Chapter 6: The aftermath of Leviathan's bed
Leaving Leviathan’s room felt like exiting a warm, pressurized aquarium and re-entering the murky ocean of the mansion. My body ached in specific, intimate ways, a memory-map of the night before. I moved carefully, a slight, deep twinge with each step, a constant physical echo of Mammon’s and Leviathan’s desperate, competitive claim. Their combined scent, salt and ozone and a faint cologne, seemed woven into my skin.
The memory should have filled me, should have chased away the hollow quiet Lucifer left. Instead, it felt like trying to stuff a void with noise and heat. The emptiness just reshaped itself around the new sensations. Solomon’s departure loomed ahead, a week’s escape. It wasn’t an answer, but it was a change of scenery, a different kind of forgetting.
But there was a protocol, an unspoken rule. Certain courtesies were expected, especially for the human exchange student who had become… whatever I was to them.
Barbatos met me at the grand entrance of the Demon Lord’s castle. He looked, as ever, like a figure stepped from a silver-point etching. His uniform was flawless, not a single black thread out of place. The air around him carried the faint, comforting aroma of vanilla, butter, and sugar—a walking patisserie.
“Miss Evans,” he intoned, his head dipping in a perfect, measured bow. A small, silver tray materialized in his gloved hand, bearing a single, perfect cream puff, dusted with powdered sugar like a dusting of first snow. “A small sustenance for your journey. The trip through the mirror can be disorienting.”
I took it, the pastry still warm. “Thank you, Barbatos. You always think of everything.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, so subtle it could have been a trick of the light. “It is my function. His Lordship awaits you in his solar. He wishes to see you before you depart.”
He led me through corridors of polished black stone, past tapestries depicting cosmic horrors woven in gold thread, under arches that seemed to swallow sound. The grandeur here was of a different order than the House of Lamentation. It was colder, older, the power more absolute.
Diavolo’s solar was a study in controlled warmth amidst the dark opulence. A massive fireplace, carved from a single block of blood-veined marble, held a contained inferno that gave no heat but cast a vibrant, dancing light. He stood before it, his broad back to me, seeming to study the flames.
He turned as we entered, and his smile was a sunburst in the dark room.“Nikki! There you are.” He crossed the space in three strides, his presence immense but carefully banked. He took my hands in his, his skin warmer than any demon’s had a right to be. His thumb brushed over my knuckles, a gesture of familiar affection that somehow felt more intimate than Leviathan’s kiss.
“I hear you’re abandoning us for the mortal realm,” he said, his amber eyes dancing with theatrical hurt. “A whole week. I shall be desolate.”
“I doubt that,” I said, smiling back. His energy was infectious, a pure, uncomplicated warmth that, for a moment, pushed the ghosts back. “You’ll have the peace and quiet you’re always saying you crave.”
“Peace is overrated,” he declared, releasing one of my hands to gesture broadly. “Chaos is far more interesting, especially when it’s wrapped in such a charming package.” His gaze flicked over me, perceptive and lingering. There was no judgment in it, only a deep, appreciative hunger that he made no attempt to hide. “You look… well-tended to.”
A blush crept up my neck. He knew. Of course he knew. Little happened in the Devildom that escaped Diavolo’s notice, especially in his own domain. He’d seen the fallout of Lucifer’s withdrawal, and in his own kingly way, had stepped into the resulting vacuum with enthusiastic generosity. Lavish dates, thoughtful conversations, a possessive affection that asked for nothing but my presence. He’d become my primary harbor, and his care felt genuine, even as I sensed the immense, ancient power thrumming just beneath his jovial surface.
“Let us not delay your departure,” Barbatos’s smooth voice interjected from near the door. He had assumed a posture of perfect waiting, hands clasped behind his back. “The planar alignment for a stable mirror passage is optimal for the next twenty-three minutes.”
“Always the pragmatist, Barbatos,” Diavolo chuckled, but he didn’t let go of my hand. He drew me further into the room, toward a towering, gilded mirror that stood opposite the fireplace. Its surface wasn’t reflective glass, but a swirling, mercury-like void. My gateway home. “But he’s right. However…”
He stopped in front of the mirror, our distorted reflections wavering in the silvery mist. His other hand came up, cupping my jaw. His thumb stroked my lower lip. The jovial mask slipped, just a fraction, revealing the millennia-old demon beneath. His eyes darkened from warm amber to something nearer molten gold.
“I find I’m feeling rather… covetous today,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration that matched the hum of the magic in the air. “The thought of you walking away for a week, with him… Solomon is a clever man. A brilliant one. I don’t trust him not to whisper clever things in your ear while you’re gone.”
He leaned in, his kiss a deliberate brand. It wasn’t Leviathan’s passionate claim or Mammon’s aggressive takeover. It was slow, deep, and authoritative, a king stamping his seal. I tasted power and pomegranate on his tongue. When he pulled back, I was breathless.
“My lord,” Barbatos’s voice came again, a quiet note in the simmering silence. “The alignment.”
Diavolo’s eyes didn’t leave mine. “Barbatos.”
A single word, a command wrapped in a name. There was a soft shush of perfectly polished shoes on stone, and then Barbatos was beside us. His gloved hand came to rest on the small of my back, a firm, guiding pressure. There was nothing subservient in his touch now. It was as purposeful and efficient as his pastry work.
“Forgive the impertinence, Miss Evans,” he said, his voice a calm murmur by my ear. His other hand slid around my hip, his fingers splaying possessively across my abdomen. He turned me gently but inexorably, until my back was to Diavolo’s chest, and I was facing the swirling mirror, my reflection a silver ghost.
Diavolo’s hands replaced Barbatos’s on my hips, his grip heavier, hotter. He nuzzled the junction of my neck and shoulder, his breath a hot puff against my skin. “I want you to remember where you belong,” he said, the words a rumble through his chest and into my spine. “Before you step through that gate. I want you to carry my mark.”
Barbatos was in front of me now. His expression was one of serene focus, the same look I imagined he wore while tempering chocolate or piping flawless macarons. He reached for the fastenings of my travel clothes, his movements deft and unhurried. Each button slipped free under his precise fingers. The fabric sighed open, and he pushed it from my shoulders, letting it pool at my feet. The cool castle air prickled against my exposed skin.
His gloved hands, cool and smooth, traced the lines of my body. He mapped my waist, the curve of my ribs, the swell of my breasts. His touch was exploratory, appreciative, like assessing the quality of an ingredient. When his thumbs brushed my nipples, they peaked instantly under the leather. A small, approving hum escaped him.
“So responsive,” he noted, his tone clinical yet deeply intimate. “Even now, so soon after others have sampled you.” He knew about Levi and Mammon, too. It was all just data to him, points on a graph of my need.
Behind me, Diavolo groaned, his hard length pressing against the cleft of my ass through his own ornate robes. “Barbatos,” he said again, the name a low command.
“Of course, my lord.”
In one fluid motion, Barbatos hooked his hands behind my knees and lifted. I gasped, my feet leaving the ground. He turned, pinning me against the cold, solid surface of the gilded mirror frame. The intricate metalwork dug into my back, a sharp counterpoint to the heat of the bodies surrounding me. He spread my thighs wide, holding me open, my lower body suspended before his master.
Diavolo didn’t bother with pretense. I heard the rustle of fabric, the slide of a buckle, and then the thick, blunt head of his cock was pressing against my dripping entrance. The angle was brutal, exposing me utterly. Barbatos held me steady, a living fixture.
“Look,” Diavolo growled in my ear. “Look at yourself.”
My eyes flew open. In the mercury-like surface of the mirror, I saw a distorted tableau: Diavolo’s powerful form looming behind me, his face buried in my hair, his hands gripping my hips with white-knuckle force. Barbatos, immaculate and detached, holding my splayed legs aloft with effortless strength, his eyes watching the junction of our bodies with intense interest. And me, suspended between them, face flushed, mouth open in a soundless gasp, body offered like a feast.
Diavolo thrust.
He was thick, impossibly so, stretching me with a single, brutal invasion that burned away the lingering soreness from the night before, replacing it with a new, all-consuming fullness. A scream tore from my throat, echoing in the high-ceilinged room.
“That’s it,” he grunted, not giving me a second to adjust. He began to move, a relentless, driving piston. Each withdrawal was a teasing emptiness, each plunge a claiming that jarred my teeth and forced a punched-out sound from my lungs. The mirror frame rattled gently with the force. “You see? This is where you’re filled. This is where you’re used.”
His pace was punishing, a raw demonstration of ownership. He fucked me with the casual, overwhelming power of a tectonic shift. I was nothing but a sheath for his pleasure, a warm, wet vessel for his mounting need. The sounds were obscenely loud: the slick slap of his flesh against mine, his guttural curses, my own fractured sobs.
Barbatos watched, his breathing the only sign he was affected, coming slightly faster than usual. He adjusted his grip minutely, tilting my hips to give his lord a better angle. “Her internal muscles are clenching quite rhythmically, my lord,” he observed, his voice a stark contrast to Diavolo’s primal grunts. “A sign of approaching climax.”
“Come for me, Nikki,” Diavolo commanded, hammering into the spot that made white light explode behind my eyelids. “Come on my cock. Show me you know who you belong to.”
The orgasm ripped through me like a natural disaster, a seismic wave of pleasure that was indistinguishable from pain. My back arched violently against the mirror frame, a raw, screaming cry tearing from my throat. My cunt convulsed around him, milking his length in frantic, fluttering pulses.
The sensation tipped Diavolo over the edge. With a roar that seemed to shake the very stones of the castle, he buried himself to the hilt and spilled inside me. His release was a hot, volcanic flood, painting my insides with a possessor’s claim. He held himself there, pulsing, grinding deep, until the last shiver subsided.
He slumped against me, his weight heavy, his breath hot and ragged on my neck. Slowly, he pulled out, a gush of his spend following, tracing a warm path down my inner thigh.
Barbatos lowered my legs with the same care one would use to place a finished dessert on a display. My knees buckled, but Diavolo’s arms around my waist kept me upright. Barbatos produced a linen handkerchief from a hidden pocket—crisp, white, monogrammed. With the same meticulous attention he gave everything, he knelt before me and gently cleaned the evidence of his master’s possession from my skin.
Standing, he then carefully helped me back into my clothes, his fingers fastening each button with deliberate slowness. He smoothed the fabric over my shoulders. My body felt liquid, reshaped, humming with residual shock.
Diavolo turned me to face him. He kissed me again, softly this time, a benediction. “Have a wonderful trip,” he said, his voice back to its usual jovial warmth, though his eyes still burned with banked fire. “Think of me.”
He stepped aside, guiding me toward the mirror’s swirling surface. My legs were unsteady. My mind was a blank, white static. The memory of Leviathan’s focused passion, Mammon’s greedy rage, were distant echoes, washed away by the tsunami of Diavolo’s dominance and Barbatos’s clinical complicity.
Barbatos gave a final, small bow. “The passage is stable for nine more minutes, Miss Evans. Safe travels.”
I took a shuddering breath, the scent of sex, incense, and vanilla sugar clinging to me. I kissed them both one last time before turning. I didn’t look back. I stepped forward, into the cool, mercury void.
The last sensation I carried from the Devildom was not a sight or a sound, but a feeling: the deep, throbbing ache between my legs, a sovereign’s brand, and the phantom touch of cool, gloved hands holding me open for his pleasure.