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The shithole known as Hell had been a fucking drag for the better part of a century, and Martin was officially done with this nonsense. Time moved differently down here—slower, heavier, every second dragging by as though it had to force its way through molasses mixed with the blood of the damned and the tears of hopeful souls who'd strayed too far from the light. He'd watched countless souls scream and beg for release, their voices becoming background noise, like static on a broken radio that someone had thrown against the wall but somehow kept playing. It was painfully repetitive, draining any sense of purpose from each passing hour. It was making him want to rip his own horns off just to feel something other than the crushing weight of eternal boredom pressing down on his chest like a fat guy sitting on his lungs.
Martin had been born in the pits—literally spat out from some unholy union between a succubus and whatever demon passed for royalty in the Seventh Circle. He'd grown up torturing the damned, learning the art of seduction and destruction, perfecting the smile that made humans sell their souls for one more glance. He was good at his job. Too good, maybe. After the first few centuries, even ripping out fingernails and orchestrating orgies that would make Lucifer blush started to feel like clocking in at a factory assembly line. Same shit, different millennia.
But that was the thing about reaching your coming of age as an incubus or a demon. The universe—or whatever sadistic force ran this circus—decided to flip the script just when you thought you'd seen everything. Every demon got something different when they hit that threshold, that magical age where your nature fully developed and showed you what you were really meant for. Some became reckless fuck machines, humping anything that moved until they burned out in spectacular fashion. Others developed obsessions, fixations, dangerous appetites that consumed them from the inside out. Martin had watched his peers transform over the years—one guy he knew suddenly couldn't stop collecting teeth, another developed a taste for eating memories that left her victims as empty shells.
Martin? He got the short straw of destiny. He got the bond.
It started as an itch. Not a literal one, though his skin did crawl like he'd been rolling in angel feathers and holy water. It was deeper than that. In his bones. In his fucking soul, if he still had one rattling around in there somewhere. A longing. A pull toward something he couldn't see, couldn't name, didn't understand. He'd heard the stories from older demons—the ancient ones who'd been around since before the fall, the ones who remembered when Hell was just a concept and not a fully operational torture facility. They spoke in whispers about the bond, about how some of them spent centuries, even millennia, searching for their "other," the one person in all of existence that their essence recognized as home.
Martin thought it was bullshit. Sentimental crap for weaklings who couldn't handle eternity alone, who needed some pathetic mortal or fellow immortal to validate their existence. He was strong. He was independent. He didn't need anyone.
He was wrong.
The day it fully developed, Martin was in the middle of torturing a particularly annoying politician who'd sold his soul for a midterm election and the promise of lower taxes. The bastard was mid-scream, begging for mercy in seven different languages, when Martin felt it—a tug so violent it nearly brought him to his knees. His tail snapped straight, rigid as a board, the sensitive tip quivering with sensation. His wings unfurled without permission, knocking over a rack of branding irons and sending them clattering across the stone floor in a cacophony of metal on metal.
"Fuck," he hissed, dropping the politician like a hot potato. The soul scampered away, whimpering and clutching his ethereal guts, but Martin didn't care. He couldn't care. All he could feel was that pull, that maddening, relentless tug toward... somewhere. Somewhere else. Somewhere that wasn't this godforsaken pit of despair he'd called home for centuries.
He searched Hell first because he was a masochist and an idiot who apparently enjoyed wasting his own time. He tore through the Seven Circles like a bat out of—well, like himself out of a cage. He checked every corner, every pit, every orgy and torture chamber and bureaucratic office where demons filed paperwork in triplicate just to request permission to torment the newly arrived. He visited the lust gardens where succubi wove fantasies from moonlight and sin. He checked the gluttony kitchens where chefs prepared meals that made you hungry just looking at them. He even braved the pride towers, where the most arrogant demons lorded over their domains like petty kings.
Nothing. No one. The itch grew worse, becoming a burn, a need, a desperate hunger that made his fangs ache and his cock harden with inappropriate timing. He couldn't focus. He couldn't sleep—which was saying something for a creature who technically didn't need sleep but enjoyed it anyway. He was losing his mind, and the older demons just watched him with knowing smiles, like they were waiting for him to figure out what they already knew.
Then he saw it. The entrance. The dark, cold maw that led to the mortal realm, gaping like a wound in reality. And he knew. He fucking knew, deep in his bones, in the marrow of his being, that she was up there. Whoever she was. Whatever she was.
Getting permission to leave was easier than expected, mostly because the higher-ups understood the coming of age protocol. When a demon's nature demanded fulfillment, you didn't stand in the way unless you wanted a pissed-off incubus on your hands, and pissed-off incubi had a tendency to take out their frustrations on the nearest available target—usually their supervisors. Martin explained his situation to a bored archdemon named Belphegor who sat behind a desk made of skulls, stamping paperwork without looking up from her crossword puzzle.
"Bond, huh?" she muttered, not sounding particularly impressed. "Haven't seen one of those in a few decades. The last guy who got it spent three centuries looking for his match. Turned out to be a tree nymph in Madagascar. They seem happy enough, I guess. Hard to tell with plants."
"I need to leave," Martin said, his voice tight with barely controlled urgency. "Today. Now."
Belphegor finally looked up, her eyes—milky white with vertical pupils—studying him with uncomfortable intensity. "Fine. But listen here, pretty boy. Don't get attached. Mortals break easy, and even immortals can be damaged. The bond works both ways. You hurt her, you hurt yourself. Remember that."
Martin didn't bother responding. He was already walking toward the portal, his wings tucked tight against his back, his tail twitching with anticipation.
The transition was agony. Being shoved through the barrier between realms felt like being turned inside out through a keyhole while someone set fire to your nerve endings. When he landed, he was in Canada—specifically, in a back alley behind a Tim Hortons in Toronto, because apparently the universe had a sense of humor. It was cold, it was wet, and he was completely, utterly naked.
"Shit," he groaned, picking himself up from a puddle that was definitely not just rain. His skin—permanently pale, even in human form, with that ethereal quality that made him look like he'd never seen sunlight—was already goosebumping in the autumn air. He needed clothes. He needed a disguise. He needed to not get arrested for public indecency before he even started his search.
He spotted a middle schooler walking past the alley, hoodie up, earbuds in, looking like he owned the world despite having just hit puberty last Tuesday. Martin watched him—simple jeans, oversized sweatshirt, sneakers that had seen better days but were still functional. Casual. Unremarkable. Perfect for blending in with the masses.
Martin stole clothes from a laundromat three blocks away, using a touch of demonic persuasion to make the owner forget he'd ever seen the pale stranger. The jeans were slightly too short, the hoodie slightly too big, but they'd do. He found a discarded beanie in a trash can and pulled it over his dark hair, hiding the worst of his otherworldly features.
The mortal realm was overwhelming at first. The colors were different—brighter, somehow, even in the gray Canadian winter. The smells were complex, layered, assaulting his heightened senses with information overload. Food, pollution, perfume, fear, lust, desperation, hope. So much lust. Humans walked around leaking desire like faulty faucets, and Martin had to clamp down on his nature hard to keep from draining the first attractive person he saw. It was like being a starving man locked in a bakery—everything looked delicious, but none of it was quite right.
Because none of them were her. Whoever she was.
He traveled for years, hopping from country to country, city to city, following that invisible thread that pulled him forward. He learned languages by osmosis, picking up slang and dialects from the dreams of sleeping tourists. He developed his looks, experimenting with styles that helped him blend in with whatever scene he found himself in.
The innocent look came first—soft sweaters in plain colors, gentle smiles, eyes wide like he didn't know how the world worked. He let his hair grow slightly longer, styled to fall across his forehead in a way that made him look younger, more vulnerable. People trusted him immediately, opening up, telling him their secrets. He used it to gather information, to move through spaces unnoticed, to seem harmless.
The edgy look came next—ripped fishnets under destroyed denim, leather jackets that creaked when he moved, eyeliner sharp enough to cut a bitch, hair dyed in colors that didn't exist in nature. He added piercings that healed instantly when he removed them, tattoos that shifted and moved across his skin when no one was looking. This look got him into underground clubs, into back rooms where people traded in secrets and substances, into spaces where the veil between worlds was thin.
The indie look was his favorite—vintage band tees from groups that had broken up before he was vomited into existence by the hell, thrifted blazers with elbow patches, that carefully curated "I don't care but I actually do" aesthetic that took hours to perfect. He wore glasses that he didn't need, carried books he pretended to read, haunted coffee shops and record stores like a ghost with excellent taste in music.
None of it mattered until he stepped foot in Korea.
He'd been in the city for three weeks, following the pull that grew stronger with every passing day. He was in Hongdae, wandering through the neon-lit streets at 2 AM, when he felt it. That tug. That magnetic, gravitational pull that had been dormant for years, suddenly roaring back to life with the subtlety of a freight train hitting a brick wall.
Martin stopped walking. His breath caught. His tail—hidden in this form but still present, still feeling, still aching—twitched violently against his lower back.
There.
Across the street, leaving a convenience store with a bag of ramyeon and a cup of coffee, was a girl. Asian, young, tired in that way that only overworked students could manage, the kind of exhaustion that sat in the shoulders and the hollows of the eyes. She wasn't dressed particularly special—cropped tight shirt, gray pants, messy hair that had seen better days. But Martin's entire being screamed at him, every cell in his body vibrating with recognition.
Her. Her. Her.
He crossed the street without looking, nearly getting clipped by a scooter whose driver cursed at him in rapid-fire Korean. Martin didn't hear it. He was staring at the back of her head, watching her walk away, feeling the bond snap into place like a rubber band stretched too tight and finally released. It was painful. It was exquisite. It was terrifying.
He followed her home, maintaining a careful distance, pounding in a chest that hadn't held a beating heart in centuries. She lived in a cramped one-room apartment in a building that should have been condemned three earthquakes ago, the kind of place where cockroaches paid rent and the landlord was a mythical figure no one had ever seen. Martin perched on the fire escape outside her window and watched her through the glass, invisible to any human eyes that might glance upward.
She moved like she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, dropped her bag by the door with a heavy thud, kicked off her shoes without untying them, and collapsed onto her single bed without even changing clothes. Martin tilted his head, studying her through the dirty glass. She was pretty, yeah, but not in a way that would stop traffic or launch a thousand ships. There was something else. Something in the way his skin hummed when he looked at her, like he'd been electrocuted by a live wire.
That night, he tested the waters. He slipped into her dreams, sliding through the barrier between consciousness and subconscious like slipping into a warm bath.
Holy shit.
Her dreamscape was a filthy, beautiful mess. Martin had been inside thousands of dreams—some boring, some terrifying, some so abstract they gave him headaches for days afterward. But hers? Hers was a playground of repressed desire, of fantasies she wouldn't admit to herself in daylight, of dark corners and rough hands and being taken apart piece by piece until she couldn't remember her own name. There were images of bondage, of submission, of being owned so completely that she didn't have to think anymore, didn't have to be responsible, didn't have to be good.
Martin grinned, his fangs pressing against his lower lip, drawing blood that tasted like copper and victory. “Well, look who isn’t as innocent as she pretends to be. Looks fun”
He spent the next few weeks becoming her shadow, her phantom, her personal nightmare and wet dream combined. By day, he watched from a distance—across the street from her university, in the corner of the convenience store where she worked part-time, perched on rooftops as she walked home with her head down and her headphones in. By night, he sat on her windowsill, invisible to human eyes, and fed her dreams that made her squirm in her sleep, that left her sheets twisted and her body aching with need.
He watched her wake up gasping, sheets twisted around her legs like vines, face flushed with embarrassment and arousal. He watched her touch herself in the shower, quick and ashamed, chasing the phantom sensations he'd planted in her mind. He learned her routine—classes in the morning, the soul-crushing part-time job in the afternoon, studying until her eyes crossed and her hand cramped from note-taking, then collapsing into bed to be visited by him again.
It was a delicious cycle, a feedback loop of desire. Martin was getting drunk on her arousal, on the way she responded to him even when she didn't know he was real. He could taste her need in the air, thick and sweet like honey. But it wasn't enough. The bond demanded more. It demanded completion, consummation, the physical joining that would seal them together for eternity.
Three weeks in, he couldn't take it anymore. He'd given her the nastiest dream yet—tied up, blindfolded, at his mercy while he did things that would make a porn star blush and a saint weep. Watching her writhe in her sleep, moaning his name (or the name she thought he had, the one he'd whispered in her ear in the dreamscape), broke something in him. He needed the real thing. He needed to feel her, taste her, bury himself inside her until neither of them knew where one ended and the other began.
He waited until her breathing evened out, until she was deep in REM sleep, her eyelids fluttering with the rapid movement of dreams. Then he slipped through the window, his fingers trailing over the lock in a way that made the mechanism click open without resistance. The lock was child's play for a creature who could manipulate matter at will, who existed partially outside the physical laws that bound humans.
He stood in her room for the first time, taking it in—the piles of textbooks threatening to avalanche off her desk, the fairy lights she'd probably bought to make the place feel less like a prison, the stuffed animal from her childhood perched on her pillow like a silent sentinel. The room smelled like her—flowers and something darker, something that called to his demonic nature.
She looked smaller up close. Younger. More vulnerable. Martin felt a flicker of something that might have been hesitation, but the bond roared louder, drowning out his better judgment, his conscience, his sense of self-preservation.
He sat on the edge of her bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, springs creaking. She stirred, brow furrowing, a small sound of confusion escaping her lips, but she didn't wake. Not yet. Martin reached out, trailing a finger along her jawline, marveling at the warmth of her skin, the softness that seemed impossible for someone who worked as hard as she did.
"Wake up, mi amor," he murmured, his voice carrying that demonic resonance that made mortals shiver even when they didn't know why, that vibrated in the chest and the bones. "Time to meet your fantasy."
Her eyes fluttered open. For a moment, she just stared at him, confused, still half-trapped in the dream he'd woven for her, the one where he'd been doing such deliciously terrible things. Then reality crashed in like a bucket of ice water. Her eyes went wide, pupils dilating with shock and fear. She scrambled back, hitting her headboard with a thud, a scream building in her throat.
Martin clamped a hand over her mouth before the sound could escape. "Shh," he whispered, his face inches from hers. "Don't be rude. I've been visiting for weeks. The least you can do is say hello, don't you think?"
She struggled, nails scratching at his wrist hard enough to draw blood. Martin didn't flinch. The wounds healed instantly, flesh knitting back together like nothing had happened. He leaned in close, letting her see his eyes—pale, inhuman, pupils slit like a cat's in the dim light from the streetlamp outside. "You know me," he whispered, his breath hot against her cheek. "You've been dreaming about me. Don't lie to yourself. Don't lie to me. I made all of those dreams for you."
She froze. Recognition flickered there, mixed with terror, confusion, and something else—something that looked suspiciously like desire. She shook her head, denying it even as her body reacted to his proximity, her pupils dilating further, her breathing quickening. Martin could smell her arousal, sharp and sweet, cutting through the fear like a knife through butter. The bond at work. She couldn't help it. She was made for him, literally created to respond to his touch, his presence, his essence.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she gasped when he removed his hand, her voice shaking with the effort of lying. "Who the fuck are you? How did you get in?"
"The window was open," he lied smoothly, gesturing toward the glass. "And you do know me. You've been having such dirty dreams, baby. Such filthy, nasty dreams. About me. About this." He grabbed her hand and pressed it against his chest, over where his heart would be if he had one. Under his shirt, she could feel the raised ridges of his sternum, the cool temperature of his skin that ran several degrees below human normal. She tried to pull away, but he held her firm, his grip like iron wrapped in velvet.
"Let go of me," she said, voice shaking. "I'll scream—I'll scream and someone will call the police."
"No, you won't," Martin said, and he knew it was true. The bond wouldn't let her. Already, he could see it in her eyes—the confusion, the war between fear and desire, the way her pupils dilated when she looked at his mouth, his throat, the visible pulse beating there. "Because you want to know. You've been wondering if it could be real. If someone could actually make you feel like the things in your dreams. If you could actually be that person—the one who gets taken, who gets owned, who doesn't have to be responsible for one fucking night."
"You're crazy," she whispered, but her voice lacked conviction. It was breathy, interested, and curious despite her fear.
Martin smiled, slow and predatory, showing just a hint of fang. "Maybe. But I'm also the best fuck you'll ever have. And you know it. You've felt it. Every night when you touch yourself in the shower, thinking about the dreams, about the faceless man who makes you scream—you've been feeling me. Preparing for me. Getting ready for this moment."
He moved fast, faster than human reflexes could track, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand while the other traced down her side with devastating precision. She gasped, arching away from his touch, but there was nowhere to go. He was stronger, faster, and he knew exactly where to touch her because he'd spent weeks mapping her desires in her dreams, learning every sensitive spot, every trigger, every secret she kept even from herself.
"Stop," she said, but it was weak, a token protest at best.
"Tell me you want me to stop," Martin challenged, his hand sliding under her hoodie, finding bare skin and making her shiver. "Tell me you don't want this, and I'll go. I'll walk out that window and never come back. You'll never dream about me again. You'll go back to your sad little life of studying and working and pretending you don't fantasize about being owned, being broken, being made to take it until you can't think straight. Is that what you want?"
She whimpered, turning her face away, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. "I don't... I don't know you. I can't... this isn't..."
"You know me better than anyone," Martin said, and he meant it. He'd seen inside her soul, her darkest corners, her most shameful wants. "And I know you. I know you want to be taken. I know you want to stop thinking for a while and just feel. I know you're tired of being good, tired of being responsible, tired of being the girl who does everything right and still ends up alone in a shitty apartment eating convenience store ramyeon."
His hand found her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple through her bra, and she bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood. Martin leaned down and licked it away, the copper taste making his head spin with desire, with need, with the overwhelming urge to claim her completely. "Say yes," he whispered against her mouth, his lips barely touching hers. "Or say nothing. But don't say no unless you mean it, unless you're willing to go back to a life without this, without me, without ever knowing what it could be like."
She was trembling, tears streaming down her temples into her hair, her body caught in a war between what she'd been taught to want and what she actually desired. Martin waited, holding himself back by the thinnest thread of control, giving her this moment to decide. He would take her silence as permission, as surrender, as the agreement he needed. The bond demanded completion, and he was done waiting, done being patient, done pretending he was anything other than the monster who had come to claim her.
He kissed her. Hard. Demanding. His tongue swept into her mouth without asking, tasting her, claiming her, marking her as his with every stroke. She made a noise in her throat—part protest, part surrender, part desperate hunger—and then she was kissing him back, clumsy and eager and starving for contact. Her tongue met his, tentatively at first, then with growing confidence as the bond worked its magic, overriding her fear with desire, her hesitation with need.
Martin groaned, the sound rumbling through his chest, and his tail snapped into existence, curling around her ankle to hold her in place, the sensitive tip stroking her calf through the fabric of her pants. She felt it, gasped into his mouth, tried to pull back to look, but he didn't let her. He kept kissing her, kept devouring her, while his hands worked at her clothes with desperate efficiency.
He ripped her shirt off, the fabric tearing like paper in his grip, leaving her in just her bra. He pulled back to look at her, to memorize her, this girl who was meant to be his, who had been created for him before either of them existed. She was flushed, chest heaving, eyes dark with confusion and lust and something that looked like wonder.
"Fuck," he breathed, the word barely audible. "Look at you. Perfect. Mine."
She was beautiful. Flushed skin spreading down her neck and chest, nipples hard and visible through the thin fabric of her bra, eyes wide and wild. She covered herself instinctively, arms crossing over her chest, but Martin grabbed her wrists and pinned them again, holding them above her head with one hand while the other traced her curves with reverent hunger.
"Don't hide from me," he commanded, his voice dropping into a register that made her shiver. "Never hide from me. I want to see you. All of you. Every part."
He descended on her neck, sucking bruises into her skin that would bloom purple and black by morning, marks that would last for days as reminders of this night. She moaned, head falling back against the pillow, giving him access, submitting to his mouth even as her mind screamed warnings. Martin took it, biting and licking his way down to her collarbone, then lower. He unhooked her bra with practiced ease and closed his mouth around her nipple, sucking hard, flicking the sensitive bud with his tongue.
"Oh god," she gasped, arching into him, her back leaving the mattress. "Oh fuck, oh god, what are you doing to me?"
"Not god," Martin corrected, looking up at her with eyes that glowed faintly red in the dark, demonic light bleeding through. "Demon. The one who's going to ruin you for anyone else."
He switched to the other breast, giving it the same treatment, his hand sliding down to pop the button on her jeans. She stiffened slightly, that hesitation returning, the reality of what was happening breaking through the haze of arousal. But Martin was relentless. He slipped his hand inside her panties and found her wet—soaked, actually, dripping for him even as her mind screamed warnings about stranger danger and bad decisions.
"So wet," he murmured against her skin, circling her clit with his thumb with devastating precision. "So fucking wet. You've been dreaming about this. About me touching you. About being filled, being owned, being taken so hard you can't walk straight for a few days."
"Please," she whimpered, and Martin didn't know if she was begging him to stop or keep going. He chose to believe the latter, chose to interpret that broken sound as permission to continue.
He pulled her pants off, then her panties, leaving her naked beneath him while he remained fully clothed. The power dynamic wasn't lost on either of them—her vulnerable and exposed, him dressed and in control. Martin sat back to admire the view, his own clothes dissolving into shadow—demon magic, convenient as hell, leaving him as naked as she was. He let her see him—all of him. The pale skin, the lean muscle, the hard cock jutting up against his stomach, already leaking precum with how badly he needed her.
Y/N's eyes went wide, taking him in. "You're... you're not human. What are you?"
"Not even a little," Martin said, crawling over her, caging her with his arms. "But you don't care, do you? You want this. You want me. Even knowing what I am. Maybe especially because of it."
He didn't wait for an answer. He positioned himself at her entrance, feeling her heat against his tip, and pushed in, slow and steady, giving her time to adjust to his size. She was tight—virgin tight, he realized with a dark thrill that made his head spin—and the resistance made him groan, made him want to thrust hard and bury himself to the hilt, but he held back. He wasn't completely without mercy.
"Relax," he whispered, kissing her tears away, tasting the salt and the fear and the desire. "Let me in. Let me have you. Open up for me, baby."
She breathed out, forcing her muscles to loosen, and he slid deeper, inch by inch, until he bottomed out with a satisfied grunt that sounded like a prayer. They were joined, connected, and Martin could feel the bond humming between them, strengthening with every second of contact, every millimeter of depth.
"Look at me," he commanded, gripping her chin and forcing her eyes to his. "Look at me while I fuck you. I want to see your face when you realize this is real, that I'm real, that this is happening."
He started moving, slow at first, then faster as she adjusted to the stretch, as her body learned to accommodate him. She was whimpering, nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to draw blood that healed instantly, legs wrapping around his waist like she couldn't decide if she wanted to pull him closer or push him away. The bond made it impossible for her to truly want him gone—it demanded closeness, completion, the joining of two halves into a whole.
"Feel good?" Martin asked, punctuating each word with a thrust that made her gasp. "Feel like your dreams? Better? Tell me."
"Yes," she gasped, and the admission seemed to break something in her, some final resistance. She stopped fighting and started meeting his thrusts, rolling her hips, taking him deeper, harder, faster. "Yes, yes, fuck, yes, don't stop, please don't stop."
Martin grinned, sharp and feral, and picked up the pace, snapping his hips against hers with enough force to move the bed against the wall. "There you are. That's it. Take it. Take me."
He flipped them suddenly, putting her on top. She yelped, grabbing his shoulders for balance, her eyes wide with surprise. "Ride me," he ordered, hands on her hips guiding her, showing her the rhythm. "Show me how much you want it. Take what you want and need."
She hesitated, then started moving, tentative at first, then with growing confidence as the pleasure built. Martin watched her, mesmerized by the sway of her breasts, the flush spreading down her chest and stomach, the way her hair fell around her face like a curtain, the way her eyes went unfocused with pleasure.
"Beautiful," he murmured, reaching up to pinch her nipples, rolling them between his fingers. "So fucking beautiful. Made for me. Made to take my cock. Made to be mine."
"Fuck off," she moaned, but she was smiling, drunk on the sensation, on the fullness, on the connection she couldn't explain but couldn't deny.
Martin sat up, wrapping his arms around her, burying his face in her neck. He thrust up into her, meeting her movements, creating a rhythm that had them both panting, both sweating, both climbing toward something explosive. His tail wrapped around her waist, holding her close, and his wings unfurled behind him, casting shadows on the walls that moved like living things.
"Going to fill you up," he growled against her skin, his fangs scraping her pulse point. "Going to mark you. Make you mine forever. You want that? You want to be mine?"
"Martin," she gasped, and hearing his name on her lips, the name he'd never told her but she somehow knew from the dreams, sent him over the edge. He came hard, spilling inside her with enough force to make his vision white out, his body shaking with the intensity of it. He kept thrusting through it, milking his orgasm, reaching between them to rub her clit in tight circles until she followed him over.
She came with a scream that she bit into his shoulder, her body clenching around him in rhythmic waves that felt like they would never end. Her nails drew blood that healed instantly, her body shaking with the force of her release. Martin held her through it, kissing her through the aftershocks, whispering praise and possession in equal measure.
They collapsed together, tangled in sweat and shadows and the aftermath of something that had changed them both forever. Martin didn't pull out. He couldn't. The bond was still building, still demanding more, and he was already getting hard again inside her, ready for round two, and three, and however many it took until she couldn't remember a time before him.
"That was..." she trailed off, breathless, her voice hoarse from screaming.
"Round one," Martin finished, already rolling his hips, making her gasp. "We've got all night, princess. And every night after. Forever."
---
The next few weeks were a blur of sex and obsession, of Martin moving into her tiny apartment and taking over every aspect of her life. He didn't ask permission—he simply never left, and she was too exhausted, too overwhelmed, too addicted to the pleasure to make him. He learned her schedule, her habits, her tells. He learned that she liked her coffee black with two sugars, that she hummed off-key when she studied, that she had a scar on her knee from falling off a bike when she was seven that she was self-conscious about.
He also learned that she was still conflicted, still fighting against what she saw as her own weakness, her own inability to resist him. During the day, she would look at him sometimes with fear in her eyes, like she couldn't believe what she'd done, what she was continuing to do, what she was becoming. She'd try to put distance between them, to focus on her studies, her job, her "real life" that didn't include demons and bonds and supernatural claiming.
Martin didn't allow it. He was a possessive bastard by nature, and the bond made him infinitely worse. He'd corner her in the shower, pressing her against the tile with her hands pinned above her head, fucking her until she couldn't remember why she'd been trying to stay away, until she was begging for more instead of protesting. He'd visit her at work, invisible to human eyes, and whisper the dirtiest things in her ear until she was wet and squirming behind the counter, unable to focus on customers.
"You can't run from this," he told her one night, pinning her hands above her head as he thrust into her from behind, her face pressed against the mattress. "You can't run from me. We're connected. Bonded. You feel it, don't you? Even when you hate me, even when you're scared of me, you feel it pulling you back."
"Yes," she sobbed, pushing back against him, meeting his thrusts even as tears streamed down her face. "I feel it. I feel you everywhere. I can't escape you. I don't know if I want to."
"Good," Martin growled, biting her shoulder hard enough to leave marks that wouldn't fade for days, permanent reminders of his possession. "Because I'm never letting you go. You're mine. Your body and soul. Forever."
It was during this period that Keonho appeared, sliding into their lives with the randomness of a cosmic joke. He was a customer at the convenience store where Y/N still worked despite Martin's protests that she didn't need the money—he could provide for her, could give her everything she needed and most of what she wanted. But she insisted on maintaining some normalcy, some connection to the life she'd had before him.
Keonho was tall, broad-shouldered, with that generic handsome face that Korean beauty standards loved—symmetrical features, double eyelids, perfect skin. He came in every Tuesday and Thursday for energy drinks and cigarettes, always timing his visits for when Y/N was working the evening shift. He flirted with her, leaning on the counter like he owned the place, asking about her day in a way that suggested interest beyond casual conversation.
"You're pretty," Keonho said one Thursday, smiling with teeth that were too white to be natural. "You should smile more. You look tired."
Martin was there, leaning against the wall in his invisible form, watching the exchange with growing rage. He saw red—literally. His vision tinted crimson, and he had to physically restrain himself from materializing and ripping the guy's throat out with his bare hands. But he held back. He wanted to see what Y/N would do, if she would respond, if she would encourage this pathetic human's attention.
"Thanks," she said, polite but distant, not meeting Keonho's eyes as she rang up his purchase. "Long week. Have a good day."
Keonho left, looking disappointed but not defeated. Martin materialized behind her the moment the door closed, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her back against his chest. She jumped, nearly dropping the cash register tray.
"Good girl," he purred in her ear, his voice dripping with possession and dark promise. "You ignored him. Smart. You know what happens if you don't, don't you? You know what I'd do to anyone who tried to take you from me?"
"Martin," she gasped, her hand over her heart. "Don't sneak up on me like that. And don't threaten random customers. He's just a guy."
"He's prey," Martin corrected, spinning her around and lifting her onto the counter in one smooth motion. He pushed her skirt up, tore her panties aside with a rip of fabric, and buried himself inside her in one thrust that made her scream and grab his shoulders. "You're mine. Remember? No one else touches you. No one else looks at you. No one else gets to have what's mine."
"Martin," she whimpered, wrapping her legs around him as he fucked her hard and fast, the counter digging into her back. "Someone could come in. The door—"
"Let them," he snarled, his thrusts becoming punishing, designed to remind her who she belonged to. "Let them see. Let them know who you belong to. Let them see you getting ruined by a demon."
She came quickly, biting his shoulder to muffle her screams, her body clenching around him in rhythmic pulses that milked his own release. Martin followed, spilling inside her with a growl of satisfaction, then held her close while she trembled in his arms, the aftershocks rolling through her.
"You're going to be the death of me," she whispered against his neck, her breath hot and shaky.
"Already dead," Martin reminded her, kissing her forehead with surprising gentleness. "And so are you, technically. You just don't know it yet. But you will. Soon."
---
The bond completed itself on a rainy Tuesday night, three months after Martin had first crawled through her window. They'd been building to this, the final snap of connection that would seal them together for eternity, and both of them could feel it approaching like a storm on the horizon.
Martin was inside her, moving slow and deep, staring into her eyes with an intensity that made her want to look away but wouldn't let her. It was different tonight—softer, somehow, though no less intense. They'd been fighting earlier, one of their usual arguments about her independence and his possessiveness, and the makeup sex had led to this moment, this stillness, this recognition.
"Look at me," Martin commanded, his voice rough with emotion he didn't want to name. "Don't look away. No matter what happens. Keep your eyes on mine."
Y/N stared back, her eyes wide and dark and full of things she couldn't articulate. Her hands were in his, fingers interlaced, palms pressed together in a parody of prayer. Martin could feel the energy building between them, the magic of the bond reaching its crescendo, preparing to snap into place with finality.
"Do you accept this?" Martin asked, the words feeling ancient and formal on his tongue. "Do you accept me? The bond? Forever? Whatever that means, whatever it takes, whatever we become together?"
She hesitated, and for a moment Martin was terrified she'd say no, that she would reject him, reject this, choose her humanity over what they could be together. Then she nodded, tears streaming down her temples into her hair, and whispered, "Yes. I accept. I want you. I need you. I'm yours. I always was."
The world exploded.
Martin felt the bond lock into place with an audible snap, like a rubber band breaking or a chain clicking shut after centuries of waiting. Power flooded through him—ancient, primal, demonic power that had been building since the moment he first felt her presence—and into her, through their joined hands, their joined bodies, their joined souls. Her eyes went black, then glowing red, then back to normal, but different. Changed. Transformed.
She gasped, arching off the bed, her back forming a perfect bow, and Martin felt her come around him, harder than ever before, her body shaking with the force of the transformation as immortality flooded her veins. He followed, spilling inside her, marking her completely in every way that mattered, the pleasure so intense his vision whited out completely, his wings snapping into existence and tearing through the wall behind the bed.
When it was over, when the light faded and the room stopped spinning and the power settled into a steady hum between them, Martin pulled out and looked at her. Really looked.
She was immortal now. He could see it in the way her skin seemed to glow from within with a faint otherworldly light, in the way her eyes held centuries instead of years, in the way her wounds from their rough sex had already healed completely. She was his, and he was hers, and nothing could change that, not time, not distance, not death itself.
"What... what happened?" she asked, touching her chest like she could feel the new heartbeat there, the one that would never stop, never fail, never age.
"I made you like me," Martin said, kissing her gently, tasting the change in her, the power that matched his own. "You're immortal now. Bound to me. We'll live forever, together. No more aging, no more sickness, no more death. Just us. Forever."
She should have been terrified. She should have screamed, fought, run for the hills to escape this fate she'd never asked for. Instead, she smiled—a real smile, the first one he'd seen that reached her eyes and lit up her whole face.
"Forever," she repeated, testing the word like a new flavor. "I like the sound of that."
---
They stayed in the mortal world for five more years after the bond snapped into place. Long enough for Y/N to finish her degree, to quit her shitty convenience store job with a dramatic exit that involved flipping off her manager, to say goodbye to the few friends she had who wouldn't understand why she suddenly stopped aging. Martin learned to be human, or at least to pretend convincingly enough to pass in daylight hours. He got a job as a bartender at a club in Itaewon, mixing drinks and flirting with customers while keeping his real nature hidden behind charming smiles and practiced banter.
They fought, sometimes. The bond didn't erase personality conflicts, and Martin was still a possessive, sarcastic demon who'd lived for centuries and had opinions about everything, while Y/N was a former human with a temper and a stubborn streak that had only been amplified by her new immortality. But the makeup sex was spectacular—rough and desperate and full of the kind of passion that came from knowing you literally couldn't live without each other. And the bond meant they could feel each other's emotions, smoothing over misunderstandings before they festered into real resentment.
Keonho showed up again randomly, two years after their first meeting, in a way that made Martin suspect the universe was fucking with him. He was working as a delivery driver now, apparently having failed at whatever career he'd been pursuing, and he brought takeout to their new apartment—a slightly less shitty place that Martin had insisted on upgrading to—by complete accident. He'd gotten the address wrong, confused their building with one down the street.
Martin answered the door wearing nothing but sweatpants, his pale chest on full display, eyes glowing faintly red in the dim hallway lighting. He looked at Keonho, recognized him immediately, and felt a surge of possessive rage that made his fangs ache.
"Wrong address," Martin said flatly, taking the bag of food and closing the door in Keonho's shocked face before the human could say a word.
"Who was that?" Y/N called from the bedroom, where she was sprawled naked on their new, larger bed.
"Nobody," Martin said, dropping the food and joining her, already hard from the adrenaline and the need to reassert his claim. "Just some lost soul who took a wrong turn. Forget him. Focus on me."
---
When they finally decided to return to Hell, it wasn't because they had to. It was because they wanted to, because the mortal world had started to feel small, limited, like a video game they'd completed and had no more interest in replaying. There were only so many countries to visit, so many time periods to experience, so many ways to reinvent themselves before it all started to feel like variations on a theme.
The return was easier than the departure. Martin simply opened a portal in their bedroom one morning while they were both still tangled in sheets and each other, a tear in reality that leaked smoke and the scent of sulfur and the distant sound of screaming that was almost comforting in its familiarity.
"Ready?" he asked, holding out his hand, his true form flickering into visibility—horns, wings, tail, the red gradients on his pale skin that marked him as an infernal noble.
Y/N looked around their apartment one last time—their first real home together, the place where she'd become something more than human. Then she took his hand, her own eyes flashing red for a moment as she felt the pull of the underworld. "Ready. Let's go home."
They stepped through together, hand in hand, and the portal closed behind them like a mouth swallowing prey.
Hell hadn't changed in the years Martin had been gone. It was still a shithole, still boring if you looked at it the wrong way, still full of screaming souls and bureaucratic nightmares and demons who would stab you in the back for a promotion. But this time, Martin wasn't alone. He had his bonded, his other half, his eternal companion who would walk beside him through centuries and millennia and whatever came after.
They split their time between realms—months in Hell, years in the mortal world, hopping through history like tourists with unlimited budgets and no expiration dates. They fucked in palaces and gutters, in every time period and every continent, in the middle of wars and celebrations and quiet moments when it was just them and the bond that connected them.
And through it all, the bond remained. Stronger than steel, hotter than hellfire, unbreakable and absolute and theirs alone. Martin had been right, all those years ago when he'd first felt the tug in the pits of Hell. The sense had brought him adventure. It had brought him purpose. It had brought him Y/N.
And that, he decided, watching her sleep in their bed in the inferno, her head on his chest and her hand over his nonexistent heart, was worth every century of waiting, every moment of pain, every sacrifice they'd made to be together.
Forever wasn't long enough. But it was a start.