Itâs you friendly neighbor fanfic author here. In the light of this apparent new trend of people feeding unfinished fics to AI to get an âending,â and some people even talking about âblanket permissions,â let me just say this:
I EXPLICITLY FORBID ANYONE TO FEED MY FICS TO AI. DUDE, THAT IS ABOUT THE LEAST RESPECTFUL THING YOU CAN DO. IF YOU DO IT, SHALL YOU BE EXCOMMUNICATED FROM YOUR FANDOM AND WALK ON LEGOS BAREFOOT TILL THE END OF DAYS.
Prompt: @your-neighborhood-emoâ and I write an actual conversation between MC and Belphegor post lesson 16. Neither of us were fond of how the game just never acknowledged what happened properly
Pairing: Belphegor & MC (platonic)
Word Count: 4,527
Warnings: Mentions of violence typical to lesson 16 depictions, intense self-hatred, heavy topic discussion, MC has trauma
A/N: this was technically written in 2020, but better late posting than never I suppose. thereâs a super short playlist for this fic, that can be found here.
Also available on ao3.
You tried so hard to forget.
You wanted so badly to forget. You didn't want to remember the hands closing around your neck, the pressure of his weight above you, the cruel smile, the malicious look in his eyes. You didn't want to flinch every time someone reached for you, didn't want to be afraid just by seeing him. You needed to forget. On top of that, you'd taken a liking to Belphegor. Before. You hated, despised, that you'd let yourself like him. But no, despite it all, all the manipulation, the lies, you'd seen the man he had been before everything. The man he could be again.Â
So you had tried. You'd tried so hard. And you were rewarded with hands around your throat. You faintly touched your neck; a ghost of a touch, but the motion still sent a tremble through your body. You swallowed, wishing you could just forget. If you forgot, you wouldn't be afraid anymore. You would be able to sleep again, without nightmares to plague you. You shook your head, leaning your back against the wall as you stretched your legs out across the bed. The nightmares were the worst.
His laugh haunted you in your dreams, the pressure, the malice, not being able to breathe. They chased you through the night and woke you with screams and made you shake and cry.
The whole thing made you glad you'd been avoiding him.
What were you supposed to do? Forgive him on the spot? He'd killed you, murdered you in cold blood, and everyone wanted you to just forgive him like it was that easy. Like being murdered shouldn't phase you. The only one who hadn't was Mammon, and you thanked hell that he was your best friend, because if he wasn't you might have gone insane. Everyone simply just... forgave Belphegor instantly, and you hadn't been prepared to witness that, as if your life hadn't mattered in that moment. It probably hadn't. The only thing that stilled Belphegor's hand was the fact that you were a very, very, very distant descendant of Lilith. Not because you were you, or because you had tried to help him. No. Because you had a single tiny amount of Lilith in you.
The whole thing pissed you off. Why shouldn't it? You were mad at Belphegor for killing you, at the brothers for forgiving him so quickly, at Lilith for being the only reason you weren't killed a second time, and... at yourself. For so, so many reasons. For not seeing the whole thing coming, for trusting him, for the whole situation in the first place. But mostly, you were angry at yourself because some small part of you missed him. You missed talking to him, and some tiny part of you had wanted to forgive him instantly. It was bullshit. Complete bullshit. So you were angry because that was easier than being terrified all the time.
You shift on your bed, burying your face into your pillow and letting out a scream of frustration. Why had you tangled yourself up in this mess? Why couldn't you have just minded your own business? You opened your mouth to scream again, to scream until your throat was raw and your voice silent, just to release all the emotions pent up inside you. Then you heard the soft knock at your door.
You groaned, pushing yourself out of bed and padding over to the door, rubbing your eyes as you opened it slightly.
"I told you, Mammon, I'm not in the mo-" then you caught sight of who it was, and slammed the door shut out of sheer panic. Why was he here? Why?
"Y/N-" you think you might hear a tremor in his voice, but push the thought away. He'd manipulated you before; this could be an act, too.
"Go away." You press your back to your door and sink to the floor, the panic of merely seeing him rising in your chest. You try to steady your breathing, taking deep breaths while listening carefully for any response.
Nothing comes.
You let out a breath and pick up your D.D.D and earbuds, press shuffle on your favourite playlist at the moment, then lean your head back against the door as the music fills your brain. You let yourself drown in the noise for a long while, let your thoughts float away as you close your eyes.
When you finally open your eyes and pick back up your D.D.D, you realize that you must have fallen asleep. It's several hours later, and you're sore all over. The only thing not in line with this was the fact that you hadn't had a nightmare. Pushing yourself up off the floor, you listen quietly at your door.
Nothing.
Good, you thought, I can go get food.
You hadn't eaten since lunch, and it was now approaching one in the morning. Suffice to say, your stomach was growling. You open your door slowly, trying to be as quiet as possible, and step outside. And if you hadn't been more perceptive, you might've missed the form sitting just to the left of you, slumped against the wall and fast asleep.Â
Belphegor.
Your heart skipped a beat, your pulse speeding up slightly before you took a quiet breath and calmed down. He was sleeping. Just sleeping. Outside your door.
But why? Has he been here this whole time? Since he first knocked?
You peer closer, at the look on his face behind his hair. His eyebrows are pulled together, his mouth in a frown. As you stared, you slowly took in more of his expression, more of the tenseness in his body. The whole thing screamed terror.Â
You shook your head, watching him for a moment longer before slipping away to the kitchen. You hesitated as you grabbed your food, then grabbed a second plate. You didn't know what made you do it. Maybe it was the terror in his form. Maybe it was base kindness. Maybe it was simply an impulse. You quietly set the extra plate next to Belphegor, then slip back into your room. You stare at your D.D.D. for a moment, then open the message app and click Belphegor's name.
You're welcome.
Shakily, you hit send. It's the closest thing to an olive branch you can give. Maybe you couldn't forgive him right away. Maybe he shouldn't be forgiven. But... maybe you could try. You had a feeling that him falling asleep outside your door hadn't been for nothing. That maybe, just maybe, Belphegor, the Avatar of Sloth, had wanted to save you from your nightmares. To try and help heal the hurt he caused.
Maybe.
You wondered if he would respond or if he would even bother to try to talk to you again. You weren't sure if you wanted him too or not.
Your answer came an hour and a half later in the form of a knock on your door.
~
He opened his eyes to the familiar sight of the hallway. He knew he was safe in the House of Lamentation, but that didn't stop the pounding of his heart, the sweating, or the panic he felt. For a minute, his mind is blank, then it kicks into gear, in some capacity. He'd just experienced everything, everything, in your nightmares. Everything he did. Everything he said. The look in his eyes, the cruel smile, the laugh.
He had felt your pure terror, the despair, the pain, the sense of betrayal. It rattled him. No, it wrecked him. He had known what he would experience when he made the decision to try and take away your nightmares with his powers - it was an exchange; you went nightmare free when he slept near you, but he took on the nightmares himself - he had known they would be terrible. But he hadn't expected this. He glanced toward your door.
You'd been going through this for two weeks? And he had caused it. Another thought hit him like Cerebus in a rage, trampling him beneath massive paws.
He had only stopped because of Lilith.
He would have tried to kill you again if not for the fact that you had a little piece of Lilith in you. And you knew that. It was true, he did see a little of Lilith in your soul, in the way you were stubborn and determined to help. But you were still you. And he, in his actions, had stripped that away. He knew, deep down, that he had made you feel as if your life wasn't important if you weren't tied to Lilith.
Fuck, I'd run from me, too...
He pulled out his D.D.D, and rubbed his eyes when he saw he had one new message. From you. Was he still dreaming? He had to be.
You're welcome, the message said. He was confused, just for a moment. Then he saw the plate. It was full of his favourite things to eat.
He lost something then, staring at that plate of food. You were terrified of him. He'd killed you. Heâd been the source of all your anxieties and nightmares. But despite all of that, you had thought to bring him food? No, he hadn't just lost something, he'd shattered it. Shattered it with the knowledge that he didn't deserve your forgiveness. He didn't deserve to even be in the same vicinity as you. You avoided him, you panicked when you saw him, you had been reliving the nightmare of him killing you every single night for the past two weeks. And he manipulated you, he lied to you, he betrayed your trust, but you had it within your heart to still be kind to him? Not only be kind but to remember his favourite foods?
He felt a sob rise in his throat and he shoved it down, deep down.Â
No. He did not deserve your forgiveness.
But maybe he could try to earn it.
He wasn't sure how long he sat there, he had shut down to prevent himself from crying as he contemplated what he could possibly even bother to say to you. Eventually, though, he got something like a vague plan. He had never been good with words anyway - he suppressed a snort, mind drifting to how he was more of an actions demon, but his actions were what had caused this in the first place - and what he could say would never be enough. The closest he had come to show even a semblance of regret to you was what he had just done - stolen your nightmare away. But it was time he told you how he felt, what he thought - if you would let him.Â
He wasn't sure what he would do if you didn't let him, but you would be valid to do so. Even he wasn't sure if he would let himself talk, had he been in your place. But he had to try.
He had to try.
He pushed himself up off the floor and knocked on your door for the second time that night.
~
You place your hand on the doorknob, hesitating before letting go of the handle altogether.Â
âWho is it?â You know who it is, it wouldnât be anyone else. But you canât bring yourself to open the door and look at him. Not yet.
Itâs quiet for a long, agonizing minute before the answer comes.
âItâs Belphie,â his voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. âCan we talk?â You hear the pause, hear something like hesitation in his tone. Itâs the hesitation that finally puts your hand back on the doorknob and turns it.
You were anxious, you couldnât deny that. As you opened the door it felt like your heart might beat out of your chest. The what-ifs were running through your brain at a million miles an hour, but you ignored them as best as you could. This was something you both needed.
That didnât stop you from avoiding his eyes as he walked into your room, though.
You watch him as he stands in the middle of your room, and you can feel the palpable awkwardness between the two of you. But thereâs something else there, too. Fear.
You both just stand there for a long while, letting the silence stretch out. You study him intently, waiting. For what, you arenât sure; but you watch and wait. To you, heâs a ticking time bomb and, right now, youâre waiting for him to explode to see exactly what kind of bomb this will be.Â
It feels like itâs been an eternity when Belphegor finally opens his mouth.
âIâm sorry,â the words come out hesitantly, âI know thereâs nothing I can possibly say to make it better, but I want to try. If youâll let me.â Thereâs a pause, and you watch him swallow. His whole body language screams that heâs uncomfortable and, to your surprise, afraid. Desperate. âI know, after what I did, that I donât deserve a second chance. And I understand if you donât want to give me one.â The next words are so quiet that you barely catch them. âI know I wouldnât.â The words are filled with so much  hate that it catches you off guard, and it takes you a minute to realize that the hate in his tone isnât directed at you.
Itâs at himself.
You realize youâve been staring at him, wide-eyed, for too long when the next words that come out of his mouth are âI donât even know why Iâm here.â The words are filled with anger, and you can only watch as the war in his head plays out. âI donât know why Iâm here begging for forgiveness that I donât deserve.â His fists are clenched by his sides now, and, though you know his anger is at himself, you still take a step back.
He freezes, you watch his whole body go rigid the instant you step back. Emotions flit through his eyes and across his face so fast that theyâre hard to read. But the one thing you do catch outside of anger, the thing that cracks your heart despite everything, is anguish. It rests in his eyes, in the expression on his face, in the slump of his shoulders. It radiates off of him so strongly, consumes him so perfectly, that, had you not already been speechless you would have completely lost all words. He grabs his head, squats down, and you can only watch.
âIâm already fucking this up and Iâm sorry,â the words are laced with so much anger and sorrow that you swear the whole room fills up with it, âIâm sorry, Iâm not used to this and I know, I know, thatâs not an excuse, but itâs all Iâve got.â His voice breaks as he utters the last two words: âIâm sorry.â
You can only stare as your brain tries to process whatâs happening. Before⊠everything⊠you spent a lot of time with Belphegor. You know this is uncomfortable for him, that heâs much more of a demon of action than a demon of words. He doesnât like to use words to communicate, he isnât used to speaking his mind, he speaks through actions. How were you supposed to communicate to someone whether they were forgiven or not when they have made themselves uncomfortable beyond belief just to communicate that they were sorry through words? You open your mouth and close it, well and truly speechless.
You have no idea what to say or what to do, and your emotions are all over the place. Youâre still scared, yes, but above everything else youâre confused. Thereâs no protocol for this, no class that tells you how to communicate something this insanely tremendous. You let yourself sink to the floor, eyes still trained on Belphegor. It hits you then that, since youâve been avoiding him at all costs and his brothers have mainly been with you⊠heâs been alone. Heâs been working through all of this alone. Lilith, his return, the fact that heâd killed you. All of it. Alone. Heâs been alone in his thoughts for two weeks. And maybe he deserved it... But you knew what it was like to be alone with your thoughts, to be socially isolated, to not have anyone to turn to.
He had, in the span of a couple of hours, been told that his little sister had died but hadnât, she had lived as a human. He had been told that the human heâd then turned around and killed was a distant descendant of Lilithâs. He had had to work through that everything seemed a little too perfect but was still true. He had been accepted back into the House of Lamentation, but not fully welcomed back in socially. For two weeks he had been trying to work through it on his own, And the one person who might have understood? Who would have listened to him and tried to help? He had killed them, betrayed their trust, and now, for good reason, they were scared of him.
So now here he was, having a complete mental break on your floor; and for that, you couldnât blame him.
~
âI donât even know why Iâm here,â his anger at himself is rising, boiling over and he canât stop it because the war in his head is splitting him apart. âI donât know why Iâm here begging for forgiveness that I donât deserve.â He clenches his fists, more frustrated and angry at himself than heâs ever been. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees something flicker across your face and you take a step back.
His whole body goes rigid.
Now youâve done it, the little voice in the back of his head chimes, the one thing you didnât want to do. They will never forgive you.
The sadness hits him first; it rolls through him and seeps down into his bones. He hadnât wanted you to back away, to be afraid. He wanted to try to explain, to try and make it right. But he ruined even that. His anger at himself crashes over him all over again, self-loathing filling him up and swallowing him whole. He had one thing he said he wouldnât do - scare you - and he had gone and done just that. Something in him breaks, then. It cracks and falls apart and he doesnât even try to hold it together. He just puts his head in his hands, digs his fingers into his hair, and squats down in the middle of your room.
He was nothing, less than nothing. He was worth about as much as the dirt outside. Less than that because at least the dirt did something useful. All he seemed to be able to do was lie, manipulate, hurt, and kill. A laugh bubbled in his throat but he shoved it down, knowing that if he started laughing that would be it, he would lose it and he wasnât sure he would be able to come back from that.
âIâm already fucking this up,â he pushes the words out of his mouth, âand Iâm sorry.â He knows his words are laced with anger and agony but he needs to say them before itâs too late. âIâm sorry, Iâm not used to this and I know, I know, thatâs not an excuse, but itâs all Iâve got. Iâm sorry.â He hears his voice break but he canât bring himself to care. All he does is hurt you, what does it matter if heâs hurting right now? You deserve better than this- this mess on your floor. Fuck, you deserved to live in the first place. To not have to live in fear, to not flinch at every touch. But he had ripped that from you with cold eyes, a cruel laugh, and hands around your throat. He didnât deserve your forgiveness, he didnât deserve anything from you at all. Maybe that was why you still hadnât spoken. He doesnât even deserve to hear your voice, so why should you speak to him?
He sees then, just barely in his vision, you sink down to the floor, to his level, and a small, minuscule spark of hope kindles inside him. Maybe. Maybe youâre going to forgive him. Maybe youâll tell him itâs okay, that you two can work something out. Maybe he can do something to make up for everything. He sees your hand reach out, hesitant, as if you might touch him, then it pulls away and he knows you think he might still hurt you. And it wrecks him all over again.
âIâm sorry,â his words come out broken, but once heâs started he canât stop. âIâm sorry that Iâm worthless. Iâm sorry Iâm hopeless, that Iâm beyond redemption. Iâm sorry I-â he keeps going, the words, for once, pouring out of his mouth and falling off his tongue. He apologizes for anything, everything until he isnât even sure what heâs apologizing for anymore. âIâm sorry for exis-â
âDonât say that!â You cut across him, but he keeps going anyway.
âIâm sorry for existing.â Â As the words leave his mouth he knows theyâre right, knows that they were what he needed to say. All his existence did was cause pain to everyone around him. Why shouldnât he be sorry for existing? He turns his head away from you - he doesnât deserve to look at you, anyway - so he doesnât see your face when you open your mouth.
âNo, Belphie,â his head snaps to you, faint hope igniting once again. Youâd called him Belphie. Not Belphegor, Belphie. âThatâs not what I want from this,â you say, and the faint hope dares to get a little stronger. âIâm not like you-â he doesnât hear the rest of your words. He doesnât need to. Any hope he had left, along with what was left of his heart, drop and shatter all over your floor as he stares at you. Of course. Of course, you werenât like him. Why would you want to be? Why would anyone?
He shouldnât have come. He shouldnât have come near you. He shouldnât have dared come to ask for something he didnât deserve.Â
Iâm not like you.
He sees the effect of your words register on your face, but heâs already moving, already off the floor and running toward your door.
~
You see your words register on Belphegorâs face, and it hits you a second too late that he only heard the words âIâm not like you.â The pure heartbreak on his face rips into you and itâs almost like you can see his heart shatter onto your floor. The shock of it puts you so off guard that youâre almost too slow to catch him as he darts toward your door. Your hands latch onto his arm, fingers digging into his jacket, and had he not frozen upon contact you're sure that he would have easily ripped away from you.
You just look at him for a second, thinking it would be easier if you hated him. But you donât, you never have. That was what had made his betrayal so hard, but it was also part of what drove your desire to start trying to forgive him now.
You briefly consider what you should do, running through the possibilities. Heâs not looking at you, still frozen from the shock of contact. You could start talking, start explaining. You could say that you still needed time, but that you were willing to try. You could. But Belphegor was about actions and not words. Your best option here is to speak to him in his language and you know that. But part of you still hesitates, for good reason. The last time you were this close to Belphegor, the last time you touched him...
You would be lying if you told yourself you werenât scared. You were terrified. But you had also seen Belphegorâs face and heard in his tone the genuine, heartbreaking remorse. That didnât make everything better, but it did give you the knowledge that he was wholly and genuinely sorry. From what you knew of him, he wasnât ever one to say sorry. And you saw what it did to him, trying to ask for forgiveness with words. It was different from the attic. Maybe he was different, too.Â
So despite it all, you made a decision. You were still scared and hesitant - who wouldnât be? - and you still needed time. But he had tried⊠ Maybe you could too.
You slowly release your grip on his arm and, before he can start running away again, step in front of him. You look into his eyes for the first time that night, taking in all the pain there. Both of you are two kinds of broken, the kind that takes a lifetime to heal. But maybe you can both start now.
~
Of all the things he thought you might do when you stepped in front of him, this was not one of them. His entire body stops functioning. His heart feels like it might pound out of his chest, his brain short circuits, he forgets how to breathe. Your arms are around his neck, pulling him down to you, and he doesn't know what to do with his hands. His whole body trembles as his hands hover an inch away from your back. The last time he touched you he did something he could never take back, and this entire situation was so beyond belief that he was almost convinced he must be dreaming.Â
"It's okay," he hears your voice near his ear, soft and soothing and he realizes he must be trembling a lot more than he thought if you're comforting him. His thoughts screech to a halt.
You're comforting him.
You're hugging him.
The touch of hope you're offering to him, the chance at forgiveness he doesn't deserve, barrels into him and he lets go and buries his face into your shoulder and tangles his hands in your shirt. All of the emotions at once are too much for him to process, so he doesn't. He lets his emotions crash into him like waves as he clings to you, daring to hope that you won't let go.
After a moment, he starts to feel you shaking with him. You're crying now, just like him, and he can understand why. He knows this is agonizing for you. It couldn't be anything but agonizing. He'd been in your nightmares, he'd experienced what you've been reliving every single night for two weeks. A dream that started with a hug and ended with death. To hug him now, to even let him touch him, is so monumental for you. He knew the thought that he might still try to kill you had to be in the back of your mind, and he didn't blame you. Hell, he wouldn't have blamed you if you never touched him again. But here you were, holding him close and not letting go.
Nothing beats the feeling when you start getting comments on every fic in a fandom or ship from one person, and itâs clear that theyâre going on a fic-binge.Â
I love this so much! Itâs always so much fun to watch someone go down a binge and they react to a part that becomes a Big Deal down the line, and they make a comment about it, and you just laugh and wait and then like five hours later you get a review like âyou biTCH HOW DAREâ and honestly itâs the most rewarding feeling.
I notice when the same person kudos several of my works in a fandom, like, oh they saw one of my things and was like âoh, this is the good stuff, please tell me they wrote moreâ and then like binged the rest. And as an writer that brings me sooo much joy to see that itâs enjoyed, and as a reader it is so satisfying to find a good writer with several awesome fics in your fandom
Thank you to all the fan fic writers who wonât get a post dedicated to them today or any day. Your writing still matters, your writing is still important. Your fic touched someone, it is someones favorite fic, their comfort fic. Donât stop writing, donât ever give up. I appreciate you and your writing. Thank you for all you do.
I get antsy when I havenât produced content in awhile. I worry Iâll be forgotten. I feel like I have to keep buying my place in fandom with stuff like art and writing. Which makes it hard to produce content because thatâs a lot of pressure to put on my creativity muses. So I sit here worrying instead.Â
To everyone in the fandom who has been posting this the last few days: You are not obligated to continuously produce content. You are valued within this community by others, no matter what. I promise you that. You will not be forgotten. Donât feel pressured. Do things in your own time. You are awesome. You are talented and you are welcome here always.
Someone: hey, if youâre a writer, why donât I ever see you writing?
Me, a writer whoâs been daydreaming about three characters, two unwritten chapters, some scraps of dialogue, and a partial plot that still needs to be heated up in the microwave before itâs usable:
Prompt: A birthday fic for my favourite demon, Mammon, in which I struggle to write a love letter
Pairing: Mammon x GN!Reader
Word Count: 1,078
Warnings: None/I write a shitty love letter
A/N: This is late and Iâm so sorry. Blame my professor. At least itâs still his birthday where I am
It had been an excellent day, if you did say so yourself.
    Your plan for Mammon's birthday had gone perfectly, with each letter being delivered successfully and Mammon getting all the love he deserved. There had been a couple of hitches - like when Mammon discovered you out shopping with Satan and Asmo or when he came to your room as you were trying to prepare part of his surprise - but all in all, those brief moments of panic were insignificant compared to the joy on Mammon's face. It made you really happy to see that he was having a good day filled with gifts and a distinct lack of insults. Though, one of your favourite moments was still at the very start of his birthday when the two of you were laying in his bed, talking about nothing specific in particular, and you told him just how much it meant to you that you knew him. Although, he hadnât yet opened your final letter, so your true favourite moment was still up in the air.
    Heâd looked so fidgety while shopping with you and Lucifer, and you knew that despite being able to pick out anything he wanted, he was thinking about the letter you handed him.
Open when weâre alone.
You knew what was inside, of course, but Mammon didnât and the possibilities seemed to be eating away at him. Heâd find out soon enough though, as you had agreed to hang out in your room with him for a while before Lucifer enforced curfew once again. You had asked Lucifer to postpone curfew until after midnight, citing Mammonâs birthday as a valid reason. Heâd sighed, but complied, and your plan was set in motion.
    Now you were sitting on your bed, Mammon a few feet away with your letter in his hands. It felt like an eternity as he opened it, and you fondly remembered what was in the letter as you saw his eyes begin to scan the contents.
To The Great Mammon,
    First and foremost, happy birthday! I really hope your day was as amazing as I hoped it would be when I planned it. I wanted to make sure you got something important, something meaningful, this year. I hope this was that for you.
    Now⊠Iâve written this letter countless times, Iâm not going to lie to you. The words never seemed to be quite right, no matter how hard I tried. This time, though, Iâm going to try something different. No flowery phrases, no trying to be poetic. Iâm just going to say whatâs in my heart.
    I want today to be special for you, Mammon. I know Iâve already said this once today, but Iâm so glad I met you. You make my world light up in ways I never expected when I first came down here, and itâs so important that you know that. That you know that I trust you the most, appreciate you the most. Youâve always been there for me, always looked out from me (though you did grumble a lot at first). Youâre the only one in this house that hasnât turned their demon form on me. Youâre the first one to check on me, the last to say goodnight when I canât sleep and you stay up with me despite being exhausted.
    No matter what your brothers say, what doubts may rest in your head, I need you to know that I donât think youâre scummy or an idiot. I think youâre brilliant, actually, and youâre so much more than just your greed. I could go on for hours and hours about everything that makes you special, about every reason I think youâre the best demon in the Devildom, but I only have so much time, and so many pencils. So this letter, and the next sentence in it, will have to do.
I love you.
    Yes, you read that right, and Iâm not joking. I love you, Mammon. I have for a while. You make my heart feel full, and I donât want to spend another minute without you. Believe it or not, though, my love isnât the whole of your present. Iâm offering you three extra birthday wishes from me specifically. They can be whatever you want (within reason), and are redeemable whenever you want. No, you may not wish for more wishes.
Happy birthday again, Mammon
 - Your Human
    Mammonâs face had turned an amazing shade of red by the time he finished reading, and you could see the tears pricking his eyes. You bit your lower lip nervously, anxiously awaiting a response. Heâs silent for a long time, and you worry your bottom lip even more.
âWas it too much?â You ask quietly, and his head snaps up. What you see in his eyes punches you in the gut in the best way possible. Heâs looking at you with pure love, sheer adoration and appreciation. He lunges for you, tackling you back onto your bed and wrapping his arms around you.
âItâs perfect, Y/N,â his voice is soft in your ear, devoid of his usual bravado and filled with the most affection youâve ever heard there. After a long moment, he pushes himself up, his blush even more prevalent. Heâs not looking directly at you, and you reach out and cup his face in your hands. âCan I kiss ya?â The question feels deafening in the quiet of your room.
âIs that your first wish?â You tease him, but you can feel your own blush starting to creep up on you. You smile. âYes,â you whisper, sliding your hands to tangle in his hair and pull him closer to you.
Itâs perfect.
    When he pulls back up again, you know youâve given him the best birthday heâs ever had. Heâs still blushing furiously when he grins, looking at you like youâre the only thing in the world that could possibly matter to him.
âI meant what I said, you know,â you say, leaning up to kiss his cheek. âYou arenât scummy, and you arenât stupid. Youâre perfect just how you are.â He leans down and kisses you again in response, and you smile against his lips. If you werenât literally in the Devildom, youâd think that maybe you were in Heaven right now.
âI love you too,â Mammon murmurs against your lips, pulling up just enough to meet your eyes. Then he grins, wicked and confident. âSo, about those three wishes-â
