The promise of escape with Solomon was a small, cold pebble in my pocket. I clung to it as I navigated the House of Lamentation’s halls the next day, the memories of the library and Solomon’s bed a fresh, complicated ache. My body felt different—well-used, sensitive in a way that was both pleasurable and a constant, low-grade reminder of my own fractured state.

I avoided the places that smelled of Lucifer: the study, the formal parlors, the wing that held his private chambers. The silence he’d left behind was a physical presence, a cold spot in the mansion’s atmosphere. Instead, I drifted toward the one brother whose domain felt most insulated from that chill.

Leviathan’s room wasn’t just a bedroom; it was a biodome of curated obsession. The air was a calibrated mix of cool, dry airflow and the scent of plastic, paper, and ozone from countless screens. Light came not from windows, but from the ambient glow of monitors, LED strips, and glass cases holding meticulously painted figurines. The walls were a tapestry of anime posters, some shimmering with holographic effects, others featuring characters with eyes wider than saucers.

He was hunched over an elaborate gaming rig, a massive headset dwarfing his head, his fingers a blur on an arcade-style controller. On the screen, a spiky-haired character executed a frantic, pixelated combo. He didn’t notice me until I was right beside him, the sounds of battle ending with a triumphant fanfare.

He jumped, pulling the headset off with a startled yelp. “N-Nikki! I didn’t… you’re here.” His face, usually pale, flushed a delicate pink. His eyes, the color of deep-sea trenches, darted from me to the screen and back. The Avatar of Envy, in his natural habitat, was pure, flustered academia.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I said, offering a small smile that felt more genuine than I expected. “It’s… quiet in here. In a good way.”

He brightened immediately, the awkwardness melting into eager passion. “It’s a controlled sensory environment! Optimal for focus and immersion. Here, sit!” He vacated his plush gaming chair, gesturing for me to take it. “I was just beta-testing this new fighting game. The frame data on this character is broken; it’s so beautiful. Look at this…”

For the next hour, I let myself be submerged. He explained lore, demonstrated combos, his voice losing its stutter as he fell into a familiar lecturing rhythm. It was comforting. There was no subtext here, no calculating gaze. Just Leviathan sharing the things he loved, his world of stories and systems. I watched his slender hands gesture animatedly, and noted the genuine joy in his eyes when I asked a question. This was a different kind of affection, one that asked for nothing but shared interest.

“You get it,” he said finally, sighing with contentment as he leaned back against a stack of collector’s edition boxes. “You don’t just nod and pretend. You actually see the artistry in the pixel shading.”

Before I could answer, the door to his room burst open without ceremony.

Mammon stood framed in the doorway, a vision of aggravation in a custom-tailored jacket that probably cost more than a small car. His golden eyes scanned the scene—me in Leviathan’s chair, Leviathan close beside me, the intimate cocoon of glowing screens—and his expression twisted into a familiar, possessive scowl.

“There you are!” he announced, as if he’d been searching the entire Devildom. “I’ve been lookin’ all over for you, Nikki. C’mon, I got somethin’ to show you. Something real, not this… digital clutter.”

Leviathan’s face fell, the happy light snuffing out. A different tension entered his posture, a defensive hunch. “We’re in the middle of something, Mammon. And it’s not clutter. It’s a limited-run Crimson Seraphim statuette series. You wouldn’t understand its value.”

“Value?” Mammon scoffed, striding into the room. He looked wildly out of place, like a panther in a server room. “I’ll show you value. I just closed a deal on a black-market Celestial Bloom. A real one. Nikki deserves actual beautiful things, not drawings on a screen.”

His approach was so blatant, so transparently an attempt to buy my attention, that it almost circled back to being endearing. Almost. The ghost of Solomon’s words echoed: You’re a spell waiting to be cast. All that raw wanting.

Both of them were looking at me, Leviathan with a silent, pleading hope, Mammon with brash, confident demand. The hollow ache Lucifer had left throbbed dully. Here was warmth, and here was flash. Neither was what I truly wanted, but both were offers of forgetting.

A reckless idea, born from fatigue and a twisted need for validation, crystallized.

“You both want to show me something?” I asked, my voice deceptively light. I stood up from the gaming chair, feeling the gaze of both brothers lock onto me. “So show me. But make it a contest. I’m… in a competitive mood.”

Mammon’s grin was instantaneous, feral. “You hear that, otaku? A contest. Something you’re gonna lose.”

Leviathan’s jaw tightened. The shyness burned away, replaced by a glint of something steelier. Envy wasn’t just wanting what others had; it was the fierce, burning need to prove you deserved it more. “Fine,” he said, his voice lower, losing its squeak. “But we play by my rules first.”

Leviathan gestured to the two massive screens set up side-by-side. “Arena of the Lost God. Best of three. Winner… gets to choose what we do next.”

The challenge hung in the LED-lit air. Mammon, for all his bluster, was notoriously terrible at Leviathan’s complex fighting games. He opened his mouth to protest, but then his eyes slid to me, to the calculating look I knew was on my face. He saw it not as a game challenge but as a gamble. And the Avatar of Greed could never resist a wager.

“You’re on, you damn nerd. Prepare to get bankrupted.”

The next twenty minutes were a study in contrasts. Leviathan was a maestro, his movements economical, his predictions uncanny. His character flowed across the screen like water. Mammon smashed buttons with furious, swearing intensity, his powerhouse character lurching in graceless, violent bursts. He lost the first round spectacularly.

“Fucking lag!” he roared, throwing his controller onto the cushioned couch. It bounced harmlessly.

“There is no lag. You have the reflexes of a stunned glacier,” Leviathan said calmly, not taking his eyes off the screen. The subtle taunt was a new side of him. It was hot.

Mammon won the second round through sheer, unadulterated luck, a random critical hit saving him at the last possible pixel of health. He whooped, pumping his fist. “See? Skill!”

The third round was tense, silent except for the click-clack of controllers and the game’s frantic soundtrack. They were neck-and-neck, the digital avatars a blur of light and motion. I watched, my heart pounding strangely. This was absurd. It was also the most alive I’d felt in days.

Leviathan made his move—a complex, ten-hit combo that required frame-perfect timing. It landed. Mammon’s health bar vaporized. The victory fanfare played.

Mammon stared, slack-jawed, at the “DEFEAT” screen. Leviathan slowly placed his controller on his desk. He turned to look at me, and the look in his deep-sea eyes wasn’t shy anymore. It was hungry, possessive. He had won.

“My choice,” he stated, the words firm.

“Cheap win,” Mammon grumbled, but he was watching Leviathan too, a new, grudging respect in his gaze. He’d seen the same shift I had.

Leviathan stood. He walked over to me, his movements deliberate. He cupped my face, his touch surprisingly sure. “You said you were in a competitive mood,” he murmured. “So let’s compete.” He kissed me, and it was nothing as I expected. It was deep, exploring, and confident. It was a winner claiming a prize.

When he broke it, I was breathless. Mammon was on his feet, a low growl in his throat.“Hey. I’m still here.”

Leviathan looked at his brother over my shoulder. A sly, knowing smile touched his lips—an expression I’d never seen on him. “I know,” he said. “You can watch.”

The statement hung in the air, obscene and electrifying. Mammon’s eyes widened, then narrowed, the gold in them molten. The greed there wasn’t for money anymore. It was for this—for the scene, for the possession, for a piece of the heat radiating from us.

Leviathan didn’t wait for permission. He guided me backward toward his bed, a vast, low platform covered in dark silk and a scatter of decorative pillows. He kissed me again, pushing my shirt up over my head. His hands were cool, his fingers tracing the curves of my breasts with a fan’s reverence. “So perfect,” he whispered against my skin, his mouth closing around my nipple, sucking hard. A sharp gasp tore from me.

I heard Mammon move closer, his breathing uneven. I glanced over Leviathan’s shoulder. He was standing a few feet away, watching intently, one hand gripping the bedpost, the other blatantly palming the growing bulge in his expensive trousers.

Leviathan’s mouth travelled down my stomach. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of my leggings and panties, pulling them down in one motion. The cool air bit at my exposed skin. He didn’t linger. He pushed my knees apart, his gaze fixed between my legs.

“She’s already wet,” he announced, his voice holding a note of clinical awe. “From the game. From winning.” He looked back at Mammon. “You see that?”

“I see it,” Mammon’s voice was rough.

“Good.” Leviathan then bent his head and licked a long, slow stripe from my entrance to my clit. His tongue was agile, precise—a gamer’s tongue. He focused on my clit with the same single-minded intensity he’d used to execute his winning combo, flicking, sucking, applying perfect, torturous pressure.

I writhed, my fingers tangling in his soft, blue-black hair. My moans were loud in the quiet room, underscored by the hum of computer fans. I was hurtling toward the edge when Leviathan pulled away again.

“Not yet,” he said, his own breath coming fast. He stood, shucking off his hoodie and t-shirt, his torso pale and lean. He fumbled with his belt, his fingers trembling slightly, the only sign his confidence was a mantle he was still growing into. His cock sprang free, long and slender, already leaking.

He positioned himself at my entrance, his eyes locked on mine. “Mine first,” he said, and pushed in.

He was tight, a smooth, filling pressure. He moved with a rhythm that was all his own—not the savage pounding of Mammon’s implied style, nor Solomon’s calculated domination. It was deep, rhythmic rolls of his hips, an exploration of sensation. He watched my face, adjusting his angle until he found the spot that made me cry out, then he focused on it relentlessly.

“Levi…” I chanted, arching to meet him.

“That’s it,” he breathed, his composure cracking, sweat beading on his brow. “Say my name. Not his. Mine.”

From the periphery, Mammon couldn’t take it anymore. The sound of our bodies moving, my cries, his brother’s possessiveness—it was a bank heist he was just watching. He strode forward, his own cock freed, thick and ruddy in his fist. He climbed onto the bed behind Leviathan, his larger frame looming over his brother’s back.

Whilst strolling through any arcades, always stop to take a photo and play around in Lightroom. You’ll be impressed.

Carl Raw

Ch. 5: Seven Demons, One Darling

By: InkMouse

The promise of escape with Solomon was a small, cold pebble in my pocket. I clung to it as I navigated the House of Lamentation’s halls the next day, the memories of the library and Solomon’s bed a fresh, complicated ache. My body felt different—well-used, sensitive in a way that was both pleasurable and a constant, low-grade reminder of my own fractured state.



Ch. 5: Seven Demons, One Darling

By: InkMouse

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Ch. 4: Seven Demons, One Darling

Ch. 5: Seven Demons, One Darling

By: InkMouse

This is an Exclusive Story for supporters of .css-13w9qce-Text{display:inline-block;color:var(--text-accent);}V-Ink Stories

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Ch. 4: Seven Demons, One Darling

This is an Exclusive Story for supporters of V-Ink Stories