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Things with Mammon had been… different, after that night.
There are no well-kept secrets in the House of Lamentation. Your weekly visits to Belphegor were proof that even Lucifer couldn’t keep things hidden for long. News of you and Mammon’s encounter spread quickly, and everyone had their own opinion on it. You survived Lucifer’s icy glare that morning at breakfast and every morning after - and now, two weeks later, the House of Lamentation seems to have settled once more into an uneasy peace.
Mammon had changed too. He had been… sweeter.
It started small. He’d get you little trinkets - never delivered by him, always by his crows. Plausible deniability, you guessed. If you rejected them, he could put the blame on the birds.
Then slowly he escalated when you responded positively. A small bouquet of flowers on your desk. Some chocolates he’d delivered straight to your room so there was no chance Beel would find them. Last weekend, he’d taken you shopping and Mammon had told you to go wild - and while you made sure he was still a good, responsible demon with his money, you did let him spoil you a bit.
It was adorable to watch Mammon’s chest puff up with pride, his smile the brightest thing in the Devildom when you thanked him for his latest present. When you wore the clothes he’d paid for. When you called him your good boy.
So you aren’t entirely surprised by the heart shaped box on your desk when you walk into your room after class. It’s the most openly romantic gift yet, the tin delicately embossed with swirling golden patterns over the red surface. No brand gives you a hint of what chocolate or biscuits lay within - or perhaps it was some piece of jewellery?
You drop your bag onto your bed before walking over to your latest gift with a smile. Mammon had gotten detention - again - so you know you’re going to have to wait about an hour for his return. You’d have to thank him then.
Your smile drops once you open the box.
You stumble back, falling against the floor with a jolt of pain that whipped your already racing heart into a frenzy. A hundred possibilities whirl through your head, each more dire than the last.
Had someone gotten into the House of Lamentation, into your bedroom, to leave this for you? Had one of the other brothers done it? Was the Lucifer’s way of warning you off? There’s no way it could be an intruder right? Were you really as alone in the room as you thought?
The smell wafts from the box to where you sit and you taste copper on your tongue. You’re convinced someone’s going to leap out from under your bed or out of your closet any second and yet you can’t get your legs working to move, to flee - to find anyone, even Lucifer.
There, in the pretty heart-shaped box, lays a heart.
Your initial moment of panic gives way to your brain trying to rationalise.
The heart was not human - didn’t even seem to be from anything humanoid. Demon Anatomy isn’t a subject you’re supposed to take until next semester, but you’re pretty sure even Beel’s literal heart couldn’t be that big. No one had attacked you while you were half-incapacitated on the ground and when you look around, you realise there aren’t many hiding spaces in your room.
So. One of the brothers or an invited guest.
You pick yourself off the ground and examine the heart closer, breathing slowly through your mouth.
Yeah, definitely too big to be a human or a demon. Or an angel. You think.
It looks more like something Cerberus’ size, but you know it’s not the HoL’s resident hound, because you’re pretty sure that thing is unkillable to everyone but Lucifer.
All in all, it’s a heart. You’re never going to figure out what it’s from on your own, but you can tell a few things about it. The remains of the veins and arteries still attached have been sliced neatly. Only one bears more damage - from the size you figure an artery. Whoever cut this one tried to hide it, but you can still see where there must have been a puncture just above where it was removed, the ragged edge remaining at odds with the rest of the smooth cuts.
Okay.
You put the lid back on before you think about fingerprints. You just can’t stand the smell anymore.
Your feet carry you to the library and you’re halfway there before you realise you’re holding the box. You don’t go back and put it down. Your room still reeks of heart and you have a disturbing mental image of Beel eating it.
Maybe an anatomy textbook might give you a clue as to what it is. Or maybe-
“Good afternoon, MC,” Satan greets from his armchair.
You don’t have a pact with Satan yet, but you like to think you’re on good terms with him. While he had asked you to shut Mammon up next time, Satan hadn’t seemed at all upset about the development between you and his brother. Just the noise level.
“Hey,” you croak back. Satan looks up from his book, noticing for the first time something is wrong.
“Ah,” Satan says. There’s a knowing look in his eye as he sniffs the air, examining the box in your hand. “I was wondering when this would happen.”
“When what would happen?”
Your voice is still higher than you’d like and you’re not sure how to feel about Satan’s calm demeanor. Perhaps sensing your distress, Satan smiles. It’s probably meant to reassure you.
“Let me see?” he asks, gesturing for you to bring the box over. You sit on the table as he pops the box open, your leg bouncing nervously.
The heart is still there which is a strange relief. You’d half convinced yourself you’d imagined it, but now Satan’s looking at it and this isn’t solely your responsibility anymore. Eventually he stands and places the box on the table - next to you - and pulls a few books from the shelves.
“The heart belongs to a Dessowary.”
“A what-”
Satan opens one of the books to a page depicting a large flightless bird with wicked claws. The illustration provides a demon for scale - the bird is nearly twice its height.
“They’re quite rare, but very skilled predators. Usually subsist on vegetation but if provoked, or just hungry, will attack other creatures or even demons.” Satan speaks with a certain puff in his chest and you can’t help but be drawn in by his explanation. He turns the page to show you an anatomical drawing and yep, the heart matches.
“Why was it in my room?” you ask slowly, fingers brushing over the pages. The smell is starting to get to you again. Rot.
“Dessowaries are fast. It’s what makes them dangerous and also extremely difficult to kill. In fact, of all of us, Mammon’s speed is what makes him the only one capable of consistently taking one down - without the use of traps, anyway.” Satan gestures towards himself and you wonder about how casually he says it, wonder how often the brothers went hunting before your arrival. “It’s for you. To demonstrate his capacity as a hunter.”
“Like… like a…” Your mind heads straight to mating displays - or cats that drop dead mice at their owner’s feet.
“In the Devildom, this is quite common as a part of courting.” Satan shrugs and passes the other book to you, an old and dusty tome with a title in cursive script you strain to read. Etiquette and Courtesy in the Matters of Courting. “Mammon is trying to show off to you, basically.”
“Oh.”
The explanation goes a long way to calm you, but you still have a few questions. You flip through the pages of the book, eyes lazily scanning a few sentences.
“So, what do I do?”
Satan shrugs at your question. “Mammon knows a decent amount of human culture, but I doubt he knows much about the romantic endeavours of humans. The serious ones, anyway. If you explain to him that this is not done in the human world, he’ll probably be embarrassed, but he’ll understand.”
You nod along with his explanation with a frown. This is weird but… Mammon clearly didn’t have bad intentions. If anything, he was trying to do the right thing by Devildom culture. Trying to take this seriously if what Satan said was any indication.
“Or…” Satan trailed off.
“Or?” You meet his eyes. Satan had a look on his face you tended to associate with Lucifer about to have a bad time.
“This is a cultural exchange program, after all. You could always just… partake in Devildom culture.”
You look at the box beside you. At the heart inside it.
“Is there a way to get rid of the smell?”
——-
Mammon had given you a bright smile when he noticed the box in pride of place on your shelf.
Over time, you got used to the idea. Mammon was still your demon, your first man as he insisted. Maybe you’d forgotten for a bit exactly what demon meant, but you’re sure you could accept him for who he is. Love him for who he is, even.
Mammon’s blush, you’re delighted to see, spreads down to his chest, tinting his skin even darker. You swallow his moans with kisses and use his hair to grip him closer.
“Thank you, Mammon,” you whisper and he bucks up, his beautiful eyes meeting yours. His smile is gorgeous.
It would take a week for you to realise that you might’ve encouraged something you can’t control.
———
Devildom Botany is one of your favourite subjects.
For one, turns out humans can’t be allergic to most Devildom plants. The teacher’s also pretty welcoming and seemed genuinely excited to have a student who actually asked questions. Not to mention the more practical subject - planting, pruning, writing down observations on the effect of different light levels and feed - gave you a break in the day.
The only downside was the jerk sitting next to you.
Your three pacts had gotten your demonic classmates to stop looking at you like a snack, but it hadn’t warmed all of them up to you. Beel’s Fangol team were friendly to you, Majolish employees were very eager to help you, and the entire Devildom Navy was apparently now at your beck and call.
Not this asshole, though.
You sort of wish he was stupider. If those light pushes turned into shoves, or if he nicked you with those claws he was so willing to show you, then you’d have something to show to others. A clear justification, in front of all your classmates - including Mammon - to push back against what he was doing.
But unfortunately, he was a little too smart. Always subtle. Never enough to justify snapping back, not unless you wanted everyone to think you were weak. For the most part, you could ignore him anyway.
Until today.
One of your three plants, the three you’d raised from seedlings, that you’d spent all semester working on, is totally destroyed. Your frozen gerbera, carefully grown and protected from any heat source, is melted - its flowers still dripping with their protective icy sheen while its stem dried and withered from the heat
Your mandrake and blood moon flowers seem okay, but you’d worked hard on that gerbera. You feel Mammon’s arm wrap around your shoulders as you gently check the base of the plant, confirming what you’d feared. There’s no way to salvage it.
Your teacher tuts sympathetically. “Looks like it got too hot overnight.”
After a discussion, it’s clear your grade won’t be hurt by this. Anyone could’ve messed with the cooling charm on the pot. You’d been growing some of the more difficult plants anyway, so just the two remaining would be enough to pass. Even pass well!
But that plant had been months of effort. You’d been proud of it. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes that you push down. You aren’t going to cry in front of the whole class. Especially when you meet eyes with that asshole over the remains of your frozen gerbera and you know he’d done it.
Mammon convinces you to skip the next class - it isn’t hard. You’re still filled with jittery, nervous energy, your hands are shaking, and you feel stupid. It was a plant, hell, it was an assignment.
But it was months of your hard work, and Mammon never once judges you for your tears.
——
A few days and a movie night with your pact demons later, you feel better.
Lucifer, in a rare show of genuine thoughtfulness, had gotten you a little frozen gerbera pot for your room. Beel had shared his lunch with you for the past two days. Levi had you playing video games that got out some of your lingering anger.
Mammon, meanwhile, was out past curfew.
You wait with the door to your room open, knowing you’d hear him come in. Mammon breaking curfew isn’t entirely weird, and it wasn’t even that uncommon for him to forget to text you back if he was on a winning streak at the casino or dealing with some witches.
It’s just the aftermath of the flowers that has you a bit nervous, you tell yourself. Mammon isnt’t acting strange at all.
Tension you hadn’t realised you’d been holding relaxes as you hear the front door open and close, Mammon’s soft footsteps headed towards your room. There’s another odd sound though - a dragging, a thumping, like a sack being pulled and kicked around.
You poke your head into the hallway and froze. Your hand grips the door tightly.
There in the hall is Mammon, in his demon form. Blood splatters his body and stains his clothes - you can’t see any injuries on him - and the sound was-
It takes you a moment to realise that the thing Mammon was holding had once been humanoid. You can see the memory of limbs in the twisted form. The torso at the centre, what was once a head - now barely more than blackened and charred skin stretched over a skull, some parts still glistening wet muscle, jaw unhinged in a final, desperate scream. Mammon carries it with two golden hooks embedded into the thickest parts of its flesh, cursing as he struggles to find a solid grip when the skin kept - kept sloughing, melting off-
You don’t know what sound you made. Your elbow might’ve knocked against the door, you might’ve gagged at the sight, but suddenly Mammon’s eyes are on you and you flinch back.
“Shit,” he says.
You back off into your room and hear his approach again. Mammon finds your doorway, dropping his macabre package just outside. You’ve backed yourself against the bed without meaning to, but Mammon keeps a respectful distance.
He scratches his neck awkwardly. It’s such a simple, painfully Mammon gesture it could’ve made you laugh.
“You weren’t supposed ta… I wanted to clean it up, give it to ya tomorrow… why are you still awake?” That last part comes out accusatory and tugs something free, some part of you that can’t, won’t see Mammon as a threat.
“I was waiting for you, jerk,” you say, and marvel at the smoothness of your voice. “Next time text me back.”
Mammon has the decency to look guilty. Not for murdering whoever that victim had been. For worrying you.
“Sorry, I just… wanted it to be a surprise.” Mammon meets your eyes, bright blue and gold shining in the dim light of your room. Covered in blood and with the stench of burned flesh drifting through the room, he looks incredibly sincere. “I’m trying to take this seriously, y’know? I’ve not really… I wouldn’t do this for just anybody.”
“Who is that?” you ask slowly.
Mammon blinks. Twice.
“Right, forgot humans don’t have the same sense of smell.” Mammon walks back to the corpse and you don’t understand what he’s going to do until he’s reaching into the chest, hand slicing through loose, burnt flesh and rib bones cracking and pulling out the heart.
All you can think of is steak. Crispy on the outside, still red on the inside.
“How’s that supposed to help?” you choke out, your eyes fixed on the muscle in your demon’s hand.
Mammon frowns. “Yer sense of smell’s that bad, huh?”
You nod.
You have an idea. You aren’t an idiot - or maybe you are, for having a calm conversation when you should be screaming in fear. Mammon was dressing this up as something he did for you and you’re pretty sure that was a demon. There’s only really one option here.
Mammon confirms it.
“The bastard from botany. He made ya cry.”
You take in the sight of your sort-of-boyfriend, wings and horns on display, covered in blood, with a heart in his hand.
That heart once belonged to a living, breathing person. A jerk, sure, but you didn’t know anything else about him. Maybe he wasn’t a complete dick. Maybe he had loved ones, a family. Maybe he had some redeeming qualities. Maybe-
Okay, that justification isn’t working right. But the point isn’t that, is it? Mammon wasn’t treating this as anything weird. Satan had told you hunting and proving yourself as a demon was a common part of courting. The question is simple.
Were you okay with this?
You look at the way Mammon watches you, cheeks heated, eyes shining blue and gold - the melted, charred skin of his kill - the heart he offers to you, all because you were hurt by that asshole. The way the blood highlights the lines of his muscles, a beautiful, powerful demon, willing to put all that strength to use for you.
Were you okay with this?
Absolutely.
“Mammon,” you whisper. “Against the wall, okay?”
You’ve never seen Mammon move faster. His back hits the wall. His legs spread. You can see him pose, you can see Mammon going into model mode - showing you his best angles, making himself as appealing as he could be.
“Good boy,“ you whisper and he squeezes the heart in is hand.
That could be a problem.
"Mammon, listen to me closely, okay?” You eye the body still in your doorway - your open door, but at least this time of night most of the other residents would be asleep or on another floor. The only real risk was Beel on a snack run. “I don’t want to get blood on me.”
“'Course not,” Mammon grins and you’d never really noticed how much sharper his teeth are in this form. “No part of this bastard deserves to touch you.”
Your heart swells with affection - and you’re starting to realise you might be a bit more fucked up than previously thought, but that amount of introspection could wait until later.
“So I’m going to need you to control yourself and not squeeze that heart until it bursts.”
Mammon nods, adorably determined, and you get to work on those leather pants.
His demon form comes with a handy zipper and you can’t decide whether that’s surprising or not. It’s definitely convenient as you expose Mammon to the cold of the room, your hand quickly wrapping around his dick to warm him up.
His groan reminds you of your promise with Satan.
“Open,” you order and Mammon’s mouth follows your command before his brain can even catch up to him, his eyes half-lidded with desire as you take control.
“Get my hand nice and wet, hm?” You twist your fingers around Mammon’s mouth, playing with his tongue, prodding at those sharp teeth. Mammon focuses on his task beautifully, sucking and licking and lightly nipping at your fingers, his moan muffled as you force them further into his willing mouth.
In your other hand, Mammon’s cock is catching up to the situation. He gets excited adorably quick but you hold off on stimulating him too much with your dry hand, keeping your strokes light.
It’s still got Mammon rocking his hips back and forth, chasing the feeling of your fingers, pleading with his body for you to give him what he wants.
You take both your hands away and he growls in protest.
“Remember what I told you,” you order, unmoved by his puppy dog eyes. “No blood on me.”
“None! And even if there was I’d clean it off you-“
“None, Mammon.”
“Yes, Master.”
Mammon grumbles at your stern tone but perks up quickly when your other hand pushes into his mouth, sucking the digits eagerly.
With his makeshift gag in place, you take your hand, soaked in saliva, to his cock.
The reaction is immediate. Mammon groans deep in his throat, the vibration travelling all the way through your arm, while he rocks his hips forward to meet your touch. His eyes flutter closed and you watch as the rest of his body relaxes - his arms and wings dropping to his sides, his knees barely holding him up, his head tilted against the wall. Only his mouth and his hips work hard.
The heart is left hanging from his hand, half-forgotten for now.
Mammon only ever meets your pace, never trying to make you go faster. Knowing he’s being rewarded, knowing he’s been good, seems to have worn off the desperate edge he usually carries.
You jerk him off at a steady pace, taking the time to appreciate his exposed chest, the leather that covers his body. The little metal spikes that dangle from his jacket jingle with every thrust and his wings flutter and shake.
“Such a pretty boy,” you praise and watch his expression shift as he whines, trying to force your fingers further down his throat. Drool starts to gather around the corners of his mouth.
You twist your hand around his cock and Mammon stiffens and jerks, his entire body tensing - his claws squeezing into the heart before stopping, forcefully relaxing himself.
“Good boy.” It sometimes hurts your heart just how responsive Mammon is to praise, how desperate he is for it, but when he tilts forward and rests his forehead against yours you can’t bring yourself to complain. Even as you feel him swelling in your hand, precum aiding your movements, he’s still careful to keep most of his weight on the wall, to not just collapse against you with his blood-covered clothes.
You meet Mammon’s eyes as you speed up. You find his usual blue and gold gone glassy, wet. The new angle of his head encourages saliva to drip around your fingers from his mouth to his chest.
His teeth graze you lightly and he makes an apologetic noise but he’s still sucking you down eagerly and you make a note to get him a nice, big toy later.
“Let me know when you’re close,” you order and Mammon responds instantly, bucking his hips and whipping his head back. The hand holding the demon’s heart is working it like a stress ball, the dead muscle now bruised and softened.
“You can cum when you want, as hard as you want.” You speed up to match his pace now, the way his hips buck, planting your feet hard into the ground so he doesn’t end up throwing you back with the force of his thrusts. “But not a drop of blood on me, remember.”
Mammon has always been so easy to read and you know this is a challenge for him. Know he aches to throw himself against you fully, wishes he could tense and shudder and move they way he wants, but still you can see him smile around your fingers.
Mammon doesn’t just want to cum, he wants to cum for you.
And so he does.
Your fingers can’t fully muffle his shout. His entire body is drawn into the motion, his head thrown back, his chest pushed out - his cock pulses in your hand, cum covering your palm, his stomach, and dropping to the floor.
Mammon’s hand squeezes, his claws dig in - but before the heart can burst his wing flies up, shielding you.
Even in ecstasy, Mammon follows your orders. There’s not a speck of blood on you.
You release him, wiping saliva on your pants as Mammon drops to the ground. His hands fly behind his back - trying not to grab you, stain you with blood - but his nose comes forward to press against your crotch.
“Master,” and you can see he’s out of it, in the floaty space he goes to when he’s following your orders, when he’s just being your sweet, obedient Mammon. “Need to get you off too.”
You gently force him back by his hair, looking into those pretty, wide eyes.
“We need to get you in the shower, Mammon.” You tug him up again, careful to be slow and not tip him over. Mammon’s legs are still shaky and even with his demon strength, you’re pretty sure a stiff breeze could knock him over right now.
“Can I get ya off in the shower then?” he asks, and you can see a hint more of your mischievous demon come through.
“After we get the worst of that filth off of you.”
Mammon grins, triumphant, as if he’d just made a good deal. You roll your eyes and start to tug him towards your bathroom, but first-
“Can you please get rid of him?”
Mammon looks between you and the charred body still in your doorway. He groans.
“Fine,” he mutters, tucking away his spent cock and grumbling.
“I’ll heat up the water for us,” you promise and Mammon, predictably, perks up again.
Mammon moves the body out of your sight but you’re not going to be able to forget it.
Objectively, it was a horrific sight. The empty eye sockets, the twisted limbs, the gooey mess of the flesh beneath the charred skin… and yet all you’d been able to focus on was that Mammon had done that for you. Would do it again, for you.
Maybe you were getting too used to the Devildom.