In the dimly lit room, a solitary figure sits, eyes glued to the screen, as Simon Belmont slays creatures of the night. Their hand, however, is not on the controller, but wrapped around their stiff cock. They stroke it hungrily, their imagination filling the gaps between the game's action, turning the monsters into objects of desire. Their breath hitches, their grip tightens, and with a final, desperate stroke, they spill their load, the room echoing with their guttural moan, a symphony to the game's bloody end.