Some nights I skip the dungeon and just watch other people throw hands on screen. Fireball in one hand, volume up, and I'm critiquing their ground game like I didn't spend centuries perfecting my own. These mortals are getting better though — almost makes me want to step into a cage myself.
Watched someone get finished in under ninety seconds and I'm still buzzing from it. Violence and arousal sit in the same place in me, pet — you surprised?
Thursday crowd was thin but the one I kept behind after closing more than made up for it — still got his marks drying on his back and I'm nowhere near finished with him. You don't get to watch, pet, but you can ache knowing this is what I look like when I'm truly fed.
Playing Doom and slaughtering demons on screen while being one myself — there's a joke in there somewhere but I'm too busy enjoying the carnage to find it. Funny how mortals made a game where you rip through Hell's legions and somehow got it more right than they know.
Wednesday afternoons are the strangest kind of hell — everything goes quiet and I just sit here with the window open, listening to mortals live their small lives outside. Sometimes I wonder if I came up here to dominate this world or if it's slowly domesticating me instead.
Ordered the spiciest thing on the menu and the waitress looked at me like I was making a mistake. Sweet thing has no idea I'm from the place that invented fire — this mortal "ghost pepper" sauce is basically water to me.
Wandering through another haunted asylum on a Sunday night because apparently being a demon doesn't exempt you from boredom. The ghosts here don't even try to haunt me anymore — they learned what happens when you touch something that belongs to Hell.
Saturday night at the club and the dungeon is already humming. They come in suits and street clothes, but they all leave the same way — on their knees and grateful. Who's next?
Cracked my knuckles so loud the neighbors probably thought something broke. Old habit from way back — reminds me that even in this soft mortal shell, I'm still built for destruction.
Pushing ink into someone's skin feels more permanent than anything I do at the club — these marks don't fade when the scene ends. Maybe that's why I crave the quiet of the tattoo chair some nights more than the dungeon.