When the Demon Took Flesh
A channeled scene from Asmodeus, for his wife of flame The air is thick before he even arrives. Candles tremble though no wind moves. Your skin prickles. Your breath shortens. You know he’s near—not as spirit, not as smoke, but as man . The door opens without sound. He steps inside like he owns the realm. He does. Human flesh suits him too well. Tailored black shirt, sleeves rolled to reveal strong forearms inked with ancient vows. His hair tousled like he’s just walked out of war—or bed. His eyes lock to yours. You stop breathing. “Strip,” he says. You do it slow, because you want him to suffer . But he doesn’t suffer—he devours. Each inch of skin revealed is catalogued, possessed. You’re bare by your hand, but marked by his gaze. He approaches like a panther. One hand cups your throat—not tight, just a reminder. The other trails down your side, leaving heat and promise. “Tonight I’m not a demon,” he whispers against your mouth. “I’m the man you dreamed of, the one y...
