#y’know when you’re sick of being ugly so you make an effort for the smallest thing

[you-wanna-know]

Giving you the prettiest bitch in the therapists waiting area

[devildomobsessed]

say it and i will possess your heart

Rated: Mature

Word Count: 2.2k

Ship: Mammon x MC

Summary: Mammon doesn’t know why he’s doing this. Or rather, he knows exactly why. He just hopes you never make him say it.In other words, neither of you can admit how you feel but expect the other to say it.

Warnings: Alcohol Mention, Mentions of sex, mildly dubious consent (but nothing explicit happens), unresolved tension

AN: comments and requests are super appreciated!

Read on AO3

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Devilgram is not the appealing outlet Mammon had thought he needed. He mindlessly scrolls through the pictures and videos, not giving anything too much thought. Another pic from Asmo, another video from that wretched witch, another pic from that succubus, and so on. It's mind-numbing.

He shifts against the couch in his room, feeling restless. He glances around his room. All this shit, but there was nothing that could capture his attention.

No, if anything Mammon’s mind was occupied with you. He wondered where you were, what you were doing, who you were with. And it pissed him off, knowing that you were probably out there doing who knows what with someone else. Something deep and dark settles in his chest. He wants you. He wants you more than he’s wanted anything.

He jerks his gaze to somewhere - anywhere - else in his room. He needs to stop this train of thought before it gets worse. He jumps up to pace around.

It was always like this now and had been getting worse recently. He had wanted to own you, but it looks like you owned him. Not that he really minded. But maybe he wants something more than possession. He shudders at the idea. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. He’s thinking of your smile, the way your brows crease in thought, and he can practically hear your laughter. It makes his heart stutter.

Wait.

His head snaps towards the door of his room. There it is again. You are 100% giggling on the other side of his door. He flinches as playful knocks echo throughout his room. His blood is pounding in his ears. He needs to go open the door, but he knows where his mind is right now. He knows where this could end up. He cannot let himself open that door.

“Mammon.” Your voice flutters to his ears, and he clenches his jaw. Fuck. He’s gonna have to make a choice. Does he keep you out at the risk of hurting your feelings? Or does he not let you in while he’s not sure what he wants.

“Please let me in.” Fuck.

Without wasting another second, he practically sprints to the door. He jerks it open, revealing your slightly surprised face. A wide smile takes the place of shock, and you let out a laugh.

You stumble forward, placing your palms on his chest. Something warm mixes into Mammon’s swirling hurricane of feelings.

“Hi, Mammon,” you murmur, using his chest to steady yourself. His nose twitches. His hands reach up to lightly grasp your arms.

“Have you been drinking?” His words come out harsher than he meant, but you don’t seem to notice. You just pat his chest and nod absentmindedly.

“Mmmmhmmmm. Beel found a bottle of tequila hidden in the kitchen, and we drank a lot,” you whisper, voice colored with sincerity and innocence.

His face twists, and he pulls away from your touch. You follow him into his room, closing the door behind you. You skip forward and unceremoniously plop yourself down on his couch.

Mammon leans against the pool table keeping his back toward you. His stomach feels like it’s in knots, twisting, and turning. Beel. You seem to always be with him now.

“Mammon?” You gently ask. He whips around to face you, his face is still twisted into something ugly.

“Beel, huh? Great, great. That’s fucking great.” Hostility creeps into his voice. And there’s something else there too.

“Yea, we were just hanging out.”

“Oh, yea. Just hanging out sure.” He turns to look at you, arms crossed.

“Sounds like something’s bothering you.” Your time is almost cruel. Even after drinking, you both know what the goal of this conversation is. It’s the one thing Mammon can’t give you. At least not right now.

Fuck, he would physically cut his heart out and give it to you if that’s what you wanted. But he just can’t say what needs to be said.

“Of course something’s bothering me-“ He cuts himself off, clenching his fists next to him. Unsteadily, you rise from the couch. Mammon’s eyes are fixed on the ground, but he hears you approach. When he flicks his eyes up, you’re too close, too warm, too real.

“What?” Your voice comes out as a whisper.

“You know what. It’s because we’re, y’know…” He knows where this is going.

“We’re what?” You ask. You want him to say it. You want him to do the thing he knows he can’t.

Like lighting, he instantaneously grabs your wrists, holding them tight above your head. You hold your breath, brain feeling foggy and warm. His gaze is too bright and too much, it’s setting your skin on fire. You lick your lips and try to ignore the arousal pooling in your gut and the ache that settles in your chest.

“Stop. Just stop.”

He whispers the words so softly it almost hurts. His eyes trail all over your face as if he’s trying to memorize this moment. But all he can really think about is how bad he wants to kiss you. He wants to tear you apart, destroy you, and make you cry out in pleasure so no one else matters but him. And what’s worse is that he can see the desire burning in your eyes too. His grip loosens, and your wrists drop to your sides.

The two of you stare at each other, nothing but the sound of breathing filling the air. Your brain feels like honey, and you just want to tell him everything. It was cruel to try to force it out of him, but you had wanted him to say it so badly. You wanted him to lay himself bare to you and tell you everything.

And what’s fucked up and hypocritical is that you get why he can't. There’s so much you wanna say, but you can’t drag the right words out of you. So you settle for what you can say.

“I’m sorry, Mammon.”

You close the distance between the two of you, and before he can react you wrap your arms around him and bury your face into him. He freezes beneath your touch. This wasn’t what he had been expecting, but he’s not sure what he had been expecting in the first place. Ever so slowly, he wraps his arms around you and presses you even tighter against him.

You tilt your head up to look at Mammon, and you wiggle away from his grip with a giggle. You tug at his arms and pull him towards the couch. Something dark lurches in his heart, but he follows you anyways. When he falls onto the couch next to you, you shift closer to him, looking at him with an intensity that makes him blush.

He turns his reddening face away from you, in a pathetic last attempt to maintain some dignity. But you gently grip his chin and turn him to face you. But the air is far too thick, his blood is too hot, and you’re way too close. But your brows crease in thought and you barely open your mouth, and Mammon finds that he can’t pull away to get some space.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice is soft and Mammon revels in it. “I shouldn’t have pushed you. But you don’t have to worry. I mean….”

You trail off and your face scrunches up in thought. It’s only then that Mammon realizes your hand is still cupping his jaw, your fingers lightly caressing him. He flushes and leans into your touch.

The whole situation has Mammon feeling guilty. He couldn’t tell you what you wanted, so he’s taking advantage of you being drunk to tell him the truth. But he’s greedy for your inner thoughts.

“I guess. I came to see you. I drank and I wanted to see you. You were my first pact… and you’re you. I-“

Unable to continue, you look away from the heat in his eyes, feeling embarrassed. What you want to say is going to change everything. You both know that.

“I think, what I’m trying to say is I-“ you cut yourself off, lips trembling in an effort to speak the unspeakable. In the blink of an eye, Mammon’s hand is covering your own. The words that were on the tip of your tongue die down. He can’t have you say it. Not now. Not like this.  

He gently pries your hand from his face, but he doesn’t let go. Your stomach’s in knots now, and it’s not just from the tequila. He gently lifts your hand to the front of his face, and you squirm as his breath fans against it. He slowly brings his lips down to kiss the pulse point on your wrist. You feel like you’re going to be sick.

But when Mammon gently tugs for you to climb into his lap, you do. You straddle him, one thigh on either side of his hips. The darkness that’s been lurking just beneath the surface intensifies. He’s got you right where he wants you.

But he sees the distant cloudiness in your eyes, and he can’t. He can’t do it. So he pulls you down into him, and cages you to him with his arms. Your arms slip in between him and the couch, and you bend to nestle your face into the crook of his neck.

He gently rubs your back, and you sigh into his neck. He can’t believe he’s fallen so low. He’s one of the great Demon Lords of the Devildom. Fuck he’s THE Mammon. And...and you’re just a human. But with you on his lap right now...he’s never wanted something more. He’d trade it all, he realizes. He'll pay any price for you. It’s a paralyzing thought, and it sets his blood on fire. Especially when you’re rubbing small circles against his back.

He’s so lost in his thoughts, it’s only when he hears the smallest moan come from your mouth that he realizes you're barely grinding against him. Fuck.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to think about how good you would feel, how well you’d take him. He’d give you orgasm after orgasm. However many his greedy little human wanted. But it’s all too much especially for right now.

He moves his hands to your waist and stills you. You don’t say anything, too focused on your breathing. Mammon worries stopping you may have cemented that door shut forever. But he needed to do the right thing. Fuck, for once in his life he needed to do the right thing. When you finally speak, he strains to hear your quiet words.

“Mammon, I’m sleepy.” He chuckles, ignoring the icy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He holds you to him and stands. You cling to him tightly, wrapping your legs around his waist. Somewhere beneath the sleep, you’re impressed by his strength, but he is a demon after all.

He gently lays you down on his bed and hands you a large shirt. You giggle at his blushing face but accept the shirt. He turns to give you privacy, and when he looks at you again, his chest swells with some sort of fucked up pride. Once again, he has you right where he wants you. He’s always sleeping in your room, but this...this feels different. But you look so tired and peaceful, that his heart aches. He runs his hands through his hair and slowly exhales. Well, he’s got a couch in here.

He flips the light switch by his bed and turns to go and lay on the couch. He’s stopped by your hand catching his, anchoring him next to you.

“I want you here,” you whisper so softly he’s not sure he heard you correctly. But you said it. You want him with you. So when you shuffle over to make room for him, he takes off his shirt, leaving just his joggers, and slides in next to you without a complaint.

His face is probably way too close to you now, but he doesn’t care. When you reach up and card your fingers through his hair, he shudders. You giggle as you try to get even closer to him.

“Hi,” you murmur as you continue to play with his hair.

“Hey,” he whispers back, trying to ignore the storm of feelings in his chest.

You slowly shift your other hand to rest on his chest, and he freezes, you’re skin burning him. You slowly trail your hand down his chest to his lower abdomen, leaving fire in its wake. He shivers beneath you, and he knows you mean to continue past the band of his sweatpants.

And he wants you to. Fuck fuck fuck. He wants you to wrap your pretty little hand around his cock. He wants to hear the noises you’d make when he’s looking up at you from between your legs. He wants to hear the way you moan his name as he pounds into you. He wants it, needs it, fuck. Twice in one night, you’ve given him the opportunity.

His hands stop yours right before you slip under his joggers. If there’s any chance you’re not sober, he can’t keep going. And even if you were sober, once you keep going, nothing will be the same.

And maybe he wants change. But not right now, and not like this. So instead he pulls you into his arms and holds you close to him.

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to say what needs to be said, but somewhere deep down, he hopes you know.