Red Remains The club's gone quiet, but he's still there—glowing red like sin remembered. I stay, drunk and aching. He steps close, voice low. “Only the ones who linger deserve to be undone.” I nod, heat coiling in my gut. I was made to linger. I was made to be his.

🔥 THURSDAY OFFERING "Behind the Meat Locker" Cold room. But He was warm. Red skin, apron soaked. One horn broken. He slammed me onto the steel table, laughing. “Fresh enough.” My back met blood and bone. He spit in my mouth mid-thrust. I came screaming His name, it wasn’t human

Special Guests The pulse silences all rational thought. Hesitations sharpen into raw, desperate need. A look passes between us—no words, just a shared, silent fall. Far past the point of no return. Time to let this radiant abyss claim us wholly.

Clubbing Belial He lounges on matted fur, thighs open, poising a paten, sigil bleeding heat above it. The bikers stare—hard, leaking. “Take” he drawls, eyes cruel. “If you’re ready to come undone. If you’ll crawl back for more, with ruin in your hole and my taste in your teeth.”

Jorvan - Fallen Angel The Landing… that was chaos. My pulse is a frantic drum against cold stone. Filthy, bruised, and reeking of glorious filth, yet more alive than I ever was in all that sterile, silent light. They said I'd regret this fall. Gods, they were just wrong.

😈 THURSDAY DROP - Hitchhiker on the Desert Road He picks me up near dusk. No words. Just heat. His hand slides up my thigh like it owns the dust. Later, we’re off-road. He bends me over the hood, gas tank purring. I hear a growl—not engine. When I look back, His eyes glow red.

Rimshot The barman smashes me with vibes. Five minutes in, I’m face-down on the bar, slick and shaking. He opens me like destiny, slow and cruel. I moan into the tip jar. Patrons sip, stroke, whispering obscenities. "Tonight's special," he grins. No one orders. Everyone feels it

The Toll So, you have passed the outer guards and knelt upon my sigil. You seek entry? You seek favor? These arcane flames will illuminate the truth of your soul. One candle to reveal the desire that drives you, the other to burn away your mortal lies. Which will you face first?

Fellinor - Incubus Black fur across his shoulders—soft deception over hard truth. Those eyes held no questions, only certainty. He didn't hunt; he simply existed, patient as stone, while mortals found their way to him. The pelt was bait, and you'd already taken it.

😈 THURSDAY DROP - His Playthings He blindfolds me. Chains my buddy. "Only moan when he does," he says. We match whimpers, each breath to breath. He slaps him, and I flinch. By the time he finishes, we’re just one thing: Tamed—Marked. Glowing with spent worship.

The Forging This one does not fight. Under my colossal, infernal grip, his heart hammered a frantic rhythm of surrender, a willing surrender. Good. I will not simply break this creature. I will unmake him, and forge him anew in my own fire. An echo. A vessel. Mine.

Masquerade of Ruin He puzzles at the elaborate masks, horns twisted in hellish artistry. "What a themed party," he thinks, admiring the crimson glow. Ancient hungers circle closer, and his beautiful confusion will soon become his downfall.

😈 THURSDAY DROP - Tattoo Chair “You want pain, you broken thing?” His ink needle screamed like Hell. The sigil burned. He tattooed a demon's name over my heart, then kissed it. Then fisted me while whispering its meaning. I wept and thanked Him. He never stopped.

Mea Culpa I wanted all of it—the brand, the whip, the sweet filth in my veins. I kneel, but not for absolution. So let the summoners circle. I crave the grip, the bite of the lash, the beautiful fever that unmakes me. Punish me. Reveal I was worth the sin.

The Invitation The door opens. A butler awaits, his grim, unblinking presence an obscene silent welcome. His eyes promise you belong to them, the house's masters. To cross is your silent agreement, acceptance of your role as their design as you step inside, invitation in hand.

Pentagram Let them stare and see a cage; their sight is thin. This circle is not my prison; it is my name. It is the echo of my own will given form, the border of my sovereignty. The chains are a memory, a choice. I do not stand within a sigil. I am the devil the sigil serves me

😈 THURSDAY DROP - Security Room 666 Camera lights red. He watches me touch myself on every screen. He steps in. Uniform strained with power. Black gloves. Boots. He grabs my throat: “Hands behind your back.” The desk squeals. I black out with his cock inside and my name erased.

Vexigar - Fallen Angel His wings ache, heavy with forgotten skirmishes. This rust-kissed blade, a phantom limb now. But the tremor… it’s not from fatigue. It’s the thrill of the aftermath, the sweet, metallic tang of quiet. Ah, this delicious emptiness.

The Rite of Lack They always tremble at the door. So sweet. So wet. Dying to be undone. I don’t bite — not first. I let them bow, present, bloom. Then I split them open, slow. I know what they’re missing. And I bury it so deep they’ll bleed it for days.

Stasis of Becoming He stayed soft, ringed by hunger. Not when dagger-nails skimmed his ribs. Not when jaws clicked, drooling for a taste of spine. He was the rock in their tide. For now. But flesh listens—when bone begins to whisper.