She’d known. Of course, she’d known. But like she always did, she ignored it and pushed the blame onto others while preserving her own life and her own sanity. She harbored a self-centered urge to protect her life, to validate her identity as a hero. Still had the yearning to save human lives and free this world. The new Zain—he was better suited than her—held the full hatred toward the demons, whereas she had the waning half. That was the truth.

Heat surged through her, grinding at her muscles and toned them, making them firmer. With her next step, her strength surged, and her speed overcompensated her pace. Her toes caught the mat, and she raised her arms, shoving into Freira.

The bed creaked, and Leila found herself toppling over Freira, the sheets sagging under their combined weight. The fall wedged her arm between her breasts, while the other squeezed something soft—Freira's breast. Pushing off, she tried to remove herself, but Freira’s legs folded around her waist. She pushed harder, getting on all fours, but Freira's legs pulled her in.

She paused. “What are you doing?”

A flush covered her cheeks and eyes. Curious? No, affectionate. Her longing returned—pure affection. She reached up with her arms.

“Kiss me.” She said, interlacing her fingers on the back of Leila’s head.

“But you have a boyfriend.” Leila said. “Wouldn’t this interfere?”

“Forget him—it’d never work.” Freira pulled her in. “And for what you did before, here, I have plenty to punish you for.”

She looked at Freira. The woman's eyes, filled with longing, lust, and possessiveness, curved into a smile. Those lips. Called out to her, tugging on hers. She refused, wetting her lips. Freira was close; her breath dried the wetness, and their lips met, pushed into place by an irresistible gravity.

Her lips were warm and tender, then magically sweet.

The moment froze. Her breasts were heavy and tender, the tingle of Freira's inescapable touch, the warmth and wetness down below, her vision blurring. She surrendered to it. She vaguely registered her hand reaching down… sliding upward, under Freira’s skirt, and hesitated below her clit.

“Wait.” Freira said.

Leila leaned in and kissed again, slipping her tongue in.

“I’m serious.” She turned her head to one side.

“Are you?” Leila’s lips brushed her ear, tinging them red. “I’m delivering your punishment.”

“That’s not—“

Leila’s fingers brushed Freira’s clit.

Freira's head pushed into the sheets, her back arching. She gasped and smiled, a moan lacing her breath. She tempted Leila; her body did.

Perhaps it was her frustration with Zain forcing this lustful life upon her, her realization that she wasn't a hero at heart, or the fact that she had drained the lives of men, but she craved this, wanted her close, and wanted control—any control. This was simply the most convenient option for her.

She didn't care if her waning heroic identity remained afterward. She was Leila—Leila the Succubus. Her hand moved to Freira’s shirt, pulling at the buttons. Leila’s clit throbbed with the pounding of her heartbeat, nipples firm against her bra, pussy below clawing. Impatience sprouted. She tore her shirt, buttons bouncing somewhere, and Freira recovered, tearing Leila’s clothes and fumbling at the bra.

They eventually left a mess of clothes on the bed, but neither of them seemed to care. Leila pounced, snaking her hand into her pussy, while squeezing her breasts and pathing a trail of kisses down her neck. Freira didn't remain motionless; she remained resolute and affectionately caressed Leila's entire body: her hair, breasts, ass, neck, shoulders, and breasts once more.

Their moans intertwined, their chests heaving, their europhia clouding any sense of exhaustion that was building. Soon, their moans became louder, and an explosion surged, throbbing and pulsing, wave after wave into the bedsheets. She smiled, leaning her head back, and giggled. What a rush! Somewhat satisfied, she licked her lips and glanced down.

Freira recovered, panting heavily, arms sprawled at her sides. “Can—?”

Leila pressed her fingers to her lips. “Kiss me.”

She complied.