I woke up to the low, lazy thrum of hellfire candles still flickering along the walls and the heavy scent of sex hanging thick in the air. My sheets were a battlefield: black silk twisted and damp, streaked with dried cum and the faint shimmer of succubus nectar. Sprawled on her stomach beside me was Nyxia, the brunette from last night, wings folded neatly against her back, tail curled like a satisfied cat. Her thighs were still spread, pink pussy puffy and glistening, a slow rivulet of my cum leaking from her well-fucked hole onto the mattress.
She stirred when I sat up, violet eyes half-lidded, tongue dragging across swollen lips.
"Mmm… morning, Prince," she purred, rolling onto her side so one heavy breast spilled free. "Want another round? I'm still dripping with you."
I gave her a lazy smirk, shook my head. "Tempting, but I'm good. Got places to be."
Disappointment flashed across her face (genuine, almost pouty), then she shrugged, stood up, and let the sheet fall away completely. Cum slid down the inside of her thigh as she sauntered to the door, tail flicking. "Your loss, handsome." The door hissed shut behind her.
I showered fast: hellfire-hot water pounding over muscle, washing last night's sins down the drain. Black jeans, charcoal Henley, leather jacket, boots. Hair still damp when I stepped out into the corridor.
Two doors down, Kai's suite was wide open, the sounds spilling out like a porn studio: wet, rhythmic slaps of skin on skin, the succubus's high-pitched moans, the low creak of the bedframe taking punishment.
I leaned in the doorway.
Kai had the blonde from last night pinned beneath him in deep missionary, hips snapping forward with brutal precision. Each thrust drove his thick cock balls-deep, the wet smack of his pelvis against her ass echoing. Her legs were hooked over his shoulders, ankles by his ears, painted toes curling every time he bottomed out. Her tits bounced wildly, nipples dark and hard, hands clawing at his back hard enough to leave red trails.
"Bro," I called over the noise, "let's roll. Fresh air. Real food. Come on."
Kai didn't even slow down. He glanced over one sweat-slick shoulder, grinning like a demon. "Nah, man. I'm good right here." He punctuated it with a particularly savage thrust that ripped a scream out of the succubus. "You go ahead."
I rolled my eyes. "Alright. Just don't get your dick fractured, hero."
Kai froze mid-thrust. "The fuck you just say?"
The succubus (still impaled, legs trembling) propped herself up on her elbows, eyes bright with gossip. "Fractured? Spill."
I pulled out my phone, thumbed to the message Riven had sent an hour ago along with a blurry hospital selfie of him trying not to laugh in the background.
"Kid named Mateo," I read aloud. "Sixteen. Decided he was big enough to handle a seasoned MILF. Told her, and I quote, 'Mami, you gotta ride me cowgirl, I can take it.' She warned him. He flexed. She sat down. Snap. Full penile fracture. Currently in surgery."
Silence for half a heartbeat.
Then the room exploded.
Kai threw his head back and howled with laughter, abs clenching so hard he almost slipped out of her. The succubus shrieked, legs kicking in the air, tears streaming as she cackled. "Oh my gods, the hubris! The sheer teenage hubris!"
Kai dropped back down, still laughing, and crushed his mouth to hers in a messy, filthy kiss (tongues sliding, moans muffled, her hips rolling up to meet him again). She wrapped her legs tighter around his waist, nails digging into his ass, urging him deeper while they both shook with residual laughter.
I just shook my head, turned, and walked out.
Behind me, the wet slaps resumed immediately, faster now, punctuated by breathless giggles and the occasional gasped "Cowgirl—oh fuck—don't stop—"
I stepped into the corridor, hands in my pockets, grinning like an idiot.
Boys out here really living the dream and the nightmare in 4K.
Time to go find some trouble that didn't involve traction splints and traumatized mothers. Ace wandered the obsidian corridors with no real destination, hands in his pockets, boots silent on the polished floor. The base was quieter than usual; most agents were either asleep, fucking, or debriefing. He found himself in front of Lilith's private office (massive double doors of carved bone and crimson glass, runes pulsing like slow heartbeats).
He raised a fist to knock, then froze.
From the other side came the unmistakable wet symphony of a woman absolutely wrecking herself: low, guttural moans that climbed into desperate whimpers, the rhythmic squelch of fingers plunging deep and fast, the sharp slap of a palm grinding against a swollen clit. A sudden, choked cry (Lilith's voice, raw and undone) followed by the unmistakable hiss of liquid hitting marble as she squirted hard enough to splash the inside of the door.
Ace dropped his hand, pinched the bridge of his nose, and exhaled a long, suffering sigh.
"Of course she's stress-relieving to our mission footage again," he muttered under his breath. He could picture it perfectly: Lilith sprawled in her throne, skirt rucked to her waist, stockings shredded, one hand buried between her thighs while the holo played every depraved second of the Langford-Reed job on loop.
He turned on his heel and walked away, humming a jaunty little tune under his breath (some old mortal pop song about not needing permission to get laid), because some images you just couldn't unsee, even when you were a demon prince.
Meanwhile, three hundred miles away in St. Augustine's Medical Center, Riven Frostborn was losing the battle of his life.
He sat in the corner of the family waiting area, arms folded, jaw clenched so tight the muscle ticked. Every time the automatic doors to the trauma bay slid open, another nurse or orderly walked past trying (and failing) to hide their grins. Camila Reyes was still in the same plastic chair, barefoot, sundress askew, staring into space like her soul had left her body and filed for divorce.
A male nurse whispered to a colleague loud enough for half the room to hear: "Kid's lucky he didn't tear the whole thing off. Surgeon said the angle was… acrobatic."
Someone snorted. Someone else coughed into their sleeve. Camila's eye twitched.
Riven bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, shoulders shaking with silent, hysterical laughter. He had to pretend to check his phone just so he could hide his face. The drama was escalating beautifully, and he was living for every mortifying second.
Back at headquarters, Ace's wanderings took him past the Succubus Therapy Wing (soundproofed for a reason, but the doors were cracked open just enough).
He paused, curiosity winning.
Inside: a symphony of raw, healing sex.
Victor Langford (billionaire, newly-awakened Hellfire Sovereign) was bent over a padded bench, wrists and ankles locked in glowing pink restraints. A violet-skinned succubus straddled his hips in reverse cowgirl, riding him slow and deep while two more knelt in front of him, whispering filthy praise against his ears. Every time he sobbed (grief, rage, betrayal), one of them kissed it away and rolled her hips harder. Wet slaps, throaty moans, the low electric hum of pleasure runes etched into the walls.
Across the room, Senator Reed had a succubus on her knees sucking his soul out through his cock while another rode his face, wings spread, cooing, "That's it, Daddy, let it all burn out of you…"
Ace leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching the process with clinical appreciation.
"Two, maybe three more days of this," he murmured to himself. "Then they'll be eating out of Lilith's hand like tame dragons."
Succubus therapy was brutal, invasive, and one hundred percent effective. By the time they were done, Langford and Reed would beg to serve the Directorate just to feel that good again.
He pushed off the wall, shoved his hands back in his pockets, and continued down the corridor, same stupid mortal pop tune on his lips, the echoes of squirting demon queens and broken billionaires fading behind him.
Just another perfectly normal day in hell.