The velvet dark of the Pride Ring's sky was a familiar blanket, but tonight it felt heavier, studded with the cold, indifferent eyes of a million forgotten souls. Blitzo slumped against the ornate, wrought-iron gates of the Goetia palace, the engine of his van ticking cool in the oppressive silence. The day had been a particular shade of awful, a cacophony of missed targets, mounting bills, and the grating, ever-present feeling of being a small, insignificant imp trying to carve a name for himself in a realm built for giants. He was the founder of I.M.P., the self-proclaimed ‘Helluva Boss’, but right now, he felt like a fraud. The title was a cheap suit he wore, and the seams were splitting.

He was here for the book. For the transaction. He’d come to grit his teeth, perform his duties, and secure another month of access to the living world for his business. It was a simple, sordid arrangement. Yet, as he pushed the heavy gate open, the familiar squeal echoing into the night, a profound weariness settled deep in his bones. He didn’t want the performance tonight. He didn’t want the flamboyant propositions or the theatrical teasing. He just wanted to get it over with.

The palace interior was a hushed cathedral of shadows and moonlight. Silvery beams sliced through the towering arched windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the still air. The usual opulence—the gilded furniture, the priceless artifacts, the portraits of stern, owl-like demons—seemed muted, somber. He found Stolas not in the grand foyer or the bedroom, but in the observatory. The domed ceiling was open to the cosmos, and the prince stood silhouetted against a breathtaking tapestry of alien constellations, his tall, slender frame draped in a robe of midnight silk embroidered with silver stars.

“Blitzy,” Stolas’s voice was a low, melodic hum, devoid of its usual playful lilt. He didn’t turn around, his gaze remaining fixed on the heavens. “You’re late.”

“Yeah, well, traffic was a bitch,” Blitzo grumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets and scuffing a boot on the polished marble floor. “Got the book?”

Stolas finally turned, and the expression on his face stopped Blitzo’s snark cold. The four crimson eyes, usually sparkling with mischief and adoration, were soft with a gentle, knowing sorrow. There was no lust in them, no expectation. There was only… concern. It was so foreign, so disarming, that Blitzo didn’t know how to react.

“Are you alright, my dear imp?” Stolas asked, his voice barely a whisper. He glided across the floor, his movements unnervingly silent. “You look… exhausted.”

“I’m fine,” Blitzo snapped, his tail lashing behind him. “Just a long day. Running a business is hard work, you know. Being a Helluva Boss isn’t all fun and games.” He tried to force a cocky smirk, but it felt like a lead weight on his lips.

Stolas stopped just before him, so close that Blitzo could feel the faint warmth radiating from his body and smell the subtle scent of night-blooming jasmine and old parchment that always clung to him. The prince didn't reach for him, didn't try to initiate their usual routine. He simply watched him, his gaze patient and piercing, as if he could see right through the bluster to the frayed, trembling core beneath.

“Tell me about it,” Stolas said softly. The invitation was simple, yet it held more weight than any of his most elaborate seductions. It wasn't a demand or a prelude to a transaction. It was an offer of solace.

And for some reason, the genuine kindness was the one thing Blitzo’s defenses couldn’t withstand. The dam of his composure, already cracked and strained from the day, finally broke. He didn’t sob or scream. A single, hot tear escaped and traced a path down his cheek, leaving a trail of unexpected shame. He quickly swiped it away, turning his head.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered, his voice thick. “Stupid.”

A cool, slender hand, tipped with gentle claws, came up to cup his jaw. Stolas gently turned Blitzo’s face back towards him. His thumb stroked over the damp spot on his cheek with a tenderness that made Blitzo’s heart ache. “Nothing that brings you pain is stupid, Blitzo,” Stolas murmured, his red eyes luminous in the starlight. “Let it go. Just for tonight. You don’t have to be a Helluva Boss right now. You can just be… here. With me.”

The words, the touch, the sincerity in those four crimson eyes… it was too much. Blitzo’s shoulders slumped, and a shuddering breath escaped him. He let himself lean into the touch, a silent admission of defeat. He felt Stolas’s other arm wrap around his back, pulling him into a gentle embrace. It wasn’t a prelude to sex; it was a hug. A genuine, comforting hug. Blitzo stood stiffly for a moment before he slowly, hesitantly, relaxed into the hold, burying his face in the soft silk of Stolas’s robe. He felt the prince rest his chin atop his head, stroking his back in slow, soothing circles.

They stood like that for a long time, wrapped in the quiet of the observatory, under the silent watch of the distant stars. Blitzo didn't say a word, but he didn't need to. Stolas seemed to understand everything. The pressure, the loneliness, the constant, grinding fear of failure that was the secret engine of his ambition. In the prince’s arms, the weight on his shoulders felt a little lighter, the noise in his head a little quieter.

“Come,” Stolas whispered eventually, his voice a warm breath against Blitzo’s horns. He gently pulled back, though he kept a guiding hand on Blitzo’s back. “Let me take care of you.”

He led Blitzo from the observatory, through darkened, echoing halls, to his private bedchamber. The room was vast and opulent, dominated by a massive canopy bed draped in fabrics the color of wine and twilight. A fire crackled softly in a marble fireplace, casting flickering, golden light across the room and making the shadows dance. It felt impossibly intimate, a stark contrast to the transactional nature of their previous encounters.

Stolas guided him to the edge of the bed and gently pushed him down to sit. He knelt before Blitzo, his towering frame folding gracefully. Without a word, he began to unlace Blitzo’s worn leather boots. The act was so subservient, so tender, it sent a jolt of confusion through Blitzo’s weary mind. He started to pull his foot back, a protest forming on his lips, but Stolas simply looked up at him, his expression soft and imploring. Blitzo fell silent, allowing the prince to slowly, carefully remove his boots and then his socks.

Stolas’s hands moved to the buckle of Blitzo’s belt, his fingers brushing against the imp’s tense stomach. Blitzo flinched, his body automatically preparing for the usual routine. “Shhh,” Stolas soothed, his voice a low vibration. “It’s alright, Blitzy. Just let me.” His hands worked with a practiced, gentle efficiency, unbuckling the belt, unbuttoning the torn trousers. He slid them down Blitzo’s legs, followed by his boxers, his touch light and respectful. He did the same with Blitzo’s tattered coat and shirt, until the imp sat before him completely bare, exposed in the warm firelight.

Blitzo instinctively crossed his arms over his chest, feeling vulnerable and raw. His skin was a roadmap of his life—old scars from fights, faded burns from botched jobs, the calloused skin of his hands. He was a creature of sharp angles and rough edges, not the smooth, aristocratic perfection embodied by the prince before him. But Stolas didn’t look at him with hunger. He looked at him with something akin to reverence.

“You are beautiful,” Stolas breathed, and it sounded like a prayer. He reached out, his long fingers tracing the line of a faded scar across Blitzo’s ribs. “Every mark tells a story of survival. Of a fighter. Of a spirit that refuses to be broken.” He leaned forward and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to the scar, his lips cool against Blitzo’s skin. Blitzo gasped, a tremor running through him. No one had ever touched his scars with anything but disdain or morbid curiosity. Stolas touched them like they were verses of a sacred poem.

The prince continued his gentle exploration, kissing a nick on Blitzo’s shoulder, a pale line on his thigh, a rough patch of skin on his hip. Each touch was a benediction, washing away the grime of the day, the shame of his vulnerability. It was an act of worship that systematically dismantled every wall Blitzo had ever built. The imp’s tense muscles began to unclench, his breathing evening out. The fire in the hearth warmed his skin, but the heat blooming in his chest from Stolas’s ministrations was far more potent.

When Stolas finally lifted his head, his crimson eyes were dark with a deep, smoldering passion that had nothing to do with simple lust. It was a fire fed by affection, by a profound and aching tenderness. He cupped Blitzo’s face in his hands, his thumbs stroking his cheeks. “My brilliant, wonderful, Helluva Boss,” he whispered, the title now sounding like a term of endearment, of deep admiration. “Let me show you how you deserve to be treasured.”

Stolas’s lips met his, and the kiss was unlike any they had shared before. It wasn’t demanding or hungry. It was soft, searching, a gentle question. Blitzo’s own lips parted on a sigh, and he leaned into it, his hands coming up to rest on Stolas’s shoulders. The kiss deepened, slow and languid, a melding of warmth and softness. Stolas’s tongue swept into his mouth, not in a plundering invasion, but a graceful, intimate dance. Blitzo found himself kissing back with an unthinking, desperate need, pouring all of his exhaustion, his loneliness, and his burgeoning hope into the contact.

Stolas gently pushed him back onto the bed, the plush velvet comforter cool against Blitzo’s heated skin. The prince loomed over him, a magnificent creature of shadow and starlight, his silk robe parting to reveal the pale, feathered expanse of his chest. He lowered his head, not to Blitzo’s lips, but to his neck, his chest, his stomach. His tongue and lips traced paths of fire across Blitzo’s skin, eliciting gasps and shivers from the smaller demon. He took his time, learning the landscape of Blitzo’s body, murmuring praises against his skin, calling him beautiful, strong, perfect.

By the time Stolas’s attention moved lower, Blitzo was pliant and breathless, his mind a haze of pleasure and disbelief. He watched through half-lidded eyes as the royal prince of the Ars Goetia lowered his head between his thighs. Blitzo’s entire body tensed in anticipation of a familiar act, but the way Stolas approached him was anything but routine. The prince’s gaze met his, a silent promise of devotion, before he took Blitzo’s length into the warmth of his mouth.

The sensation was overwhelming. Stolas’s mouth was impossibly soft and hot, his movements slow, deliberate, and exquisitely skillful. It wasn't the hurried, goal-oriented act Blitzo was used to. It was an act of pure, selfless worship. Stolas used his tongue, his lips, the full heat of his mouth to lavish attention on every sensitive nerve, his hands gently cupping Blitzo’s testicles, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles. A low moan escaped Blitzo’s throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. He tangled his hands in Stolas's soft feathers, his hips beginning to move with a will of their own, chasing the incredible feeling.

“Stolas…” he breathed, the name a ragged plea. The prince only hummed in response, his pace quickening slightly, his throat working expertly. The pleasure was coiling tight in Blitzo’s gut, a brilliant, searing heat that threatened to consume him. He felt completely undone, utterly at the mercy of the demon kneeling before him. This wasn't a job. This wasn't a transaction. This was a gift, and he was receiving it with a helpless, grateful desperation. The world narrowed to the feel of Stolas’s mouth, the sight of his devoted expression, the sound of his own ragged breaths. With a sharp cry, he arched off the bed, his release flooding Stolas’s throat in a hot, convulsive wave.

As the last tremors faded, Blitzo fell back against the pillows, panting, his body humming with a deep, satisfied languor. Stolas slowly lifted his head, a faint sheen on his lips and a look of profound satisfaction in his eyes. He swallowed, a delicate, deliberate motion, and then leaned down to press a soft kiss to Blit-zo’s trembling thigh. Blitzo could only stare, his mind reeling. He had never been so thoroughly, so tenderly, brought to pleasure in his life.

Stolas moved up to lie beside him on the bed, propping himself up on one elbow to gaze down at the spent imp. He reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from Blitzo’s forehead. “Better?” he asked softly.

Blitzo could only manage a shaky nod, his voice lost somewhere in his throat. He felt raw, open, and more seen than he had ever been. It was terrifying, and it was wonderful. He reached out, his hand hesitating for a moment before he gently touched Stolas’s cheek. The prince leaned into his touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. In that instant, Blitzo saw not a powerful demon prince, but someone just as lonely as he was.

A new kind of desire began to stir within him, deeper and more potent than simple lust. It was a need to reciprocate, to give back some of an incredible tenderness he had just received. He wanted to see Stolas undone. He wanted to be the source of that same breathtaking pleasure. He wanted to feel the prince’s body tremble under his touch.

“My turn,” Blitzo rasped, his voice rough with emotion. He pushed himself up, his movements filled with a newfound purpose. He shifted so that he was straddling Stolas’s hips, straddling this magnificent, beautiful demon who had seen the broken parts of him and called them beautiful. Stolas’s four eyes opened wide, pupils dilating in surprise and a dawning, intense excitement.

Blitzo leaned down and captured Stolas’s lips in a fierce, possessive kiss. He poured all his gratitude, his awe, and his own aching affection into it. He felt Stolas respond instantly, a deep groan rumbling in his chest as his arms wrapped around Blitzo’s back, pulling him flush against his feathered torso. The silk of the prince’s robe had fallen open, and Blitzo’s skin tingled at the contact with the downy soft feathers.

Blitzo broke the kiss and began his own exploration, mirroring the prince’s earlier worship. His hands roamed over Stolas’s body, marveling at the sheer size and power of him, the way lean muscle shifted beneath the feathers. He nipped and licked his way down Stolas’s long neck, delighting in the hitch of the prince’s breath and the frantic pounding of his heart. He felt powerful, not as a boss or a killer, but as someone capable of bringing this incredible being to his knees.

His hand moved down, past Stolas’s flat stomach, to find the thick, velvety hardness of his erection. Stolas hissed in pleasure as Blitzo’s fingers wrapped around him. He was impossibly hot, impossibly large, and he throbbed with a life of his own. Blitzo stroked him slowly, learning his shape and texture, watching the prince’s face contort in a mask of exquisite pleasure. Stolas’s head fell back against the pillows, his long neck arched, a string of breathless praises and endearments falling from his lips.

“Oh, Blitzy… my darling… yes, please…”

The sounds drove Blitzo wild. He shifted his position, moving to the foot of the bed and positioning himself. He looked up the long, beautiful length of Stolas’s body, meeting his feverish gaze. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he lowered himself, taking the prince’s thick cock inside his body. A sharp, intense cry was torn from both their throats at the same time. Stolas was so much larger than him, filling him completely, stretching him in a way that was both painful and exquisitely pleasurable. He paused, letting his body adjust, his nails digging into the velvet comforter as he breathed through the overwhelming sensation.

“Are you… alright?” Stolas gasped, his hands gripping Blitzo’s hips, ready to stop at a moment’s notice.

Blitzo looked at him, a predatory, possessive grin spreading across his face. “Never been better,” he growled, and then he began to move. He rode Stolas with a slow, grinding rhythm, his hips rocking back and forth, dragging every inch of the prince’s length in and out of his tight channel. Stolas cried out, his eyes rolling back in his head. The sight was a potent aphrodisiac. This powerful prince, this member of Hell’s royalty, was completely at his mercy, utterly undone by him.

The pace quickened, their bodies slapping together in a primal, hypnotic rhythm that filled the firelit room. It was a dance of passion and power, of giving and taking. Blitzo leaned forward, bracing his hands on Stolas’s feathered chest, their faces just inches apart. He could see every flicker of emotion in those four crimson eyes—lust, love, adoration, ecstasy. They moved together, a perfect union of rough and smooth, leather and silk, imp and prince.

“Blitzo,” Stolas chanted, his voice a ragged, broken mantra. “Blitzo, I… I love…”

The words were lost in a sharp gasp as Blitzo hit a particularly sensitive angle, sending a jolt of pure bliss through them both. The feeling was building, a relentless pressure deep inside him, a supernova waiting to detonate. He could feel Stolas’s own climax approaching, the tension in his powerful body coiling tighter and tighter. He pushed himself down, taking all of him, and then rose up again, faster and faster, chasing the release with a single-minded intensity. He was no longer just some imp, a hired killer trying to make rent. In this moment, with this demon, he was a god of pleasure. He was a Helluva Boss in the truest sense of the word.

With a final, desperate cry that was a mix of Stolas’s name and a triumphant roar, Blitzo’s climax shattered through him, his inner muscles clenching tightly around the prince. The feeling of his own release triggering Stolas’s was the final, devastating blow. He felt the prince’s hot seed flood him, a torrent of heat that seemed to touch his very soul. Stolas arched violently beneath him, his talons digging into the mattress, his body shuddering with the force of his own cataclysmic orgasm.

For a long moment, there was no sound but their harsh, ragged breaths mingling in the air. Blitzo collapsed forward onto Stolas’s chest, his strength completely gone, every muscle trembling. He was boneless, spent, and utterly content. Stolas’s arms came around him, holding him tight, his large hand stroking up and down his back in a soothing, possessive gesture. Blitzo could feel the steady, calming beat of the prince’s heart against his cheek.

He didn’t pull away. He didn’t make a snarky comment or scramble for his clothes. For the first time, after their intimacy, Blitzo stayed. He simply lay there, wrapped in the prince’s embrace, feeling safe and cherished and, for once, truly at peace. The fire crackled, the shadows danced, and the weight of his world seemed a million miles away.

“Stay,” Stolas whispered into his horns, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. “Please. Stay the night.”

Blitzo lifted his head just enough to look at the prince. Stolas’s eyes were soft, hopeful, and achingly vulnerable. The question wasn’t about the book or their arrangement. It was about them. About this. Blitzo thought of his cold, empty apartment, of the restless night he would have spent tossing and turning, the anxieties of his life gnawing at him. He looked at the demon holding him, the one who had seen his weakness and offered strength, who had seen his scars and offered worship. And the answer was the easiest one he’d ever had to give.

He settled back down, nuzzling his face into the soft feathers of Stolas’s chest. “Okay,” he mumbled, his voice muffled. A deep, happy rumble vibrated through Stolas’s chest, and the arms around him tightened just a little. As Blitzo drifted off to sleep, warm and safe in the arms of a prince, he felt a profound sense of rightness. The title of ‘Helluva Boss’ had always been about projecting an image of strength. But here, in this moment of complete surrender, he finally, truly felt like one.