The coffee at the Devildom café was bitter, thick as tar, and utterly delicious. Simeon stirred a precise amount of honey into his, the spoon clicking softly against the porcelain. Moonlight, a filtered, curious kind that pushed through the perpetual haze, cut across the small table between them, highlighting the faint dust motes that danced in the air.

“You seem quieter today,” Simeon observed, his voice as smooth as the ceramic under his fingers. “The peace you found with Solomon… it feels weighted now.”

I traced the rim of my cup. Satan’s words from the night before were bricks in my stomach. Bricked over. Amputated. “It’s just an adjustment. Being back.”

His blue eyes, the color of a deep, still lake, held mine. He didn’t push. He never pushed. That was his gift. “Lucifer convened the Student Council yesterday,” he said, changing the subject with effortless grace. “He was… efficient. More so than usual. Diavolo made a joke about his paperwork being a sentient entity attempting escape. Lucifer didn’t laugh. He didn’t even blink.”

The mention of the name was a needle slipping between my ribs. “He’s good at not blinking.”

“He’s good at many things,” Simeon agreed, and there was a weight to the statement that went beyond administrative skill. He took a slow sip, watching me over the cup’s edge. “Including self-flagellation. It is an art form among the oldest of us.”

The casual insight startled me. “You’re not like him.”

“I am an angel. We are, by nature, repositories of devotion. The object of that devotion is what differs.” He set his cup down. “Come back to Purgatory Hall with me. Luke baked. He’s attempting something with void-berries and rage-flour. It’s catastrophically sweet, but he beams so brightly when someone eats it.”

Purgatory Hall’s corridors usually held a faint, mournful echo, but Simeon’s room was a world apart. Warm lamplight pushed back the gloom, glowing against rich, earthy tones of burgundy and gold. Books lined the walls, their spines soft with age. It smelled of vanilla, old paper, and the clean, ozone scent of angel.

He closed the door, and the world outside ceased. For a long moment, we just stood in the center of the plush carpet. The frantic energy from the twins, the icy analysis from Satan—it all drained away, leaving a hollow, weary ache.

“He is a fool,” Simeon said softly, his hands coming up to cradle my face. His thumbs stroked the arches of my cheekbones. “To have this and choose a fortress of his own making.”

“Maybe the fortress is all he is,” I whispered, leaning into his touch.

“No.” The denial was firm, gentle. “I knew him before the Fall. There was a garden, and in it, a being of terrifying beauty and boundless curiosity. That being is still in there, buried under millennia of duty and pride.” He leaned forward, his breath a warm caress on my lips. “But his failure is not your penance, Nikki. You are not a pilgrimage site for his regrets.”

It was nothing like the kisses in the House of Lamentation. There was no hunger, no claiming, no desperate obliteration. This was a slow unmooring. His lips were soft, moving over mine with a patience that felt infinite. He tasted of honey and the faint, crisp tang of celestial magic. It was a kiss that asked a question, and then waited, utterly still, for the answer to form itself in my bones.

My hands fisted in the soft wool of his sweater. A sound escaped me, half-sigh, half-sob.

He took it, absorbed it, and deepened the kiss by a fraction. His tongue traced the seam of my lips, and I opened for him. The slide was slow, explorative. He mapped the inside of my mouth like it was hallowed ground, like he was committing the terrain to a sacred memory. It was so profoundly intimate it made my skin feel too new, too sensitive.

He broke the kiss, only to press his forehead to mine. His eyes were closed. “Let me,” he murmured, the words vibrating between us. “Just for a little while, let me show you what reverence feels like.”

He led me to the bed. He undressed me not with frantic urgency, but with a ritualistic slowness, each button, each zip, a deliberate act. The cool air raised goosebumps on my skin, and he followed them with his lips, warming each one. He knelt to remove my shoes, my socks, his hands cupping my heels with a care that felt devotional.

When I was bare, he stood back, his gaze traveling the length of me. It wasn’t the searing, possessive stare of a demon. It was observation, appreciation, a quiet study of form and spirit. “Exquisite,” he breathed, the word leaving him like a prayer.

He removed his own clothes with the same deliberate pace, folding each item neatly over a chair. His body was different from the brothers' leaner, no less powerful, but the strength was that of a tensile cord, not a hammer. The light seemed to cling to his skin, emphasizing the elegant lines of his collarbones, the dip of his spine.

He joined me on the bed, the covers soft and cool beneath us. He began at my temples, kissing away the tension there. He followed the curve of my jaw, the column of my throat, pausing to feel my pulse thrum against his lips. His mouth was everywhere—the hollow of my shoulder, the inner curve of my elbow, the sensitive skin of my wrist. He turned my hand over and pressed a kiss to the center of my palm, and the gesture was so unbearably tender I felt tears well.

“Shhh,” he whispered, his breath hot against my sternum. “I am listening. To your heart. To your skin. To the stories it tells.”

He took one nipple into his mouth, not sucking, but bathing it in slow, wet circles until it peaked into a hard, aching point. He gave the other the same exhaustive attention, his hand gently kneading the soft weight of my breast. The pleasure was a slow, deep burn, a counterpoint to the frantic, pounding need I’d grown accustomed to.

He moved lower, his kisses painting a burning trail over my ribs, my stomach. He nuzzled the thatch of curls at the junction of my thighs, breathing me in. “You smell of life,” he said, his voice ragged at the edges. “Raw and vibrant and so desperately beautiful it hurts.”

It was not a lashing, but a communion. He licked into my folds with a slow, savoring thoroughness, as if tasting a rare vintage. He found my clit and devoted himself to it, not with frantic speed, but with a focused, undulating pressure that built the heat in my core into a slow, rolling boil. His hands slid under my ass, tilting me up, holding me open for his worship.

“That’s it,” he murmured against my soaked flesh, the vibration shooting straight to my core. “Let go for me. Let me have this.”

The orgasm didn’t crash over me; it rose, a tidal wave in slow motion, gathering every neglected, aching part of me into its swell. When it broke, it was silent, profound, a dissolution that left me trembling. He drank from me, gently, until the last tremor subsided.

Only then did he move up my body, his own need evident, his cock hard and heavy against my thigh. He kissed me, letting me taste myself on his tongue.

“I need to be inside you,” he said, the request a raw fracture in his usual composure. “May I?”

He entered me with one slow, inexorable push, seating himself to the hilt. The fullness was absolute, but it was a filling of a different kind. He didn’t move, buried deep, his face pressed into the curve of my neck.

“You feel…” he began, then shuddered. “You feel like grace. Like a forgiveness I didn’t know I was seeking.”

He began to move. It was a rolling rhythm, deep and deliberate. Each stroke was a promise, a lament, a blessing. Our bodies met with a soft, wet sound that was obscenely intimate in the quiet room. He watched my face, his eyes locked on mine, reflecting the lamplight and something deeper, something ancient and wounded.

“Tell me,” he breathed, his pace gradually increasing. “Tell me what you need.”

“You,” I gasped, wrapping my legs around his hips. “Just you. Like this.”

A groan was torn from him. He shifted, angling deeper, and the new pressure had me crying out. His controlled rhythm began to fray. His thrusts became sharper, more urgent, the bedframe giving a soft, rhythmic protest.

“Fuck,” he hissed, the crude word stark and beautiful in his angelic mouth. “You’re so tight. So perfect. Taking me so well.”

He drove into me, his hips pistoning now, a beautiful, breaking rhythm. The reverent angel was gone, replaced by a being of pure, desperate need. His fingers dug into my hips, holding me firm as he fucked into me with a power that belied his slender frame.

“Come with me,” he demanded, his voice a guttural prayer. “Let me feel you come on my cock, Nikki. Let me have that.”

His hand slipped between us, his thumb finding my clit, rubbing firm, desperate circles. It was too much, the coil snapping instantly. My climax ripped through me, a blinding, silent shatter that clenched around him like a vise.

He cried out, a sound that was both triumph and surrender, and followed me over. His release was hot and endless, pumping into me with each jerking thrust, marking me with a warmth that felt cleansing.

He collapsed, carefully, his weight a comforting press. For long minutes, the only sound was our ragged breathing mingling in the air. He was still inside me, softening, a tender, intimate connection.

He finally shifted, pulling out and gathering me against his side. He drew the covers over us. In the warm, musky dark, he stroked my hair.

“He watches,” Simeon said quietly, echoing Satan’s words but with a different timbre. “But he only sees the shadow he casts. He doesn’t see the light you hold, stubbornly, in its shade.” He kissed my forehead. “Sleep. For a little while, just sleep. And know that you are cherished.”

As I drifted, safe in the arms of an angel, the hollow ache remained. But it was lined now, just at the edges, with something that felt like peace. It wasn't an answer. It was a reprieve. And for now, in the quiet aftermath of his reverence, it was enough.

And for now, in the quiet aftermath of his reverence, it was enough. His scent, clean and ozonic, wove through the musk of our spent bodies. My limbs were liquid, my mind quieted, the hollow space within me temporarily filled with a golden, static peace.

Ruben Ramirez

Ch. 8: Seven Demons, One Darling

By: Inkmouse

The coffee at the Devildom café was bitter, thick as tar, and utterly delicious. Simeon stirred a precise amount of honey into his, the spoon clicking softly against the porcelain. Moonlight, a filtered, curious kind that pushed through the perpetual haze, cut across the small table between them, highlighting the faint dust motes that danced in the air.



Ch. 8: Seven Demons, One Darling

By: Inkmouse

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The White Hare's Revenge

Ch. 8: 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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The White Hare's Revenge

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