For one's lover to take on the characteristics of her other, while the other is left mindless, ruined.
Aesthetic vampirism, the succubus with a conscience, the frightened gunshy harlot bemoaning the prospect of physical love
Always, in explosions and scrapes that wear away the clothing until only the tantalizing parts are covered, and that a reputable job for a popular artist, to draw the character Rogue in partial dress.
Honest love to evade her, as she gets the final touch of her other and sees his sins. Always to the see the sins and never to enjoy the experience, to get a puff of something more pleasant than the deepest and darkest of one's soul.
Maybe she projects her own guilt, seeks the equivalent in a partner, to be a more perfect symbiote.
If I'm not happy, then no one is going to be happy.
But one touch of my eudaemonia would send her into drunkenness, as of the eating of chocolate naked on a leather coach.
Here I sound more Epicurean than Stoic, but I have the eudaemonia-the best as prescribed by a doctor.