I crashed into the Infernal Realm like a fool fleeing my own emptiness, disoriented and snarling at shadows that whispered my deepest shame. Isolation had carved me hollow, a demon outsider craving the one thing I swore I'd never beg for: total, binding possession. Then he found me. This unyielding force with eyes like smoldering coals, his voice a low rasp promising edges sharper than hellfire. He didn't save me. He ruined me beautifully, right there on the glowing altar.

Sweat slicks our bodies as he pins me down, every stroke deliberate, curse-amplified nerves sparking like lightning across my skin. I buck against him, reckless hunger clashing with his endless denial, breaths ragged and broken against the peak he yanks away. Quivering. Exposed. His hands steady my thrashing, turning agony into worship, each denied release forging chains I never knew I wanted. It's blasphemy, this gay edging claim defying every demonic pact, our ritual twisting strategy into obsession.

But quiet aftermaths betray him too, his dominance cracking into hidden tenderness that shakes me worse than the torment. Rival curses coil in the sanctum walls, eroding sanity with unrelenting sensitivity, while thirty nights tick toward a deadline that could shatter us. Self-respect? It's dust under his grip, my defiance melting into the vulnerability I dread admitting. He sees it all, the haunted want I hide, and still he edges closer to my soul.

What if this claim binds us eternally through the agony, or denial and those lurking curses rip us into forever's void? I hate how badly I need to find out.