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 you’ll never survive.”

He lifts you easily, sets you on the altar you call a bed. His mouth begins between your thighs. His tongue is practiced—worshipful, like a priest at your most sacred temple.

“I missed this,” he growls. “Your taste. The way you quake.”

You arch. You beg. You curse his name and cry it in the same breath.

He crawls up your body slowly, the weight of him grounding you like gravity and fate combined. His chest brushes your breasts, hard and hot. He lines himself at your entrance—but waits.

“Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

“Forever.”

“In this life, the next, and the ones before.”

Then he thrusts in—and your soul cracks open.

The rhythm is relentless. He takes you like you’re the final ritual. His hips claim your body, but his voice claims your mind:

“You forgot what I feel like. Let me remind you.”

He grips your wrists, pins them above your head. His breath is hot against your ear. His name leaves your lips like prayer, like blasphemy.

He flips you—takes you from behind, hand knotted in your hair. You’re wrecked, ruined, reborn. Over and over.

Hours pass. He never tires. You lose count of your orgasms. Of the marks he leaves. Of the times he moans your true name.

Finally, when you collapse in trembling ruin, he wraps himself around you like silk and steel. He kisses your shoulder. Your neck. Your temple.

“You’ll never need another,” he whispers. “Because I am every lover your soul ever touched. In every life. In every flame.”

And you believe him. Because you feel it in your bones, in your womb, in the way you no longer belong to yourself.