Summary: It's such a dumb thing to have a crush on Mammon, your awful boss and the bane of your existence. You just wanted a few days off from your job to get your head on straight again, but of course he'd have an issue with that.
What you weren't expecting was what happened next.
Warnings: 18+, mammon calls reader a 'bitch'. Toxic dynamic. Degradation. Reader has breasts and vagina but no fem pronouns used, described as wearing skirts. Oral (let's be honest, mammon is not a giver but let's indulge in the fantasy), overstimulation, multiple orgasms.
Notes: 11.2K words. Not proofread. Reader is down bad, Hellborn!reader. Mammon being an insufferable pervert.
It's astonishing, even to you, how you've managed to developed feelings for someone who might be the most obnoxious demon in Hell - a tall order to fulfill, but he does so with a concerning ease.
His arrogance is on steroids, he's lazy, selfish, and has the manners of a pig. And despite crafting his image and brand around an aesthetic that implies comedy, he has the wit and sense of humor of a stunted schoolboy.
He is royalty. Maybe you could blame his ego entirely on his status, but somehow that might be giving him too much credit. You're sure that if he lost everything in a snap, overthrown and reduced to the lowly rank of the very demons that he despises, that he'd still cling onto his pride and overconfidence. You couldn't pry it from his dead hands.
Worse than all of that though, is that he's also your boss. An overbearing, exhausting, respectless boss. He oversteps personal boundaries, pushes you past your limits, and treats you like a tool to be used rather than a living being.
At his beck and call, that's what you are. He isn't mindful of your personal time or if you're off the clock. Like this very morning when he had woken you up four hours before your alarm could do the job.
You had barely registered that you were even conscious as your hand blindly searched your bedside table for your phone. Functioning entirely off of muscle memory.
The sound of his ringtone had cut through the peaceful atmosphere with all the subtly of a gunshot. You tried to blink past the sting of sleep and the shock of the light pouring from the screen as you accepted the call with the swipe of your thumb. You hardly had time to lift the device to your ear before the rough pitch of his voice - which was way too cheery for 3 a.m. - spilt out from the speaker in an unbroken stream.
"Heyyo, how's my little assistant doing? Good, good. Listen, I've really been cravin' some Mexican - you know the place, right? Of course, you do! I don't pay you the big bucks for nothin'! So, I was thinking that you could go and get me some. Probably a coupla burritos, maybe - or . . . hmm . . . Ya know what, make sure to get the party box. And make sure they skim out on the hot sauce this time, yeah?"
The line had hung up with a click, leaving you to sit alone in silence that suddenly felt too quiet instead of peaceful. He hadn't let you get a single word in. The option to try and reject his order was cut off with an abrupt kind of casualness.
You didn't want to move from the warmth of your bed. You didn't want to get dressed and figure out the exact restaurant that he wanted, because it probably wasn't even open this late. And despite his assumptions, you didn't know just which one he was referring to with his vague instructions.
Your mouth was dry, your eyes were threatening to slip shut again, and the sun hadn't even begun to dawn in the horizon, but the even bigger punch to the gut was when a notification dropped down from the top of your phone's screen.
Ball and Chain
wood u do me a solid n pey for it :)
Its kinda expinsive n i don think i hve the money rn thx
All in all: a total piece of shit.
And yet, like an absolute push over you've managed to develop some weird sort of attraction to him. It's Stockholm Syndrome - forced proximity or something. At least that's the excuse you make for yourself. How else could you possibly explain it?
You've been told that you have bad taste in men before. You've heard it from your parents. Your friends. Even coworkers have voiced their confusion in your past flings and boyfriends.
You've dated your fair share of red flags. "Bad boys" if you want to be cliche. One was emotionally unavailable, one was a cheater, and the other an arsonist with a penchant for outbursts that often resulted in murderous rampages. But somehow Mammon makes them all seem normal. A true talent.
So you can't manage to figure out why the guy that makes you want to bash your head into a wall also makes something hideously saccharine and soft pulse in your chest each time you see him. Something that you've horrendously recognized as affection.
You can't track when his voice shifted from nails on a chalkboard to charming and pleasant. It's gravely, coarse, typically held in a jeering lilt. You've seen some flinch at the sound of it, the loud way that he often projects it causing many to roll their eyes or scoff, and yet, like a lab rat that's been trained, you find yourself hoping to hear it again.
Maybe it's his power. The control he wields as a Sin. The ability he has to kill most demons with the flick of his hand.
You've been at his side for years. You know all of his quirks. How he likes his frappuccino's with so much caramel that it's practically seventy-five percent of the drink. He has the windows on his limo tinted so that he doesn't have to see the poor; turning on one of those sensory videos is the only way to successfully get him to focus, and he can't really handle eating anything spicy. He'll practically bite your head off and accuse you of trying to kill him if any kind of hot ingredient makes it into his lunch, though he'll refuse to stop trying to eat it. Chewing and swallowing while he moans and groans past the pain.
He's a terrible person. A PR nightmare. A horrible boss. And somehow, he's got you wrapped around his finger.
It's more than a little pathetic. Any self-respecting demon would have left by now. Fizz has - and if anyone else could possibly have a spec of understanding on your situation, it would definitely be him. But he's left. Finally severed his ties with Mammon and saved himself before the Sin could properly chew him up and spit him out.
You do respect him in that aspect. A part of you lives through him, latching onto his act of defiance, his reclaiming of independence and imagines that you're the one who finally told Mammon to go fuck himself.
But you don't think that you could truly move on from him. That you could let go. Truthfully, you don't think that you want to.
You've spent too many years with him to leave now. At some point, somehow, you've grown fond of him. All of the hatred and irritation boiling and simmering down into a soft devotion.
You like him. You actually like him. It feels like a sort of betrayal to yourself, but the sting of it grows duller and duller with each passing day until you're sure that it will soon vanish entirely. Like a faded memory.
It makes it seem normal then that you've managed to grow protective of him. Some might say the word "possessive" is better suited, but it seems like an exaggeration to you.
There are many facets to your tasks as the King of Greed's personal assistant. One of them being his bodyguard - not that he technically needs it. He holds powers that most demons could only dream of wielding, but it doesn't keep you from fulfilling your task and sheltering him from the crazed fans that often attempt to swarm him.
You've delt with all of the demons parading themselves in front of him. Desperately throwing their bodies in his path to try and get his attention, with their tits and asses on display like the perfect depictions of desperation.
So, by all accounts, it shouldn't have struck a nerve in you to see him talking to her.
You weren't allowed into the court room. Only high-ranking demons are permitted during hearings of this caliber. Namely the Goetia Family and the Sins.
You were left alone in the lobby, sitting on some gaudy, velvet cushioned waiting chair while you waited. The room is always uncomfortably quiet. Almost hollow in a way, with its vaulted ceilings and spaced-out walls giving it an eerie resemblance to catacomb.
The almost rhythmic tapping of the receptionist's fingers sweeping along her computer's keys echoed from the stone and marble floors. It was annoying. Like a persistent bug circling outside of your ear.
But the irritating noise of the keyboard clicking muted down into a distant hum as all of your focus narrowed down onto the phone you held in your palm. You were tuned in to a live feed of the trial to make sure that he wouldn't make a complete ass of himself. Though the likelihood of that was dim, you still had hope. You were holding out that the fidget toys that you had given him beforehand would occupy him enough to keep his usual antics down to a minimum. But you weren't going to hold your breath, either.
It was a quick glimpse of it, the view on the both of them out of focus while they sat far off in the background. The focal point of the live video trained on some imp, kneeling and bound in chains as he stared forward, eyes wide and chaotic with fear and fury.
You couldn't see what had captured his attention. The scope of the camera fixed entirely on him but based on his expression you could gather that it was more than likely Satan. His judge and possible executioner.
Hearings like this surprisingly aren't extremely common in Hell. It isn't every day that all of the Sins - excluding Lucifer, of course - are brought together to deliver unholy judgement on a demon. All of the Rings were probably glued to their phones and TV screens to watch the trial, frothing at the mouth with the possibility of watching blood spill.
But you couldn't be bothered to pay that any mind. The imp became long forgotten; the obnoxious voice of the pale, avian Goetia strutting about the dim room and the deep timbre of Satan dulled into a muted hush as your focus narrowed down onto a single, fleeting interaction.
The camera barely picked up the audio. The sound of Mammon's voice coming out muffled despite the hearing taking place in a large, cavernous room. The grin on his face was a joyful one, the flash of his serrated teeth making the sinister edge of it even more sadistic in his obvious gloating.
It felt like ice was in your veins, streaking up your throat to choke you as he shuffled over from his end of the gallery, dragging his chair with him to plop himself at her side. Smiling wide, happy and practically vibrating in place before his expression shifted into something bordering on sleazy.
You couldn't help the way your talons sunk into the arm rest of your seat, claws sinking into the padding with dull pops! as you watched his gloved hand slip onto the face of the counter to walk his fingers over the worn wood as he spoke.
You didn't miss the soft smile her left head passed him, long lashes batting at him before she casted her other half a questioning look. As though she was gauging her other side's reaction to whatever he might have said to her. Like she was asking her other part permission.
Permission to do what?
That's the question that twisted in your stomach and coiled like something molten and nasty.
He was practically leering. Eyebrows raised while he grinned at Leviathan dumbly around some dick shaped popsicle. Never have you ever wanted to slap him so strongly before. Not in all of your years of working under him has he made you feel so angry but seeing them together made your blood a venom in your veins.
It was a brief little interaction, and in a split second it managed to dig under your skin like a splinter.
You aren't sure why their relationship cuts at something deep. The bonds that the Sins have with each other has been considered almost familial. Having been casted from Heaven, it's brought them close despite their all of their differences. It's a relationship that you know you don't have with him. You're just the grunt meant to pick up his morning coffee and schedule the meetings that he probably won't bother to show up for.
Why would he ever look at you? You're just another person who works for him. Someone below his rank.
You know it's stupid. Your little crush. And yet, you can't find it within yourself to try and tear it down, to pick it apart piece by piece until it crumbles and disappears. You aren't dignified for that apparently, so instead, you wallow.
It's been close to a week since the hearing, and you still haven't managed to snap yourself out of the headspace that it had all but shoved you into.
There's been a cloud over you ever since. Nasty and suffocating. You've tried ignoring it. Moving past it and simply focusing on your work like you always do, but it's stubborn. Sinking in deep and latching on like some sort of parasite.
Seeing Mammon everyday doesn't help. It's only invigorating the burning ache of jealousy that threatens to cripple your lungs and leave you choking each time you have to look at him.
It's a slap to the face each time. A not so gentle reminder of the way he had sought out her attention. It's rare to see him deliberately seek out someone. Sure he has his fans. It's no secret that he loves being in the spotlight, preening under the approval of thousands, eating it up light he's starved and it's the only thing that might save him.
But for him to invite himself into someone's space without the motive of something underhanded, which seems like a defiance against some sort of law in nature, is something that you never imagined seeing. It makes you sick your stomach that it wasn't for you.
You need a break. A moment to properly catch your breath and recollect yourself. To get a grip so that you don't slip and let your emotions get the best of you. The last thing you want to do is have a break down during work, possibly in public, and in front of Mammon no less.
It's why you're standing in the middle of his office, in front of his desk. Though calling it an office is being a bit generous, considering that he spends all of his time in it sitting on his ass, watching trash television from the flatscreen that he had posted on the wall across from his desk, ignoring the important phone calls and meetings and business updates that he should be approving.
Much like he's doing right at this moment. There are piles of paperwork and files that are stacked into columns on the face of his desk. Forgotten in favor of the food that he's shoveling down his mouth, cheeks bulging as he sits with his attention transfixed on the screen.
The urge to pick up his slack and sort through the documents is kneejerk, and you have to forcefully remind yourself that you're not here to do his job.
"Mammon, sir," you call.
He doesn't so much as flinch at the sound of your voice. He definitely didn't hear you. His vision hasn't strayed from the cheesy reality show playing. There's a glazed over look in his eyes that has irritation prickling along your skin.
"Mammon." You try again, but he's still miles away. Or his ignoring you. That's definitely a possibility. You repeat his name two more times. The control in your tone audibly slipping, turning thin and clipped. The irritation, the stress of your job, the jealousy still lurking underneath it all has your restrain fracturing.
You hardly register your body leaning over, one of your palms striking down on the desk with a pronounced crack that reverberates up your arm in a heavy ache. You're too distracted to fully notice the flash of pain, too caught up in your impatience.
Finally, he acknowledges you. His eyes shift from the TV and move onto you. But the glance that he gives is quick and lazy.
"What are you doin' here?" he asks, gracelessly cramming in another grab of chips past his teeth.
You have to suck in a deep breath to keep your temper in check. A slow inhale and the simmering heat building in your body dies down into a faint thrum. You clear your throat, pulling back from the desk to straighten your posture and you make a deliberate decision to ignore the bit of ketchup that's transferred onto your palm from his desk.
"I wanted to request some time off, sir," you answer. The words are like ash on your tongue, but you swallow the guilt down. You're allowed to make time for yourself. You're allowed to ask for this. "Not for long. Just a day or two to relax and get a few things in order. I've ran it by Juno already, and they've agreed to cover the days I'd be gone. It's a short amount of time and they have enough experience to be capable-"
"No."
You blink at the response. There's a finality to it despite the relaxed way it was delivered. You're not exactly surprised by his refusal, mostly disappointed. Still, it doesn't keep your annoyance and confusion from showing on your face.
"Can I ask why?"
He sighs like you're the problem. Rolling his eyes dramatically before speaking around his chewing. "I'm not payin' for your leave."
Cheap bastard.
"I don't need you to."
"It's still no."
"Why not?" You can't hide your exasperation now, your arms flaring out from your sides.
He doesn't answer, opting to silently drop the near empty bag of chips, and for a moment you fear that you've lost him again. The sound of his chewing is horrendous this close, and despite having worked for him for three years, it's a habit of his that you haven't entirely moved past. Even worse is that you somehow manage to find him attractive, like some kind of curse.
"Cause I need you here-" one of his lower hands raises to point a finger at you, almost performative like he's in a commercial- " taking care of business and keepin' this fucking machine runnin.' "
"That's what Juno is for." You can't help how slowly you enunciate the sentence, slipping it from your tongue carefully like he's slow.
He doesn't appear to be insulted. When he speaks your name, it's laced with an affection that you wish was real. But it's too sweat, too gentle to be authentic, and the truth of that is like a knife in the chest.
"You know no one else does it like you do. You're the only one that can almost keep up with me." His face is pinched in a sincerity that logic tells you is fake, but that foolish romantic in you delights in the sight of it. "You're the glue that keeps this place together. You handle all the borin', useless bullshit while I entertain the masses. It's what makes us work."
Us.
It's so tempting. So close to what you want, but it's not real. You have to force yourself to keep your head on straight and ignore the fluttering in your chest.
He sits up from his chair and rounds his desk to approach you; the bells on his fool's cap chime and jingle, growing louder in his approach. He's still wearing that patient, understanding expression. The sharp edges of his grin have softened into something gentle, and it's so easy to pretend that it's authentic.
It takes you by surprise when he doesn't stop, raising up a pair of hands to cradle your face in his palms. It's a manipulation tactic. You know it is. You've seen him do it to Fizzarolli in the past. Using embraces and tender touches to lull him into a false sense of security, and it pisses you off that he's doing it now. It pisses you off more that you're actually lured by it.
His hands are cool. You can feel it through the rich leather of his gloves; buttery and smooth, chilled by the natural cold of his skin. But it's soothing in a way that it shouldn't be.
"You've never asked for time off in all these years. Are you really gonna leave me now?" He frowns. He's pouting. "You know the rest of 'em are bloody useless. Couldn't find their asses with a fuckin' map. You can't leave me with them, it'll be a disaster."
You want to tell him that he's being dramatic. That it's only two days, but the words die out in your throat. His eyes have gone wide. Big and pitiful like a puppy that's been kicked. It's the image of dramatic. An exaggerated display of hurt and worry.
A stubborn streak of guilt shoots through you despite your basic reasoning. The voice of common sense flickering out for one moment before you're able to reign it back into place.
He's just manipulating you. He's too lazy to deal with his business himself and as good as Juno might be as a temporary stand-in, you doubt that they'll be able to balance all of his responsibilities and yours - even if it is for two days.
All of the assistants before you had either been fired or died. He's not an easy individual to work for. He's exhausting, particular, and petulant, but you have to trust that Juno will be able to handle it. For your own sanity, they have to.
"C'mon, sweet thing. Tell me what's wrong in that little brain of yours." His voice dips from the high tone that it's usually held in, lowering into something smooth and husky.
You don't know if you've ever heard it sound like this before, and it's like you've been doused in something liquid and simmering. A shiver trickles down your spine and settles in your toes.
He did that on purpose. He had to.
His eyes seem like they're burning. The bright chartreuse boring into you, cutting past your defenses and layers and rummaging around to strip you bare.
You have to stop this. You have to get back in control before this tail spins into something that you can't handle.
"It's just two days," you repeat, choking the words out like they're made of dust.
His fingers flex subtly. The points of his claws hidden by the leather daring to dig at your cheeks. His expression hardens, eyes narrowing. But it's the thrum that's tainted the atmosphere that truly lets you know that you're treading into dangerous territory. It's electric. Pulsing and wild and licking at your skin with the threat to sting.
"You're actin' pretty fucking selfish, ya know."
That's enough to snap you out your trance. You rip yourself out of his hands, backing away to create space so that you can think. Clarity drops over you like a bucket of frigid water, and the combination his static filling the air has your stomach flipping.
"I don't see how this is a big deal. It's not that big of a deal, you're just making it one for no reason."
In comparison to the other accusations and insults that Mammon has jabbed at you during your time with him, this is far from first place, but it's enough to tip you into an angry ramble. You can't seem to stop yourself now that it's started. Your mind and mouth slipping away from you and finally letting everything that you've been struggling to keep contained gushing from out in deluge.
"You're such an asshole. You're selfish, and stupid, and you have the table manners of toddler -" his mouth twists into a snarl, and if you were able to help it you'd shut up, but you can't - "you're a shitty person. You're a shitty boss.
I've skipped out on so much for you and this fucking job: birthdays, parties, sick days - I don't even get days off because you can't ever stop blowing up my phone with literally the dumbest requests. 'Can you go down to the mall and get me a pair of shoes.' 'Go to Gluttony to that donut shop.'
I can't believe I actually have feelings for you."
Time freezes. There's no air in your lungs. Your heart drops to your ass.
It all goes flat. There isn't any noise. For the first time in his life, Mammon has been left speechless. And you certainly can't make yourself speak. Your voice is gone. It's vanished and died.
You feel outside of yourself and hyperaware of your own limbs all at once. Your skin is too tight. The air is hot. You're suffocating.
And Mammon is staring. He looks just as shocked as you probably do, eyes wide and lips parted while he tries to process what's happened.
You're mortified. You want the floor to crack open and send you plummeting to your death. That would be a mercy, but the universe seems to revel in your misery because the ground under your feet remains intact. Leaving you to stand with ice in your veins and embarrassment smarting your cheeks.
You're waiting for the boisterous string of laughter to pierce the air. For him to double over while he cruelly mocks you for your little secret.
It doesn't come.
He spares you that much, but his teeth flash in the dull florescent light in a grin that's brutal. He's beaming. Smiling from ear to ear but the delight on his face is saturated with arrogance. Amused and cocky. Like you've stroked his ego in the best way possible and didn't even know it.
Somehow, this is worse than if he would have just laughed at you.
He's watching you like you're a piece of meat.
It's terrifying and thrilling all at once. You contemplate turning around and running out of his office. He can teleport, but if you're quick enough, maybe you'll at least be able to make it to a different floor. A few moments of life and peace without him watching you like he might pounce.
But your feet aren't working. There's a disconnect between your brain and legs and it has you rooted in place. Trapped in your body while the horror of everything sinks into every facet of you.
"So." He draws the word out, long and heavy, nearly singing it. He stands taller, emphasizing the way that he already looms over you. You think he could eat you whole. "Is that what all this is about? You've got yourself an itsy-bitsy little crush-"
"Don't."
It's a warning and a plea all at once. Your voice is somehow shaken and firm. You're trying to keep yourself together. Holding onto the tearing, terrified halves of yourself with a trembling resolve. It takes all of your strength to try and hold the chaos inside from showing on your face.
All the while, Mammon's grin hasn't wanned. If anything, he only appears even more entertained than before. He'll be riding this high for weeks.
"Aw, it's nothin' to be ashamed of," he purrs. His eyebrows perk up, and his smile becomes almost pervy. "I can't say I'm surprised. It is me-"
"Exactly. It's you." You wave a hand in a sort of 'no shit' sort of gesture.
His offence is shown plainly, his smile vanishing in a split second as he rocks back on his heels like he's been slapped. "The fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, come on, you aren't exactly the most respectable person. And that's putting lightly." You glare at him. Almost too tired and agitated to focus on your embarrassment. The absurdity of the entire situation making it easy to forget the anxiety thrumming beneath it all. "Did you already forget everything I've already said? That entire rant?"
His lips purse and his eyes squint in an exaggerated expression that you might have found funny in any other circumstance, but right now it's just annoying. He eyes flicker up to the ceiling for a moment, as though he'll find the answer that he's searching for in the texture and the water stains.
"Seriously?" you scoff.
"What? I'm a busy man, babes, I've got a lot on my mind."
You have to resist the urge to laugh. Swallowing the sound down before it could bubble free, but it still escapes in a thin, humorless chuckle. And you can't keep yourself from mumbling tiredly under your breath. "That's surprising you'd have anything going on in there."
"I fuckin' heard that, ya bitch." He snaps. The pulse of his static coursing through the air lets you know that you might be poking at him too much now. He's killed people for less, and yet you can't seem to keep your mouth shut.
"We're not getting anywhere doing this." You release a heavy sigh, trying to ground yourself. To soothe your nerves which are still going haywire. "It's just two days. And they'll go by so quick that it'll be like I wasn't even gone."
"If they'll go by quick, why do you even need to take 'em off?"
This is one of those moments where you could seriously bash your head into a wall. It's a tempting thought, to just turn around and swing your head into the plaster. If you were lucky enough, maybe it would knock you out and you'd finally get that break you want.
"You are such a frustrating dick. Why does it matter? You don't have any meetings scheduled in that time frame, no commercials to shoot, no venues to attend - Juno will probably end up taking on the paperwork that you do have. So you'll probably just be sitting on your ass at home, or out at some nightclub."
His anger is back. His eyes are narrow, burning in that toxic shade of green that feels like it burrowing beneath your skin. The hint of his power is charging in the air, thrumming and coiling, causing goose bumps to raise on your skin.
"Cause I fuckin' said so," he snarls. "I'm the boss here, yeah? What I say goes."
You want to argue. You want to throw something, to shout, to leave. But you don't do any of those things. You can't. You're worn out. Frustrated. All of the fight in you has fizzled out; water thrown over a fire, leaving it a damp, smoldering pile of dead embers.
This how he does it. He doesn't win arguments because he's in the right or because he's tactful in the statements he makes, it's because he knows how to ramble arrogant nonsense until you just grow too tired and fed up to continue.
"I think I know what all this fuss is about. You feelin' all out of sorts 'cause of your little crush?" He's smiling again. Teasing. Intentionally prodding at that chip in your armor.
You're typically indifferent to his vulgarity and taunting. The most emotion that he garners from you is usually irritation or anger, and despite him being a Sin that could easily cut your life short, you've never been shy about insulting him back. It's easily one of the most frustrating aspects about the way you interact with each other. You both drive each other up a wall. It's a surprise that he hasn't killed you already or that you haven't emptied out your life savings to pay an assassin stupid and willing enough to try and murder him.
But his taunting is enough to have another wave of embarrassment crashing over you. You want to curl up on the floor and pass away on the spot.
He's like a shark that's smelt blood. Sinking his teeth into wounded flesh and latching on. Now that he's found a weakness to exploit, a thing to dangle over your head, he's going to be relentless. Cruelly twisting your arm with it to satisfy his own ego.
This is awful. You had to go and run your mouth. Had to let your feelings slip out. This might be worst case scenario for you. He's the last person in Hell that you'd ever want to have this information.
There's a relief alongside the pain though, but it isn't pleasant or cathartic. It's like releasing a muscle that's been flexed for too long. Pain rippling alongside the alleviation, the stress of it too much to bask in the repose.
"Forget I said that." You don't bother hiding your glare. Mostly for your own sake. In some last effort scramble to at least trick yourself into feeling braver than you truly are. But that twisted, self-satisfied grin on his face snuffs every bit of wavering confidence that you clung to.
"Are you kidding? I'm gonna be thinkin' about this moment for years." The bells on his costume jingle as his body shimmies, like he's trying to contain his excitement and failing. "You're always walking around here like you're all high and fuckin' mighty, meanwhile you've been creamin' in your panties every time you see me."
You wince, rolling your eyes. "Ugh, don't be gross."
"It's understandable. I have that effect on most people." He continues, unaffected by the angry glower you've pinned him with. "I was after all, named the most desired bachelor in Hell."
"First of all, you threatened them into posting you that high in the ranking, and the internet blew up for months afterwards because hardly anyone agreed with it."
"Whatever," he huffs. Petulant and childish. But just as quickly he's rocking back into that jeering, jovial disposition. He's shifts closer to you, eating up what little bit of space you had created between your bodies while you were panicking. "But it does make me wonder just how long you've been sittin' on your secret."
He creeps up with a fluidity that he shouldn't possess. A rhythmic insectile hiss trills through the air, juxtaposed by the cheerful jingle of his bells, and it makes him seem almost sinister.
It has your heart thumping wildly in your chest, and the luminous glint of his eyes pinning you down does nothing to help. It makes you feel like prey. Caught under his focus with nowhere to run. Feet stuck to the floor.
You hate how heat floods you, simmering under your skin, making your breath catch in your throat. You're trapped. Your attention stuck entirely on him as his body presses close to yours, and you can only hope that you've successfully forced an unbothered look on your face. That you seem unaffected from the chill and weight of him on your heated flesh while your mind stirs into a whirlwind.
You have to tilt your head back just to keep your vision locked with his as he looms over you, and it's only then that your brain fully registers his previous musing.
"Just let it go." You try to move away from him, rocking back on your feet, but a pair of his hands lash out in a blur to grip your shoulders. He's got you locked in place.
"Aw, don' be like that." He grabs ahold of your chin when you attempt to look away from him, turning your head back over to keep your focus on him. "So what's it been? A coupla months? One year? Two? I bet the entire time you've been acting all huffy, you were really just all pent up."
You'd rather die than admit to him that you've been sitting on these feelings for more than half of the time you've known him. How you had practically gone through the five stages of grief after realizing that fluttering that he inspired in your stomach wasn't from repulsion but from affection. How you've spent countless nights staring up the ceiling above your bed, hating yourself and wondering why him.
Your friends have all listened to your confused, defeated rambling when you've had one too many drinks. They do their best to be supportive and offer comfort, but you never miss the disappointed glances they pass each other when they think that you aren't aware. Looks that say, "Really? Why him? " As though you don't already know.
You've fought yourself over it a thousand times. Berating yourself and trying to talk sense into your own brain, doing your best to smother feelings that shouldn't exist at all, but they're always there, lurking just beneath the surface. Hungry and persistent, a lonely, longing dog scratching at the door to escape the cold.
"Poor thing. Must've been torture." He pinches your cheeks. The tone he uses, all low and laced with a gauche type of sympathy is all with the aim to ridicule you, and like the traitor it is your body flushes with heat.
Your thighs squeeze on their own, seeking out a friction that isn't really there, and the lack of relief nearly makes you moan in frustration. Thankfully you have half the mind to swallow the sound down before it could leave you, but you must give something away because the smile on his face grows even wider.
"I'd be happy to help you with your little problem. "
If you didn't know any better, you'd say that you were dead. Passed on and gone off . . . somewhere. Another hell maybe, or a different dimension entirely where nothing makes any sense.
You blink dumbly, lips parting while you struggle to process his what he's said. For a moment, you think that you've misheard him, but the words haven't stopped echoing in your head.
"What the hell are you talking about?" Your voice is slow. Careful to make sure that your tongue doesn't snag it in your mouth.
"Let's just cut the bullshit." He says it all matter-of-factly, like he's about to deliver some longwinded sales pitch. "It's not like I haven't noticed. You've been all strung out lately like you've got a broom shoved far up your ass. It's made you even more of a fuckin' drag to be around than usual -" and then, as though it adds less insult to the injury "- and you aren't bad on the eyes."
You lurch back from him, ripping yourself from his grip for the second time tonight. You can't tell if you want to laugh or cry or shout. The sting of how casual he's acting, the lack of tact lashes through you like a whip.
"Is this your idea of seducing me?" Now you're fully looking at the man that you've always regretted liking. The one that made things impossible. Or maybe this is just the reality. This is him as he truly is. The truth that you've struggled to grapple with. That no matter how much you've always wanted to believe otherwise, you'd never be special or appreciated.
"Is it working?" For a moment he almost sounds uncertain. At least that's what you'd like to believe, but the stare he's giving you is sleazy. Dripping with perversion and dumb hubris.
He must see your disappointment because you don't even get a chance to turn around to leave before he's reaching out. "Alright, alright, damn, just listen." He grumbles under his breath. " No sense of humor."
You have to roll your eyes.
"There isn't any reason to runnin' away all pissed off."
"You literally just insulted me. Not to mention, you're my boss. I'm pretty sure propositioning me for sex is breaking some sort of HR violation."
"Since when do we have fucking HR?"
"We don't," you admit with a sigh.
He seems to relax a little bit. Shoulders sagging once he realizes that you aren't making an attempt to leave again. He's wearing that pleased expression again. The one that makes you want to kiss and slap him. "Be honest with yourself; can you actually say that you've never thought of me before? When you're all alone at night with your hand shoved down between your-"
"Does it matter if I have?" Your mouth snaps shut swiftly. It wasn't an admission outright, but it might as well be, boarding close to something that you're determined to keep unsaid. But the damage is already done. He's somehow even more smug; bright eyes burning like he wants to consume you.
"Would it matter if I told you that I've had my hand wrapped around my dick while I thought about fucking you?"
You could combust on the spot. All of the breath has been forcefully snatched from your lungs, like fire eating up all of the air in a room, leaving you empty and burning. You try to center yourself, focusing on the texture of the clothes draped on your skin, trying to listen to the steady stream of audio pouring from the flatscreen, but it sounds miles away; glancing past the height of Mammon's shoulder and through the commercial window to focus on the toxic city skyline.
None of it does you any good.
You feel like you're floating away and stuck all at once, cemented in your own body.
It's a reflex to try and give him some sort of quip in return. Some scratching, humorous remark to try and level the playing field, but you've been reduced speechless.
The thought of him like that flickers across your mind in terrible, tantalizing visions. You hate how your mouth floods with saliva while you picture him fisting his cock. Squeezing it in feverous strokes, the tip leaking for him to collect in his palm, using it to smear over his girth to aid him in fucking his fist.
He'd be big. He'd have to be with how massive he is, scaling over most demons easily.
He'd sound so pretty panting. That graveled edge to his voice turning thin and rumbling while he works himself closer to release.
What would he sound like moaning your name? How many times has he done just that, fucking his own hand with the fantasy of you on his tongue?
It snaps you out from your daze like you've been struck. You can hardly remember how you've gotten here in this moment. The events of the day, the stress, your jealousy, it all seems so murky and distorted, a kaleidoscopic blur.
"I've done it right here in this office." He's slithering around you again, circling you like a serpent coiling its prey.
The confinement of the room is no longer just disorienting and tight, but it feels dirty. The revelation of his perverted fantasies scorching you from the inside out. You can feel his static again, humming and twisting along your limbs, thrashing up your spine in a way that makes you shiver, that has a heavy ache throbbing between your legs.
You've been in this office more times than you can count. Stood at the front of his desk to berate him for ignoring mountains of paperwork and the scandals that he's always determined to get into. Never has it crossed your mind that he's been in here fucking his fist to the thought of you.
It's pathetic how easily it soothes the jealousy that's been haunting you, ebbing the pain away like cream on a burn scar. Ice freezing over something acidic and smoldering.
"You're always wearin' those tight little skirts. Wearing those tops that squeeze your tits just right. Doesn't leave much to the imagination, babe."
You think of all the leering looks he's given you in the past, the quick once overs that you had chalked up to him just being obnoxious. You never gave them any merit. He's known for his perverted tendencies that never really have any true desire behind them, often flirting with people, seemingly just with the goal of being a sleaze. Picking out the wealthiest demon at an even or party in the hopes of hustling some free drinks or meals out of them, but that's typically as far as the flirtation goes.
The individual that had ever truly seemed to capture his attention is Leviathan, with him always seeking her out whenever the Sins are summoned together. Gravitating towards her like a moth to fire. Crawling to her side like a dog begging for scraps.
The reminder is bitter. Sharp and acrid in your mouth. And in an unwelcome rush, you're brought back to reality. Jealousy seeping back into your bones like a poisonous ooze.
"Don't you have Leviathan to go try to flirt with?" you snap.
He blinks like you've struck him, but the chuckle that leaves him is delighted. "Are you jealous?"
You don't answer. You can't. But your silence is confirmation enough.
If the revelation of your crush was going to make him a walking nightmare, then the unveiling that you're strung out enough to actually see Leviathan as some sort of rival is going to have his ego hurtling past the sky.
You can already see the effect of it, how he stands a little straighter, puffing out his chest with a smile that's dopey and complacent. He's eating this up like the attention whore that he is.
"You are." His eyes are ablaze with his delight before darkening. Turning into fervid, luminous pools that has your body thrumming. "I can make you forget about all of that. What do ya say, huh?"
No. It's right there balanced on the tip of your tongue, and yet you're hesitating. It's a simple response. One that would have this conversation ending. You could sweep it under the rug as best as you could, go back to your clear-cut employee and boss relationship - even though you're sure that Mammon would always make sure to remind you of this entire mess. But you could keep your head up and push through it. You know that you could.
And yet . . . You're not sure you want to. Maybe it's wrong - pitiful even, that for the first time in days the anger and bitterness that's been trailing you like a shadow has finally shrunk back. Warded off by his admittance that he's fantasized about you just as much as you have about him.
You should try to remain professional, but it's difficult to ignore that this is bordering close to plenty of the perverted daydreams you've had about him. You've spent countless times bored at meetings or alone at home envisioning him bending you over his desk, rucking up your skirt and fucking you stupid. Taking you while all the other lackies and grunts work just outside the door to his office.
They'd all be able to hear. It would a public declaration. It appeased the sick part of you that you've been trying to ignore, and in your jealousy's absence all that remains is want.
You almost feel like another person when you step towards him, parting through all of your stubborn uncertainty and insecurity. You reach up to grip his cowl, seizing the fabric in a firm grip despite the slight tremor in your fingers.
He looks shocked when your tug him down by the material, the bells on his costume singing sharply in that metallic shudder. Something about his surprise is empowering. The thrill of having knocked him off kilter - as fleeting as it might be - shoots through you like a rush of adrenaline.
You can't keep the smile off of your face as you tug him down to your level; the scent of him clouding all around you with his proximity. An intoxicating surge of musk and ozone.
"I don't think you can make me forget."
His expression almost seems offended, eyes narrowing and mouth twisting until he registers that you're only teasing him. Intentionally goading him on in the aim to get a rise out of him.
His grin is almost mean, all teeth. Like he can't wait to rip into you. "Cheeky fucking bitch."
He snatches you up in blink. Fingers gripping your hips and shoulders like a vice as plumes of rushing, emerald smoke blinds your vision, stuffing your lungs, all bitter and acrid; small charges of lighting licking up your skin and bolting deliciously through your nerves.
It's a quick, dazing blur that has your head spinning and stomach flipping. In a split second your body is being forced over. A hand gripping the back of your head to shove it onto the chilled counter of what must be his desk. A cursory scan of the space confirms that you are still indeed in his office, with the audio from the flatscreen playing steadily while he keeps your face pressed against a folder of files that he's probably never evaluated.
"Should make you do all the work for that bloody snark." You can see his eyes glowing out of your peripheral vision, wide and crazed as a pair of his hands slip down the length of your body in a greedy path. Groping and stroking as they drift, settling only once he reaches the shape of your ass. "But I'll fuck you good this time. You're gonna owe me though."
This time?
You don't have time to contemplate or celebrate the insinuation because he's suddenly ripping your skirt free from your hips with a harsh jerk. Shredding the fabric in single motion.
A complaint is right there in your throat, but it's forced into a gasp when one of his palms strikes down onto your ass with a sharp smack, smarting skin underneath the strength of it.
He groans when it jiggles, smoothing his hand down the stinging skin like he's trying to soothe it but the way he scratches the points of his gloved talons down the bruising flesh is pitiless. It makes you hiss out, spine arching like your body can't decide if it wants to twist away or lean closer to the fire he leaves behind his claws.
"Mammon." You try to admonish him, but it lacks bite, wavering into a weak moan.
It goes ignored, two of his fingers prodding against your clothed pussy, grinding his knuckles against the fabric. It has the texture of your underwear brushing over your clit, too light to be truly fulfilling, but it still has your hips rocking to chase after the sensation.
He's barely touched you and it's already enough to have your eyes fluttering. And then he's removing his hand away, making the pleasure fade into a dull throb that has you mourning the press of his knuckles.
"Damn, you're fuckin' soaked." There's awe and lust in his voice, thick and heavy, blending with the rough nature of his voice and turning it ragged. "How long have you been sittin' like this, all wet and squirming?"
His words are muffled and slurred. It takes the sound of slurping for your sluggish brain to connect the dots. He's sucking on his fingers.
You strain your neck to look back at him, ignoring the ache in your neck to watch him as he shoves then deeper into his mouth. It's vulgar and shameless how he groans around their intrusion, drinking down the taste of you on his gloves, slipping and coiling the length of his striped tongue around his fingers.
You can feel your pussy clench around nothing, a low whimper leaving your lips.
"Feelin' desperate?" he snickers.
"Oh, shut u-" you yelp abruptly, hips jolting from the table making your pelvis lurch painfully against the lip of the desk as Mammon sadistically snatches ahold of your underwear and twists it up. Pulling the fabric taut and tugging until it's wedged between the lips of your cunt, nudging on your clit.
The sound that leaves you is tortured and rapturous all at once. A gutted noise that would leave you embarrassed if you were clear headed enough. You can hardly care about being humiliated while he's keeping that pressure on your pussy, keeping you spread open on the snug cotton.
Your thighs clench, rubbing in a reflective attempt to seek out more tension, but all it does is make you brutally aware of the slick already smearing down your skin.
"Should have known you'd be a slut." There's creaking behind you, the sound of bells jingling as he settles into his chair. It's only then that he lets up on the hold he has on your underwear, a reprieve and loss all at once. "What about it, sweet thing, gonna let me have a taste?"
Chilled breath brushes over your ass, soothing the burn that still throbs from the impact of his hand. It's enough to have your body relaxing with a sigh before you realize what he's said. His offer has your brain scrambling for a moment. Never would you have imagined that he'd ask to go down on you. You figured that he'd already be wrestling to your knees right now, demanding that you swallow down his cock and get him off - not the other way around. But there's no way you're going to turn him down.
"Please," you blurt. Your nails rake across the cherrywood counter, clawing in anticipation to feel the damp of his tongue over your heated flesh.
"Are you sure?" he teases with mock hesitation. "You don't sound like you want it all that bad."
"Yes, yes, please, Mammon," you crumble easily. Giving like sugar melting on heat. "I want it - I need you to touch me. I need you to fuck me."
"Well then, since you asked me so nicely." The condescension in his tone should insult you but it only makes you burn hotter. Nerves singing and smoldering like you've been doused in gasoline.
He tears your panties from you too. They pinch your skin before they give, but it's hard to focus on that while he shreds them from your hips, ripping them as though they're made from paper.
A surprised cry leaves you from the chilled lashing of his tongue laving over your cunt, crudely spreading your apart on the long appendaged. His mouth his cold, shocking on your hot cunt, zapping up your spine like ice.
A pair of his hands slip back down on your hips, turning ridged, fixing you in place when you squirm while he eats you from the back. Smothering himself in you with a passion that you wouldn't ever anticipated.
He groans heavily. A guttural, deep noise that has tremors dipping through your pussy. It has your brain nearly fogging over when the length of his prehensile tongue sweeps down to circle around your clit in teasing glides before it dips inside of you. Stroking down to work deep inside like he's trying to drink you.
Each curl and tug pulls a moan from you, pitchy and loud, growing higher. You aren't even fully aware of the increasing volume. How your cries are echoing off of the walls, no doubt slipping past the door where everyone else will be able to hear and easily piece together what's happening.
You know you're going to get looks when you leave the office. Employees lifting themselves up from their chairs, peeking over their worn cubicles to try and get a peek of you, staring in judgement and awe.
How you're going to leave his office is another thing entirely. The bastard ripped your skirt and underwear, but honestly that's a problem for the future. It's difficult to be bothered with troubles like that, to worry about the gossip that's probably already spreading around the building like a wildfire while your boss has his tongue inside of you.
They'll all be talking about you for weeks, but you'll wear it with pride.
His tongue is so deep, reaching a point that you didn't know was possible. Brushing over places like he's searching for something, and when the tick point of it strokes over that patch that makes your toes curl, he centers all of his focus on it. Lapping at that point like he means to take you apart piece by piece and leave you in pool of liquid muscle and bliss.
He's mean about it. Mouthing at your pussy like he's tempted to take a bite of you. Scraping a hint of his lethal teeth over your lips and clit, sending sparks and smoke flicker through your nerves.
The way he does it is sloppy. Almost amateur. Like he's not entirely sure what he's doing, but the enthusiasm he has, moaning and breathing into you, lapping and sucking like he's starved makes up for where he lacks.
You can hear how wet you are. You're dripping, spit and cum dripping down your inner thighs. The stiff hold he has on your hips has your spine stuck in a firm arch, but apparently it's not enough, because he's lifting you ass up high in the air. A sting darts down your back at he holds you up, positioning you until only your chest is held up by the desk.
Even with him hunched over on his chair, there's still a decent height imbalance. Your legs fling out on instinct, kicking out to try and balance yourself, but the sharp smack that he delivers to your ass has you going limp in his hands. He mumbles a complaint into your cunt, too enraptured to pull himself from you, but you think that you can make out something over the cloud stuffing your skull and the slurred nature of his words.
Something that sounds close to "quit fuckin' squirming."
He at least has the decency to snatch both of your legs and swing them to rest the front them on his shoulders, offering you a little bit more stability. It does little to ground you though. You feel like you're floating, even while your back stings and the clutch of his fingers on your hips is bruising.
He's relentless. Fucking his tongue into you like he wants to make a place for himself there. Like he's trying to leave his mark and stain you from the inside out.
You're panting. Strangled puffs of air wrangling from your lungs with every drag of his soaked tongue.
"This cunt's fuckin' filthy," he groans, just as ragged and desperate as you sound. "Such a slutty thing. Wan' you to soak me. Cum all over my face."
His drunken rambling has your every muscle in you drawing up tight. Pleasures licking up your spine, boiling in the base of your stomach, blurring behind your eyes. It rushes up on you in a blink. In a split second, it all goes white.
Your claws lash across the counter, slicing permanent divots through the wood as you try to keep yourself present through the ripples making your muscles writhe and jerk.
You suck in a skipping breath, straining to gulp down enough air to orient yourself through the heat. It keeps rolling through you. Making your limbs twitch and spine arch as he coasts you through the stretch of your orgasm with his tongue.
It doesn't take long for the bliss to melt into something bright and a little too keen. A whimper punches from your chest, a hand mindlessly slapping against the chilled counter as you try to wiggle out from underneath his mouth.
"Mammon, what-"
"Keep fucking still," he chides, stroking his finger over your clit in way that makes your nerves feel as though they've been dipped in lightning. "You're ruinin' my meal."
You swear sharply, mouth opening in a silent cry as he continues to lick at you and gulp you down. It's agony. Clear that he's not doing it for your pleasure, but his own. Getting some sort of sadistic enjoyment out of having you spread out and bent beneath him, tortured on his tongue. Swallowing you down in greedy gulps.
The weight of his static threatening to charge the air makes the overstimulation even more intense. It's fuzzy and shocking; your perception muting down into blurred edges. You're almost uncomfortably aware of your own being, the ache in your bones, the spit and cum staining your skin, the tender throb that pulses through your spasming pussy.
He's relentless and you can't manage to hardly breathe. Your panting leaves you in hiccupping, pitchy sounds that are no doubt bleeding past the door and echoing over the occupied cubicles in muffled cries. Everyone can hear you like this. It should be embarrassing, but all you feel is relief. There's pride swelling in your chest, because you're the one in here with him. Not Leviathan, not anyone else - you.
The alleviation of it pours down your spine like melted wax; embers biting at your fingertips and toes, smoldering thickly in the base of your abdomen.
He chuckles deeply, the smothered noise rippling through your cunt, wringing another set of tremors from you. It's a mindless movement when your hips rock back to fuck yourself on his tongue, eyes rolling as he dips it in deeper.
"Squeezin' on me tight," he slurs, slipping his tongue from your just long enough to mumble. "Want another one? Think you can handle it? Yeah, you're all fucked out already, needy lil' slut."
He pats your ass, all condescending rather than praising but it has you flushing with warmth. Turning hot and boneless as you chase after your high. You will yourself to nod your head, your cheek rubbing along the wood in agreement. That's not enough, apparently, because delivers a row of harsh smacks on the swell of your rump, making you squeal in surprise.
"Don't tell me I've fucked that dumb little head of yours empty already. Where are your manners, huh?" He slips two of his fingers in then, thrusting and crooking them to make you choke. He breathes in deeply, inhaling the scent of your pussy. It's crude and perverted. Your face prickles as the chill of his breath brushes over you, a stark contrast to your heated skin and it has you squirming. "Use your words and speak up. Don't be rude now."
"Yes. Yes, I want another one," you blurt in a near delirious surge. " I need it. " His name leaves you in a chant, like a broken record. Each utterance somehow more desperate than the last.
"Alright, damn, there's no need to beg." Everything is glazed over and hazy, and yet a flicker of irritation still manages to glint through the smoke at his snark. You can't dwell on it. And you definitely can't act on it with how he's working each thought from your head with every curl of his fingers.
When you cum again time distorts. Everything seems like it's been doused in syrup, turned sluggish and sweet. It's all been punched out of you until all you can do is sit and take it; struggling to hang on through the wet of his mouth, but he's got you stuck.
His hands are heavy, weighted things that keep you in place while your body tries to contort under his palms. At some point you've started babbling, but you can hardly hear through the roaring of your own ears to understand what you're even saying.
It's all a blur. A kaleidoscopic rush of electricity and pleasure, a weight that feels like liquid and warmth; injected into your veins to make your limbs fall heavy and useless.
He's kept you here for so long - or maybe it's only been minutes - fucked on his tongue and fingers while he takes you apart with a skill that you never expected to be possible for someone like him.
He doesn't stop either.
You aren't sure how many times he tips you over that bright edge, keeping you submerged and drowned beneath in a timeless flow. All you can tell is that you're gasping, keening through empty lungs while you seize up as his tongue forces out another violent high. It shudders through you in heavy tremors. Your cunt clenches tightly around his tongue, flexing and gushing, while the pleasure blends in with all the rest. Stretching out like something infinite. The effect of the endorphins filling your veins making you almost drunk, drooling while you moan out pathetic gasps.
All you can do is whine. Squirming under his hold when it becomes too much, ecstasy twining into something sharp and frayed. You've probably gone all stary-eyed.
He's so smug about it too. You can feel the shape of his wide smile pressing against your skin.
"Mammon, wait . . . give me a minute," you slur.
"What? Tappin' out already?"
You hum lowly, too worn to get yourself to properly speak again. Despite his chiding he eases off, slipping his tongue from you to finally let you breathe. You can't stop the pained groan that leaves you when he shifts your body, maneuvering you down from where he had you tightly suspended on his mouth, letting you sag back down on the desk like a broken, limp doll.
His hands are still firm. Stroking and squeezing at your sweat dampened skin like he can't get enough.
A part of you is still far off and drifted high in plumes of smoke. It's all fuzzy around the corners of your mind, sugar and static humming through your muscles. It makes you all lax and dopey, easily the most relaxed you've probably been in years. All of the stress and anger having been thoroughly wrung from you like water twisted from a cloth.
On some subconscious level you recognize him creeping closer, the electricity thrumming around him like a live wire prickling up your spine as he crouches over you. Hunching the shape of his body over yours like he's trying to cage you in.
"Don't quit on me now," he encourages in a mean coo. It's then you feel it. Something tepid and big pressing against the wet entrance of your pussy, cruelly nudging to smear it in the cum soaking your skin.
You can't help the way you whine. Gasping as you squirm underneath the press of it. It's not even inside of you yet and he feels massive. The thick head of his cock splitting your lips wide open to grind heavy circles on your clit.
Even with how many times he's made you cum there's still no way that you're going to be able to take him all in one go. It's a sobering thought, but the debauched ache that throbs through you at the thought of successfully taking him is undeniable. But you already feel so spread thin, worked out and left boneless; he's going to ruin you.
"Mammon, I - I don't know if I ca-"
"Of course you can," he assures in a rich baritone purr that coils in the pit of your stomach. His talons dig in deeper, like a beast with prey in its claws. "You can do it."
His voice is nearly sing-song. So light and relaxed for someone who's planning to tear you apart. He's already crushing you under his weight, dragging is cock over your clit in a delicious rhythm that already has your jaw dropping open. Hitching the head of it at your entrance, pressing forward enough to tease. It's not even in - not even close - and it already has you choking on air.
He was nice enough to give you what you wanted in the beginning. To prove a point that he could. This is all about him now, and he isn't going to leave anything left.
"Again, and again, and again."
You just don't know if you're going to make it out alive.
I know I've been gone for ages, but the recent episode of HB has rekindled my obsession with Mammon. I have another fic in the works that should be out in a few days, life willing. But if anyone has any ideas that I can turn into a quick one-shot or blurb for him, feel free to send it in!
i sometimes like characters that fucking suck. when a character is a shit head in just the right way it can be so funny and/or compelling. like this is my beloved character, Asshole The Hater. they suck and i love them. someone dropped them into a ditch on the side of the road and i picked them out of the ditch and put them in my pocket
can you write nsfw alphabet... with manmon?? i'm begging please there is no alphabet with him
𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓢𝓲𝓷𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓖𝓻𝓮𝓮𝓭𝔂 - 𝓝𝓢𝓕𝓦 𝓪𝓵𝓹𝓱𝓪𝓫𝓮𝓽
♡ ᴀ = ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀᴄᴀʀᴇ (what they're like after sex): He's admittedly, not the best. But believe it or not, he's actually improved since those first couple of flings you had with him in the beginning. Back then, the very concept of something like aftercare had been completely foreign to him. He was very much the sort of guy who'd pass out afterwards or resume whatever he had been doing beforehand: a phone call, watching trash television, a quick trip through a fast-food drive thru.
For the longest time you had thought that he was doing it on purpose. That he wanted to hurt you our make you feel unwanted and useless, but you were quick to gather that he really was just that out of touch when it comes to other people's emotions. His indifference didn't stem from a place of ill intent (not entirely), just pure detachedness. He's never truly considered another's wellbeing or desires before, and it's made him that clueless.
It took you turning the tables on him and leaving before he could shrug you off and ignore you for him to even understand a shred of what he had been putting you through for the last couple of months. And even then, it was still a bit of an uphill climb. It didn't click instantly. It wasn't a light bulb moment where he reflected and pondered about it for hours on end, but it did help to nudge him in the right direction.
He does still grumble when you all but kick him out of the bed to go get a warm cloth to clean up with, or when you tell him to carry you to the bathroom for a shower or bath. He hates having to move afterwards, when all of the endorphins are still rushing through his veins and his limbs are heavy and lax.
But you can usually sway him with some praising, and a few stokes to his ego. Offering him some physical doting of your own is a sure-fire way to get him all pliant and just as needy. Offering him something like a massage will have him like putty in your hands and he'll latch himself onto you all night. Not to mention that he has a little cabinet in the nightstand that's stock full of all kinds of snacks (all of it is absolute junk). He acts like you're taking a knife and stabbing him each time you reach a hand into a bag of his chips and take some for yourself, but it's all just bark, no actual bite.
The two of you will lay in bed for hours, with you curled up on the soft press of his stomach and chest while you catch up on the most recent episodes of whatever TV show you're currently watching together. He'll cling to you the entire time, keeping you secured to his body with a pair of his arms while crams food into his mouth with a free hand, swearing and making comments towards whatever is happening on screen, tossing insults around a mouthful of his snack.
♡ ʙ = ʙᴏᴅʏ ᴘᴀʀᴛ (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partners): There isn't a part of Mammon that he doesn't love. It genuinely surprises you how he's the embodiment of Greed and not Pride sometimes with how he can admire and preen over himself. It's difficult to say which trait or part that he favors most. If he had to pick, it would most likely be his face. It's the image of his brand; posted along all corners of Hell, from hot sauce labels to perfume bottles, to the very currency that demons of all kinds use to buy said items with; there isn't a citizen or denizen in all of the Seven Circles who doesn't know who he is. From the wide, jagged grin on his face, the burning green of his eyes and the fool's cap on his head, it's all an easily recognizable facet from a simple glance.
It isn't a body part per se, but he also loves the sound of his voice. Not necessarily on a personal level, but the influence that it has on you never fails to make his body thrum with a heavy sort of satisfaction; ego and delight flaring whenever he sees you shiver or fall under the sway of that accented rumble of his. It makes you go all malleable and soft. And it's one of his first arms of defense against you whenever he annoys you or pisses you off. You hate to admit it, but he's gotten good at getting under your skin and twisting your emotions back into his favor with close to all but the sound of his voice.
For what he loves about you however, it might just be your mouth. He loves the watching the shape of your lips part open to talk to him, especially if you're speaking about him specifically - singing him praises and stroking his ego or saying his name. It might be a such a simple thing, but it never fails to have a shudder of delight skipping down his spine like a shot of electricity. But even better is when those same lips are stretched open and struggling to fit the thick girth of his cock down into your mouth. Forcing him down until you might choke on him with tears trailing from your waterline like diamonds, glittering in the light like flecks of silver and an iridescent shimmer.
No matter how many times you've taken him like that, there's always a bit of struggle with the difference in your sizes. And the strain of him in your mouth always has drool slipping down your chin and smearing and coating the length of him. It's filthy and messy, but it's a sight that he won't ever get enough of.
♡ ᴄ = ᴄᴜᴍ (anything to do with cum): He's an absolute degenerate with his cum. He's possessive and (of course- no duh) greedy, so there's always this consuming, almost ugly need to leave his mark on you. With his mouth, his tongue and teeth, and claws. He wants everyone to know who you belong to as soon as you enter a room, by sight and scent alone.
His possessive nature nearly makes him feral. He'll pump you full of his cum for hours, until you're completely dumb and useless if you let him, keeping you stuffed with his cock while he lifts you up and down on his girth like some kind of rag doll. Gripping ahold of you by the waist to work you around him until he's spilling what might be the third or eight load in you for the night while the rows of his sharp teeth clasp onto the tender flesh of your neck deep enough to break skin and leave marks.
Sometimes, he'll smear his cum over your body like some vulgar kind of lotion or perfume. Rubbing it in along the expanse of your abdomen and smudging it along your chest and throat like it's a fragrance. He wants it to stick to your skin. For your flesh to remember the scent of him, all musk, and ozone, and salt, and money; a subtle way to instinctually declare to anyone who may step near you that you're his.
There are some days, when the both of you have snuck away to slip inside a janitor closet or tucked yourselves away in some hidden corner between showings at his clown pageants or other performances that he'll cum deep inside of you until it's smearing and threatening to trickle down your thighs. And like some kind of pervert, he'll slip your underwear back over your hips and sweetly request that you walk around in your ruined undergarments for the remainder of the night. He gets some sort of sick thrill to know that underneath your clothes you're dripping full of him, and all of the strangers and fans around you and him are none the wiser to the fact that his cum is soaking your garments and defiling the fabric. But they can smell it on you for sure.
♡ ᴅ = ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ꜱᴇᴄʀᴇᴛ: Mammon doesn't hide many of his fantasies from you. He's pretty open about them, for better or for worse. Sometimes to an annoying degree. Annoying because of how jealous he makes himself with a particular fantasy of his. The possibly sharing you. It is completely a dream though. He could never actually stand watching someone touch you like he does. But he likes the idea of showing you off. Of letting people all see and experience what they're missing out on.
He's seen all of the tabloids and threads on social media platforms of people raving over Mammon's lover, simping over you and singing you praises and insults - the gorgeous demon who's always hitched to his arm at social events, and restaurants, and exclusive clubs. People want to be you. They want you. To hold you and fuck you like he does. But they never will. And that gives him a rush like no other. That the masses desire what he has - who he has - and that they'll never get it.
♡ ᴇ = ᴇxᴘᴇʀɪᴇɴᴄᴇ (how experienced are they?): Believe it or not, Mammon isn't very sexual. His libido is fairly low and the desire for sex is an urge the doesn't rise in him all that often. It's typically spurred on by a sense of possession or jealousy if he ever feels that someone is attempting to get too close to you. He can be extremely territorial, and he usually warns off potential threats to your relationship by warning them verbally or even the occasional physical confrontation every now and again. But usually just the sight of him alone is enough to get most demons to back off, unless they want to get on the bad side of the Sin and find themselves dead in a ditch in the middle of some toxic trash heap in Greed. And it's when all of those possessive urges rise up in him and build up that he needs an outlet. But even with all of his jealousy and avarice being such strong traits in him, his experience wasn't all that high when you had first got together.
He knew enough for it to be a pleasurable experience for the both of you, but he lacked overall skill and expertise. Though you didn't mind it all that much. It gave you plenty of room to teach him what you like specifically. What makes your mind draw a useless blank and your body become a writhing, burning mess. But you have made a bit of a monster with how determined he's become in reducing you to some dumb mess that only knows how to take his cock, or how desperate he gets for you to pleasure him until he's the one who's drooling and stupid.
♡ ꜰ = ꜰᴀᴠᴏʀɪᴛᴇ ᴘᴏꜱɪᴛɪᴏɴ: Mammon has a penchant for being a bit lazy, and the air of important that he holds himself at makes him feel as though he was born with the right to be served. As such, he absolutely adores any position that has you doing the majority of the work. He loves it when you ride him, working yourself up and down on his cock while he reclines himself back along the cushions of the bed with a pair of his arms crossed behind his head and the other set roaming over your body wherever he pleases. Reaching up with greedy fingers to pluck at your nipples and slipping them between your thighs to tease where you're all hot and slick and smeared with his cum. It gives him the perfect angle to analyze your face and admire the almost drunken expressions that slip across your expression; pleasure tugging your jaw down to release weak moans while your eyes nearly go cross.
It's one of the reasons that he loves head so much as well. There's something about being able to just relax and lie back while you devout yourself to laving your tongue and the warm, wet grip of your mouth and lips over his cock that turns him on like nothing else. He loves peeking down at you from where he sits to admire you, choking and gagging on him while you scatter kisses along the veins that throb along the thick length of him; worshiping him in the way that he deserves.
♡ ɢ = ɢᴏᴏꜰʏ (are they more serious in the moment? Are they humorous? Etc.): Despite being arguably the most famous jester in Hell, he isn't usually trying to be intentionally funny at the best of times. Though there have been plenty of occasions where he's said something in the heat of the moment that's easily garnered more than a few laughs from you - much to his chagrin. He always gets so pouty and offended if you laugh at him because of a mistake he might have made or something that funny he's accidentally said in the heat of the moment. Much like the time that he had managed to fall off of the bed nearly mid stroke and lost his footing. He tumbled from the edge of it with enough force to shake the room and make the floor tremble. But it had been the string of startled swearing the had caught you the most of guard with the series of curses squawking out of him in rough yelp of, "shit! Fuckin' cunt - fuck me, dammit."
When he's deliberately trying to be funny during sex, it's usually because he wants to try something different - experimenting with a new position or such - and is trying to sweeten the incentive or distract you with humor. But there is every so often or so that he does use his jokes in a genuine manner, such as when you've had a rough day and he's trying to draw you out of your internal conflicts and troubles.
♡ ʜ = ʜᴀɪʀ (how well-groomed are they? Does the carpet mat the drapes? Ect.): Mammon doesn't have much hair on his body at all. But he does have a sparse scatter of hair that trails down his stomach and leads down to his groin. It's nothing too wild or unmanageable thankfully, and it's naturally pretty scarce, which is probably a win. You doubt that Mammon would be the type to be very motivated on his self-grooming if it was the opposite.
♡ ɪ = ɪɴᴛɪᴍᴀᴄʏ (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect): Intimacy isn't something that comes easily to him. It isn't a natural urge or instinct that he has, and it was very much a learned behavior that took him months to get a grip on. In the beginning, sex was just something to take the edge off. Something that he acted out on because he wanted it. It was purely a selfish act for him. All about his cravings and desires, and once he got his rocks off, he was always quick to leave or would dismiss you entirely. But with a lot of time, patience, and frustration, you were able to get him to soften up a bit and indulge in a bit of intimacy. Mostly through bribing him with massages, soft praises and gentle kisses after sex, and eventually he learned to adopt and translate that during sex as well.
He isn't the most romantic by any stretch of the imagination, but he has been improving in subtle ways by giving you tender compliments and sweeping, dulcet touches. He knows how big he is in comparison to you. How much strength he causally holds in his body. He could crush you like a twig with the brush of a single finger; and so, he's grown to be careful with the way that he holds you. Like you're delicate. A thing made of glass or porcelain that might shatter if he so holds you too closely. It makes him uncharacteristically gentle with you.
Mammon rarely cares for others in a way that doesn't stem from a personal gain. And honestly, he might not be able to truly care for anyone at all - not like you or other demons are able to. He's greed incarnate after all. He was born selfish. But when he clutches you close, stroking his fingertips along your spine and mapping out the shape of your face with curious hands, it truly does feel like he cares. It feels intimate.
♡ ᴊ = ᴊᴀᴄᴋᴏꜰꜰ (masturbation headcanon): He doesn't jerk off all that much. He doesn't need to. If the urge ever arises in him, he'll just find you. Though if you happen to be out of reach for whatever reason, perhaps in a different Ring entirely or busy taking care of personal affairs, he's quick to blow up your phone. He needs to hear you. Your voice, the sound of your breathing - anything will work while he grips his cock.
He'll absolutely spam the device if you don't answer. Calls, texts, DM's - it doesn't matter. Anything to get your attention onto him so that you can help him with his current predicament. It is technically your fault after all, it's the least you can do.
♡ ᴋ = ᴋɪɴᴋ (one or more of their kinks): Exhibitionism: He enjoys being watched - putting himself and you on display to show everyone just what they're all missing. What they'll never have.
Size kink: Even in terms of most demons, Mammon is quite tall. Towering over a decent amount of the population, and it delights him to no end that he's able to look down at you. To stand over you by several feet. Dwarfing your smaller form with his own. And that translates into sex. He could never tire of the way that you struggle to take him. Even after all of this time, it takes so much for your smaller body to stretch open around the thick girth of his cock for him to slip into your soaked warmth; tight walls fluttering around his length while they struggle to adjust to his size.
Breeding kink/cumflation: It doesn't matter if you're able to get pregnant or not, he's insistent on filling you up with load after load of his cum until you're both completely spent and gasping for breath and soaked in sweat and cum. Just the idea of him filling you up so much that your stomach is all swollen and heavy with him will have him hard in seconds.
And if you got pregnant, all round with his baby, then everyone would know that you're his. That it's his child that you're carrying. It soothes that rapacious nature in him like scratching an itch, but it's also like an accelerant on a fervent fire that'll have you both burning for hours.
Free use kink: It's one of those kinks, that even with his low libido, never fails to make him feral. The day that you had eagerly agreed - requested even - to be used for his pleasure had nearly sent him over the edge. It delighted him to no end to know that you make an effort in keeping yourself prepped and ready for him. That you're slick and stretched out, sometimes with a toy stuffed inside your hole to keep yourself nice and prepped for him. Especially on days when you know that he's going to be stressed and overworked. He loves that you'll happily take him when he needs it. That you'll let him bend you over the kitchen counter, or fuck you in the back of his limo, or that you'll let him take you backstage at one of his shows like a whore that he had paid.
♡ ʟ = ʟᴏᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ (favorite places to do the do): He'll do it anytime, anyplace - everyone else be damned. He's perpetually torn between the desire to show you off to the masses - to let them see what they don't have, and to keep you completely hidden away and private for himself. But regardless of his internal debate, he easily lets himself get carried away and if you allow it, near public sex becomes a pretty frequent fixture in your life with him. He loves the thrill of it. The idea of possibly landing himself on a news channel or headlining all of the social platforms and tabloids because you two got caught has molten lust rushing through his veins.
But he also loves taking you within the safety of one of his webs. There's something so tantalizing about seeing you all strung up and vulnerable within the confines of his silk that really turns him on. Especially when he sees that excited glimmer burning in your eyes when your wrists and ankles are strung up and bound tight. You like being caught and at his mercy.
♡ ᴍ = ᴍᴏᴛɪᴠᴀᴛɪᴏɴ (what turns them on, gets them going): Jealousy or a sense of possession. But on a more positive note, just stroke his ego. Praise his skills and ideas and successes and you'll have him rock hard in seconds flat. He also loves it when he can pick up his scent on you. He complains if you (use) steal any of his bodywash or cologne, but he practically salivates when he smells himself on you. Especially when it's his natural musk and not just his shampoo. It'll make him want to rub his scent on other much more intimate places.
♡ ɴ = ɴᴏ (something they wouldn't do): He won't ever share you. No cuckholding or threesomes or orgies. Just the thought of touching you can turn him angry and jealous. Sometimes he'll trigger himself with just the thought of it and walk around pissed off and angry with a nasty sneer on his face and venom in his voice. He'll get snippy and curt with you like you had actually gone out and had sex with someone else. But he won't communicate why he's upset. He'll just leave you to be confused while he grovels around the house until you finally interrogate him enough until he can't hold in the "betrayal" and all of his emotion come pouring out of him. It's gotten to the point that you don't even bother listening to his little rants anymore, you just let him stew in his own self-induced jealousy until he works through it.
♡ ᴏ = ᴏʀᴀʟ preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.): Very unsurprisingly, he prefers to receive. He's a king after all. Royalty. And as such, he deserves to be praised and serviced. It's an honor to be able to share his bed, to be called his, to lie between his thighs. It's such a sight to watch you taking his cock between your lips. To observe the soft, wet drag of your tongue lap along the head to take the cum dribbling out like it's something to be savored. But he has come to enjoy giving as well. Definitely not as much as he likes getting head, but that's not exactly a surprise. He didn't have all that much experience with giving head in the past. It was a skill that he never bothered to acquire or refine until you had managed to spark his interest in it. Mostly by poking at his ego, but that's another story.
Although, he usually finds a way in making it about himself by dragging orgasm after orgasm out of your body until your brain is fogged and lost. And just to be cruel he makes you keep track of every single one. Let's hope you don't lose your count though, or else you'll have to start all over again!
♡ ᴘ = ᴘᴀᴄᴇ (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.): It really just depends. As stated before, Mammon has a proclivity for being a bit . . . lazy, for lack of a better term. He wants to be the one being pleased, and worshipped, and loved. It makes his thrusts all languid and unrushed in a pace that's completely frustrating. It works you up, building up fire and heat in the pit of your stomach and dangling you over that debilitating precipice but failing to guide you over the edge. And it's entirely intentional. He does it so that you'll have no choice but to use him to get yourself off. To get him off. The lust searing through your body forcing you to bounce yourself up and down his cock to make you both cum.
But even he has his moments where his greed gets the better of him. It turns him into a slave of his own wants and hunger, until all he does is take and take and take in a frenzied pace that threatens to make you pass out. It's like he's starved. Using your body and his own to work the both of you into exhaustion; with both of your muscles quivering and thrumming weakly, lungs pulling in air with labored breaths, sweat and cum smearing your skin until you're certain that it's impossible to cum again. But he never fails to pull another orgasm from your spent body. And another. And another . . .
♡ Q = Qᴜɪᴄᴋɪᴇ (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.): Isn't the fondest of quickie's. Once he gets started, it's difficult for him to stop, and being forced to pull away from the slick heat of your body can easily push him into a bad mood. Quickies are a tease. They require a restraint that he doesn't possess, and you learned a long time ago not to try and initiate sex with Mammon if you have a place to be or an appointment to get to. There's a very high chance that you won't be reaching it otherwise. Not unless you want to deal with a pouting, frustrated Mammon for the next few weeks. He tends to hold a grudge.
♡ ʀ = ʀɪꜱᴋ (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.): Absolutely. Especially in terms of public sex and being seen. He loves to risk of other demons walking in on you two and seeing you all spread out and split open on him, stomach bulging from his girth while you moan and whimper helplessly. It's feels like he's proving to them that you're entirely his. That they'll never have you like he does.
Experimenting in general is always on the table. He loves finding new ways to take you apart piece by piece. And in turn, he loves discovering new things about himself. Of watching you find another way to please him and prove your devotion to him, just like he deserves.
♡ ꜱ = ꜱᴛᴀᴍɪɴᴀ (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?): It really just depends. Mammon isn't the most motivated individual - not unless money is involved. But he is greedy. And once he gets worked up it can take a lot for the heat to get entirely snuffed out, and if he's in one of his rare moods, he can last for hours. However, that doesn't mean that he's going to be the one doing a good deal of the work. He'll have you bouncing on him. Pulling orgasm after orgasm from his spent body, even when the friction of your tight, sloppy walls gripping his cock is too much. Sparking something raw and tender along his nerves like an electrical current with every downstroke and grind from your hips. It's too sensitive. Almost brutal in a way that might make his eyes cross, but you can't stop now. You can't leave him like this. Moaning and whimpering and begging for another one - just one more - even though that's exactly what he had told you about four orgasms back. The sheets are beyond ruined now. Soaked with your shared arousal and sweat. It's a chore to breathe. It's no longer an automatic bodily response anymore, you have to constantly remind yourself to force in lungful's between each bounce. Your thighs are burning and screaming at you from the exertion, and there's no way that you aren't going to be sore tomorrow but Mammon's still begging. His claws are latched onto the meat of your hips, threatening to slice skin and leave you bleeding, but the blissed-out expression on his face takes precedence amongst all else. He still needs you. Crying out like a slut for you. And who are you to deny him?
♡ ᴛ = ᴛᴏʏꜱ (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?): You'd think that the guy who produces sex robots in his company's name would be a bit more open to using toys in the bedroom, but Mammon's jealousy truly knows no bounds. He sees them as an insult to himself and his capabilities. What could you possibly need a dildo or vibrator for when you have him? Let's be honest, a toy couldn't satisfy you like his fingers, or tongue, or cock can. They'll always pale in comparison in terms of how easily he makes your eyes cross, and your jaw drop from the flood of pleasure seizing your body.
But every now and again you may be able to persuade him into using something on you. . . Though it typically ends up backfiring and bringing him more enjoyment with the way that he never fails to torture you with whatever device you had insisted on using. He makes you regret even asking to use a toy; making sure to wring every ounce of bliss from your body until you're pleading for him to give you a break.
♡ ᴜ = ᴜɴꜰᴀɪʀ (how much they like to tease): To an almost annoying degree. He downright tortures you with his teasing, playing with your body so carefully. Working you up until your muscles are drawn taunt and tight and it feels like something molten and sugared is thrumming through your veins; keeping you right on that almost agonizing edge like he might finally have mercy on you and tip you over it with the brush of his fingertips or tongue. All of that just so that he can pull away from you and leave you empty and unfulfilled. Sobbing mournfully and writhing from your ruined orgasm. But he never has any sympathy for your tears or pleads - no matter how much he delights in the way that you beg for him. He'll work you back up again to hear your desperate moans and whimpers, just to stop and repeat the process all over again. For the second, fourth, sixth time in a row.
But sometimes he gives too much. Using your body for his own pleasure until you're pliant and stupid and filled with cum; nerves burning and raw from use and ecstasy. He'll have you split between bliss and something that might just be agony - a pleasure that's almost too much. But he's greedy. Using you like a doll as he chases after his own satisfaction like the ultimate hedonist. And you're just the vessel that was created to grant him his pleasure. He's made you black out from cumming over and over again and being filled to the brim until it's smearing down both of your bodies and soaking the silk sheets underneath.
♡ ᴠ = ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.): He can be very vocal. He mostly groans and grunts, swearing and mumbling underneath his breath in a guttural purr that always has an exited tremble skipping down your spine. But it also doesn't take much for him to get loud either until he's practically whimpering (he always gets so flustered and angry when you tell him that he whines); drool slipping past the corners of his lips while his brows furrow close from the pleasure burning through every inch of his body. When he gets like this, he rambles. Sometimes it's straight up nonsense. His words too slurred and garbled to understood, but every now and then he manages to make a proper sentence. And when he does its usually complete filth.
. "Just' gimme another one. Jus' one more, I swear."
. " Keep yourself nice and spread open for me. Fuck, you're so fucking sloppy baby, you should be ashamed of yourself. But you're too stupid for that, ain't ya?"
. "You're such a slut. But you're my slut, huh? C'mon, say it."
. "You look like a porn star. I wish you'd let me film ya, you'd look so good all fucked out on film."
. "You should feel terrible makin' me do all the work while you sit back droolin' all over yourself like a useless little toy. Nothin' but a hole fer me to use - oh, don' act like you don't like it. I can feel you squeezin' me."
♡ ᴡ = ᴡɪʟᴅᴄᴀʀᴅ (a random headcanon for the character): It's been said before that Mammon would never share you. But that doesn't mean that he doesn't maybe fantasize about it every now and again. He's far too possessive to ever truly indulge in the dream, but he does entertain the idea every once in a while. There's just something so tempting about imagining the both of you all sprawled out among a sea of writhing bodies while you're brought to bliss by the glide of hungry, wet mouths and tongues. Teeth nipping at your tender flesh and stroking at you until your whine and writhe and scream.
It's a nice though but he'd rip apart anyone who touched you limb from limb.
♡ x = x-ʀᴀʏ (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes): An absolute monster. It was extremely intimidating the first time that you had seen him bare and fully hard - but who are you kidding, he's intimidating even when he's flaccid. You weren't even sure if he was going to fit the first time that you had fucked. And he didn't. It took week of stretching you out and training for you to be able to take him. Hours of working yourself open with fingers, and his tongue and toys for you to finally stretch out around his cock. The first few times that you had sex, all that you could manage was the tip. And there were times where it felt like it was ripping the air from your lungs and stuffing you full when it would finally slip past your tight walls with a filthy, wet pop.
Just the head of his cock would have you going dumb. All cross-eyed and slack jawed like one of those stupidly dramatic porn stars. And with the size difference, you were practically little more than a flesh light; all stupid and drooling while your body struggled to take him. But Mammon was remarkably patient for someone so stingy. Probably too caught up in his gloating and sickly-sweet cooing to be truly greedy.
Even now that your body has adjusted to him, he's still a lot to take, but it's always worth it.
♡ ʏ = ʏᴇᴀʀɴɪɴɢ (how high is their sex drive?): Not the highest sex drive. The impulse for sex typically evades him, and as stated before, when the desire does spark it's usually triggered by a bout of jealousy or a sense of possession. But on the rare occasion that the two of you are separated by business meetings, family affairs or events, he has a tendency to set himself off by thinking of you. He tortures himself with the memory of you sometimes and it often leads to him calling you no matter the hour of the day or night and demanding that you help get him off. He just wants to hear the sound of your voice, all dipped low and saturated with lust as he works one of his fists over his cock until he's cumming all over himself with a ragged groan.
♡ z = zzz (how quickly do they fall asleep after?): He's usually out like a light. It's honestly a little fascinating (and irritating) how quickly he's able to pass out afterwards. One second, he's panting and heaving and catching his breath while he clutches you close and the next, he's passed out and already drooling on his pillow.
Just something short, sweet, and pointless for Mammon.
Summary: It's early dawn and you have the misfortune of having to go to work. It would be simpler if the only thing you have to fight off is only your lack of motivation and the sleep still clinging to your skull, but on top of all that your boyfriend is less than enthused about letting you slip away.
Word Count: 3,7k (not proofread)
It's all still a little blurry around the edges, nice and fuzzy with the weight of sleep curling over your body and stuffing your skull like a vacant, but pleasant sort of weight. It's all soft and balmy, luring you to dip back closer into the comforting, dark swaddle of unconsciousness and give into its call. It's difficult to tell where your body ends or begins while under the lull of sleep with the plush swathe of what you vaguely register as the duvet draped over you. Even while caught in that strange, distorted limbo between lucidity and unconsciousness, you can tell that something is trying to rip you from the inviting haze of your slumber. You can feel the remnants of your dreams weakening from your mind, breaking down into something distorted and murky until you can't even recall what you had ever been dreaming of in the first place.
It's making you suddenly aware of the massive chill pressed against your back; the collection of arms wrapped around your middle to keep you secured to the plush, familiar expanse of someone's chest and stomach. You can feel the rise and fall of their steady breathing puffing against your back, the subtle vibrations that reverberate throughout their body with the sound of their snoring. But the guttural, choppy noise of their repetitive gasping isn't the cause of your abrupt awakening. The culprit is the jarring, digital trill that warbles along the walls of room, blaring from the speaker of your phone like a shrill war cry.
The alarm breaks through your mind with all the subtly of a gunshot. Instantly reminding you of all of the chores and expectations you have to complete today. The mandatory meeting at work with your dull coworkers; the thankless, arrogant businessmen who you have to shake hands with and force plastic, strained smiles for; all of the phone calls you have to make and plan. You're sure that it's still dark out; it's too early, and the sun hasn't even begun to bleed along the horizon in water-colored shades of lilac and soft pink that will eventually yield to the toxic emerald smog and pollution that blankets the sky. It all makes you entirely unmotivated for the day, and you haven't even scraped yourself out of bed yet. But you can already see the list of bullshit and tasks unraveling in front of you and waving in front of your face like a taunt.
A weary groan rips out of your lungs when you manage to pull yourself to the edge of the mattress, not even bothering to open your eyes as you slip your hand out from underneath the warmth of the covers to blindly slap your palm on the counter of the nightstand in search of your screeching phone. Your fingers come up short, slipping along the corner of the device but you're unable to get a proper grip from the distance. The firm, encompassing hold that a set of arms has on you makes it next to impossible to shuffle any closer. They're latched around you like bands of steel, all tight and unwavering in their hold like a child with their favorite stuffie.
You could have felt annoyed if you weren't completely tempted to give in and melt into the grip of them and pass out for a few more hours, but the insistent chime of the device demands that you wake up. It has you propping yourself up on a single elbow and lifting a hand to weakly slap at his arms in an effort to wake him, but he might as well as be dead to the world. You can still hear him snoring soundly underneath the irritating whine of the alarm, and you're sure that he's probably drooling all over his pillow too. Lucky bastard.
"Mammon, c'mon," you press in a tired mumble. You thread your fingers along his own in an attempt to begin prying them from you, and the vexed grumble you get in response lets you know that you're making some sort of head way. It rumbles along your back, all exasperated and weary, but you have hardly any sympathy when he doesn't have to awake for at least another four hours. His grip slips when you manage to unwind one of his arms free from your middle, and it gives you just enough leeway to shift forward to reach for your phone. You just barely crack a bleary eye open, vaguely making out the bright cast of your screen glowing in the dark of the room just long enough to finally swipe your thumb to cancel the alarm. The silence that follows is utter bliss. The world finally seems still. Quiet and peaceful despite the fact that you can just faintly hear the lively hum of traffic and what might be a round of gunshots and panicked screams ringing out down below as everyone else in the city prepares for the day ahead.
The desire to plop back onto the cushion of the mattress and pass back out is almost debilitating. The allure of the blankets, soft and warm and covered in the linen, woodsy musk of Mammon's scent is dangerous. If you don't get out of this bed now, then you definitely won't be leaving it any time soon. Consequences be damned (pun not intended).
It's with a ragged sigh that you manage to wedge your hands with his own, and combined with a very ungraceful, almost full body shake, you succeed in tearing his remaining limbs from your body to slip your feet onto the chilled tiles. The low, guttural groan that rumbles along the walls of the bedroom at your absence lets you know that he's anything but pleased when you rise up from the mattress to trudge towards the open threshold of the bathroom. Even in your muddled state, you're sure that you can feel a subtle electrical charge coursing through the air and tainting the atmosphere with the scent of something sharp and almost bitter. He at least hasn't begun to throw off any static in his annoyance - not that it would have mattered if he did. You really don't have time to deal with his theatrics or tantrums today.
"Babe, come back, " he all but whines, voice muffled and slurred. Without even having to turn around you're certain that he has his face shoved into one of the pillows. But you're unable to resist your curiosity for long and a quick glance over your shoulder confirms that he does indeed have his face smushed against one of the cushions. Like an absolute drama queen, he rolls onto his back abruptly, tossing a hand over the burning green of his eyes like some kind of distressed maiden from an old fairytale or a campy film, and lulls his head back onto the mattress with another overdramatic groan. "This is fuckin' stupid."
Yeah, right. Because he's the one that has to be awake right now. Still, you hate how cute the pout that twists up his face is. In a pathetic sort of way. With his lips all curled up into a nasty scowl to show off a hint of his sharp teeth while he mutters and curses underneath his breath.
But you can't get distracted. No matter how tempting it is to fall back into bed or how much the pitiful, tender emotions welling up in your chest tell you to go back to him and kiss the furrow between his brows away. You can't go back now. He'll never let you leave if you do. It's how he lured you back the last time. Honestly, it's a little more than concerning with how well the Sin of Greed is able to pull the wounded puppy look when he needs to. It's those damned big eyes. They're far too expressive, and the way that he's able to get them all wide and dejected at the drop of hat is a dangerous talent of his. The influence it has on you is weakness that he exploits to absolutely no end.
It makes you just as quick to look away from him to focus on the open entrance to the bathroom, lest he realize that you've been observing him and turn that exaggerated, chartreuse gaze onto you instead. You feel like death as you cross the floor, nearly dragging your feet along the tiles. Even though you've only been awake for a few minutes at best, you can already feel what little bit of energy you had previously, wanning and ebbing from you in steady pulses until you're practically a doll on a string. You're just dragging yourself along with a frayed sense of obligation, and muscle memory is doing the majority of the work now. It's like your feet have been encased in cement, and you're fighting yourself to take a single step forward.
So when your body freezes in place, you hardly think anything of it. You barely register it at all. It isn't until your senses realize a band of pressure coiled around your waist that you actually notice something is amiss at all. Whatever is keeping you still is narrow but firm, and when you force yourself to glance downward, you notice something semitransparent cinched around your torso like a strip of thread. It's slightly pearlescent, shimmering in shades of yellow, and subtle, muted lavender, but most importantly green.
The sight of it alone has a prickle of irritation thrumming along your skin, and if you had the energy, you probably would have rolled your eyes. You can feel an exasperated comment burning on the tip of your tongue; prepared to berate Mammon for his immaturity but you don't get so much as a sound out before the ribbon of webbing is tugging you backwards on your feet and retracting you across the floor and to towards the bed with a speed that leaves you a little disoriented. Your hands reach out in a blind scramble to correct yourself and gain some sort of stability, but it's too late to try and reach for anything that might stop the way that he's reeling you in, because suddenly you're being dragged back onto the plush of the mattress and ripped underneath the blankets like a wounded animal being snapped shut behind a set of snarling, hungry jaws.
His arms are around you like they had never even left, chilled and unwavering as he seems to pour all of his strength into them to keep you pinned in place. He's holding onto you like you're some sort of teddy bear that he can't sleep without. It's usually pretty endearing - cute, even, when you aren't pressed for time and the security of your job isn't on the line. But when you have places to be, Mammon's proclivity for latching onto you like a sloth is a little less adorable and more so annoying.
"I have to go," you insist. "I'm serious - you have to let go."
A near unintelligible grumble is his response, but it sounds suspiciously like "fuck no." And the weight of his arms around you only strengthens, constricting around you like a bunch of serpents that might wring the life out you in a single squeeze. Every bit of space that you had managed to wedge for yourself is eaten up by a single motion, and in a blink you're right back to where you had started: back smushed along his chest with his hold cinched around your waist and hips. It doesn't help that he's easily about three times as big as you, and not only has he begun to almost violently cuddle you, but he's also curled the entire length of his hulking body around your own, tucking his chin on top of the crown of your head and restraining your legs between his knees. You're completely encased. Trapped.
"You're going to get me fired," you grouse, even though you're sure that it's going to fall on deaf ears.
Somehow, he nestles himself closer to you, filling up small gaps of space between your bodies like he's trying to mend you together. You can feel the chill radiating off of him from his lack of a natural warmth, and it's seeping into your back like a thawing icepack. He's latching to you in an effort to snatch you of all of your body heat away, akin to some sort of cuddling, clingy parasite.
"Mmm, then I'll kill 'em," he mumbles maturely, somehow simultaneously petulant and indifferent all at once. It's terrible how much the rough, tired lilt of his voice drowns at the dull ember of irritation in your chest, singlehandedly dousing it out as though it had never even existed. And the tenderness sparking through your veins is like melted sugar when you feel him lift his head to nudge at your cheek with his own before trailing his lips downward, nipping at the soft skin of your throat with the scrape of his pointed teeth. The glide of his lips is dangerously close to the place on your neck that turns you into mush, that makes your arms and legs go weak like heated wax. He's absolutely doing it on purpose. Trying to hit your weak point to get you to crack and give in, and even worse is that it's working. The wet, hot heat of tongue dragging along your flesh has a thrum of warmth skipping down your spine, and based on the pleased purr that reverberates from his chest, he definitely felt it. "Why don' you just stay here with me? I can tell you're still tired and those dickheads at work can manage for a few more hours on their own . . . don't you think?"
(No, they definitely cannot.)
He says it all softly, in the guise of genuine question when you know that it's purely rhetorical. You want to be mad about it. He's an absolute bastard for using it against you, but it's a little hard to feel even a shred of anger when he's peppering kisses along your throat so sweetly, using just the hint of his tongue and teeth to make your body go all pliant and useless within his hold. And even while his grip is still firm and unrelenting, the cradle of it around your chest and waist nearly has a delicate edge to it, like he's cautious that you might break if he's too harsh.
You're really too tired to fight him off. Maybe if you had some proper rest, you'd be able to resist him better (no, you really wouldn't be able to), but here and now it seems impossible. Especially with the way that sleep is heavy under your eyes, and despite how chilly his skin is, the bed is warm and soothing, and the plush weight of him against your body just nudges you closer to closer to the possibility of passing out. It's these little quiet, unhurried moments between the both of you that never fail to make you fall in love all over again - just a little bit harder. When everything is still enough for you to believe that it's only just the both of you, tucked away and undisturbed in a world so violent and crazed. It's the closest you've gotten to peace in a while, and it makes you all the more reluctant to try and tear yourself away from the bed and from his embrace.
Even with the blackout curtains drawn together tight and eclipsing the room of any possible glimpses of light, you're sure by now that sun must have begun its ascension over the Greed Ring. It's probably cresting above the smog covered horizon and towering buildings with a rush of that burning, golden hue that's been tainted into a toxic sort of green by all of the pollution in the air. Just the thought of it should be enough to light a fire under your ass and have you ripping yourself up from the bed to get ready for work, but you remain completely motionless. The desire to remain fixed within the comfort of his hold is rising up high and weighing down your bones, and it's only buried in deeper by the soft scatter of kisses that he nips along your nape and presses behind your ear. It's all soft and sweet, so it nearly takes you by surprise when he's suddenly shifting to lie on his back, taking you with him as he clutches you in his arms. But he settles just as quickly, leaving you to sink and sprawl out across the length of his body while underneath the comforting weight of the comforter.
" 'Sides, I'll handle them if they give you any problems," he promises, all saccharine and gentle even though you know that he's practically threatening to murder your bosses if he has to. "I always take care of you, don' I?"
He really is a sweet talker when he wants to be. Or maybe you've just grown too susceptible to his charms. Either way, the soft edge that he's taken to his voice is starting lull you back into the draw of sleep, threatening to have your lids grow heavy and slip shut. It's all a recipe for disaster. The soothing dark that's cloaked over the room, the scent of him perfumed over the blankets, and the steady weight of him underneath your body. And he's taken to sweeping one of his thumbs along your hip, slipping the digit underneath the band of your sleep pants to caress it along the sensitive skin there in a steady glide.
"Yeah," you finally agree drowsily, and your eyes lids threaten to slip closed.
"Your boss is such a shit head anyway; let him suffer for a bit." He doesn't bother concealing his hatred when he speaks, letting it drip from his tone like venom and acid. You know that he'd have your boss' head on a pike if he were able to. A dramatic desire for sure, but then again, when it comes to reactions and impulses Mammon deals in extremes, and the disdain that he harbors for the man is almost wild. It's literally for no other reason than that he's your boss - because you have a job. The Sin has never been particularly fond of the fact that you even have work at all. It takes you away from him. It's "unnecessary," and he finds it endlessly frustrating. So by proxy the king's hatred for your employment was easy to bleed into a loathing for your boss, and the man had unknowingly become a physical token - an outlet - for Mammon's frustrations and ire. Granted you aren't particularly fond of CEO yourself with his gnarled, sharp grin and his proclivity towards passive aggressive quips and underwhelming one liner's (he always slaps his knees when he laughs at his own jokes, wheezing in that ragged, grating guffaw before licking the seams of his mouth with his forked tongue to make his giggles whistle between his lips like some sort of irritating train horn) but he is your boss. And you've worked far too hard, faked too many smiles and put in too many hours to have him murdered just because your boyfriend might have an extreme case separation anxiety, and doesn't know how to properly manage it.
It's bad enough that you're even entertaining Mammon right now. That you're letting him have this much of an influence on you. Give him and inch and he'll take miles, but you'll be damned if he isn't entirely too persuasive. Or maybe you're just weak against him. But it's too late to feel guilty or frustrated about that now. He already has you convincing yourself that it might not be all that bad to just sneak in a few more minutes, or perhaps even an hour or two before you face your responsibilities for the day. He's soft, and plush and pleasantly chill beneath you. It makes you want to sink into him beyond a point that probably isn't even possible. To wrap yourself up in his limbs and burrow into his scent while you let your mind fall numb and dark, and the world with all of its drama and expectations become pointless, temporary ghosts.
You should be tearing yourself from his hold and preparing for the tasks ahead of you, but the cushion of him is too tempting. The pleasant buzz of sleep is already heating up against your fingertips and toes, clouding your head over with a calm fuzz. It's all placid and dark, and the steady rhythm of his breathing rising and falling alongside your own; syncing with the pace of your own unhurried breaths is a lure. It's absentminded when you nudge your cheek against his chest, dragging the point of your nose along the crook of his neck and drawing in his scent in a deep lungful. It's uncanny, how much he smells like a wad full of cash, musk and leather. Such a distinct fragrance that's long since developed into one of your favorites. You don't just associate it with money anymore, but with him specifically and all the things that you think of him: comfort, love, stability. All things that no one with sanity would affiliate with the King of Greed. But here you are just second's away from passing out on his chest.
". . . no killing my boss," you manage lowly.
"Of course not," he responds airily. All sing song and not at all convincing. You could smack him on the chest or scold him. Make him promise not to do anything, but the clarity to form words evades you. Your tongue is all heavy and motionless in your mouth, and you think that your eyes might have actually slipped shut. You feel his words before you hear them, rumbling along your skin and trembling past the influence of sleep like a lazy purr. And you swear that he might have kissed the crown of your head, or maybe you had simply imagined it, but you don't have the energy to figure it out before everything falls flat and peaceful with the low rasp of his voice following you into all of the dark and softness.
I don't know if you ever write for D.Gray-man again, but I recently found you Tyki HC and fell in love. You have a great writing! It's rare to find written DGM x reader those days, as fandom is mostly dead, forgotten and not popular for today's audience, so thank you for making my day! 👍
It's nice to hear that I was able to give you some joy with my writing. Truthfully, I don't know if I will get around to writing any DGM content anytime soon, but every blue moon I get the urge to. So we'll see!
Ik you said in one of your posts that you don't usually take requests bc you take a while to write it but your writing is so good I'm willing to wait. Any Mammon stuff please and thank you 😞🙏
I probably will eventually. Once I get time to, which will hopefully be soon.
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