Emii

..... personally ive always felt a little dissatisfied with how i executed this idea/design even when i first posted it so all the love it got at the time surprised me. I get the appeal though i really do

Soon, there was a hand at your lower back, lightly patting you before settling at your hip. The sudden intimacy startled you, and you turned your head to see that Mammon was already looking at you. He searched your face openly, “It's nothing,” you whispered.

“Welcome to the Demon King’s Castle. I am the royal butler who serves the Prince, and as our honorable guests, it is my duty to ensure your comfort and safety,” Barbatos introduced. “I am at your service, shall it be at any hour of the day. If you require anything, summon me with a chime.” A polished silver bell appeared in the center of his gloved palm with a petite lime-green bow on top.

Mammon was the one who accepted the bell; you had not so much as looked at it. There was no intention of taking anything offered by a demon’s hand, no matter how polished the gesture appeared. The silver chimed faintly as it settled into his palm. Barbatos lingered moments longer, as though inviting questions. And you had none, well, not for him at least.

“I shall take my leave.”

The instant he dismissed himself and the doors closed, you stepped away from Mammon’s side. You spun to face him, arms refolding over your chest as if to hold yourself together.

“I don’t trust him,” you stated. “I don’t trust any of this.” You began to pace the length of the suite restlessly. Your fingers pressed to your temples as you forced yourself to breathe slowly, anything to keep from panicking. When you stopped, your eyes lifted to his, searching, “I need to know,” you paused. “He won’t hurt Maximus.”

Mammon answered immediately, “He won’t,” he said, stepping forward towards you. “I swear. Trust me—”

“But that’s the thing, I don’t!” The words tore out of you unrestrained. “I don’t trust you!”

That stopped him. Your hands lifted, palms open as you gestured around the suite, the marble floors, the silks, the quiet opulence that felt more like a cage than comfort. “I don’t have a choice,” you continued, voice breaking despite your effort to remain calm. “...I don't even know why I asked,” you muttered after a thought. “Just go.”

Mammon had guilt etched plainly into his features. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck as he headed to the door. There was remorse there, the kind that did not ask for forgiveness because it knew it had no right to.

Against your will, you grew accustomed to this demon. He was quite the butler; he would have been phenomenal under different circumstances. Three meals were freshly prepared and promptly delivered to your suite. Each was carefully balanced and thoughtfully portioned. What unsettled you most was not the consistency but the familiarity. The dishes were from your country, foods you recognized. They were prepared with a skill that suggested it was possibly studied to the finest detail. Everything was cooked exceptionally well.

When Maximus grew fussy, soft pastries appeared alongside sliced fruit, peeled and arranged into animals. He brightened at those moments, delight replacing his earlier unease. To spare Maximus from boredom, toys and books appeared: wooden figures polished smooth by hand, plush animals stitched from soft fabric, storybooks with thick pages and fun illustrations clearly chosen with a child in mind.

On the couch, Maximus was seated on your lap as you gently brushed through his curls. He was reading aloud, stumbling over a word every now and then until you helped him pronounce it.

A sound at the door. Barbatos.

Despite his eerie energy, he never entered without permission.

“Come in.”

The door opened just enough for him to pass through. He did not step far inside, only far enough to roll a small table into the suite. He positioned the tray with deliberate care beside the couch, then bowed his head.

“A snack for you and the young master.”

Maximus stiffened; he was never fond of Barbatos either.

As Barbatos straightened, he led with a question. “If I may offer a tour of the castle grounds? It may provide some relief from the indoors. I can personally escort you.”

The idea was tempting to see anything beyond these stone walls and velvet drapes, however, you were not naïve. Yes, you ate their food because Mammon had assured you it was safe and accepted their hospitality because refusing it would change nothing. The fact remains, this was still a demon’s domain,  kindness did not equal harmlessness and their refinement did not erase danger.

“Thank you,” you said quietly. “But I’ll rather wait for Mammon.”

Barbatos regarded you for a brief moment then nodded. “As you wish.”

Leviathan surfaced through a shallow puddle at the edge of the street. The water rippled once, twice, then stilled as though nothing unnatural had occurred. It was night when he appeared; the streets were vacant. The energy pulled him here. Mammon’s scent was faint but was unmistakably his. It was threaded through the air but heavy around the modest house ahead. It clung to the porch, railing, to the small wooden bench that swung gently in the breeze. Leviathan stared at it longer than he meant to, imagining Mammon there, slouched and relaxed with a child resting on his chest, living in a way Levi had never known him to be.

He approached slowly, boots crunching over fallen leaves. The house itself had warm-colored siding. A light was left on inside, glowing softly against the windows as if someone had simply stepped away and meant to come back.

Leviathan hesitated at the door. Did he have the right to enter? But what if the child's here? A quick spell, he unlocked the door. He took the time to examine the photos lining the walls, moments captured in time. One was Mammon, hyper-focused as he held his son overly carefully. Leviathan strolled down the hallway, admiring each one. Eventually, he paused at the refrigerator where he saw a calendar, dates circled in bright ink. School. Birthday. Doctor. Anniversary.

Leviathan cleared his throat, “This…” He reached for his phone, notifying a select few of his brothers. And one by one they appeared.

Beelzebub moved slowly, afraid the house might collapse from his weight alone. He noticed the small shoes lined up by the door. “They lived here,” Beel said, stating the obvious.

Satan lingered near the kitchen counter, eyes drawn to the stacks of paperwork: forms, lists, reminders written in Mammon’s unmistakable scrawl. “He maintained this life?” Satan said almost to himself in disbelief.

Asmodeus said nothing, too stunned and possibly overwhelmed at all this. Beelzebub, now in the kitchen, opened the refrigerator to see that there were labeled leftovers, healthy snacks and juice boxes. He stared at them for a long moment before his vision blurred. “He really didn’t trust us.”

Satan stepped closer, placing a comforting hand on Beelzebub’s shoulder. He was at a loss for words, unable to provide encouragement.

Leviathan found the album by accident. It was tucked onto the highest shelf of a narrow cabinet in the living room, half-hidden behind children’s books and folded paperwork. He had reached for it, thinking it was a photo album for the kids, of their school pictures, holidays, something harmless. The weight of it told him otherwise. It was thick, cream-colored. The edges were worn smooth by hands that had opened it again and again. The spine bowed slightly, softened with use.

Levi froze. A wedding album. His fingers hovered, then recoiled as though the thing were alive, “We shouldn’t,” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. “This is…this is private.”

Asmodeus had already noticed, “Yes. If he won't tell us, we'll just see for ourselves!”

“A-Asmo!”

Levi barely tried to stop him because deep down he was eager to know too but his conscience wouldn't let him. Asmo doesn't have one, so he was perfect for this. Asmodeus didn’t open it right away; he took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself. When he did, Levi sat beside him.

“Satan, Beel, come look,” Asmodeus called forth the other two.

They too circled around, awaiting to look at the contents.

Asmodeus inhaled sharply before he opened the page to the wedding. Mammon stood at the altar in an immaculate white suit, tailored perfectly. His hair was combed back, one rebellious strand falling loose over his forehead. Mammon was absolutely smitten and utterly undone as if a spell was cast. Asmodeus had never seen his brother with such expression; he sat up for a closer look, unable to believe his eyes. Mammon was mesmerized; his eyes held nothing but love.

His wife appeared on the opposite page. She wore a gold ballroom gown, the fabric flowing in layered cascades. The bodice was fitted, its embroidery delicate as it traced her form. The skirt billowed outward, pooling at her feet like molten gold.

The makeup was gold-toned shadow dusting her eyelids, accentuating her eyes without concealing them. Jewelry adorned her sparingly. A fine chain rested at her collarbone, bearing a single pendant that gleamed faintly against her skin with matching earrings. Mammon’s expression in the photo said everything.

Asmodeus went completely still, pausing at the page. “Oh,” he breathed.

“She’s pretty,” Beel said after a while.

“Pretty?” Asmodeus repeated, “Pretty doesn’t cut it! She’s a masterpiece. Where the hell did Mammon find her?”

Page after page told the same story; Mammon was never far from her. In one photograph, they sat in a quiet corner of the reception hall, noise and celebration around them. She was turned slightly away, attention caught by something off-frame. Mammon had a lock of her hair around his finger with eyes half-lidded as if he was intoxicated by love, awaiting her dose.

Another image caught him standing behind her, arms wrapped around her middle, chin resting against her shoulder. His hands were possessive, fingers flexed as if he needed to grasp every inch. She leaned back into him completely. He was smiling, almost shyly, like he couldn’t quite believe she was his.

At the long banquet table, Mammon sat close enough that their knees touched beneath the cloth. One of her shoes lay discarded beneath his chair. He held her hand in his lap, thumb over her knuckles, while he talked animatedly with someone else. Even distracted, he never let go. In another, he lifted her hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her fingers, eyes closed like a prayer was answered.

Later, in softer, quieter moments Mammon had shed his jacket. The collar of his shirt was undone, sleeves rolled up. She sat sideways across his lap, barefoot, her feet resting on the edge of another chair because they ached. One of his hands went around her waist and rested on her thighs, while the other massaged the arch of her foot. She looked down at him with tired affection, and he looked at her like he’d do anything for her.

And then toward the end of the album, she slept against him, fully spent. Mammon’s arm was wrapped around her; his head leaned against hers, eyes closed, expression peaceful in a way none of them had ever seen. Bare feet were hidden beneath her dress. Every image spoke the same truth: he couldn’t keep his hands or eyes off her; he was in love.

“This was touching,” Beel acknowledged. “I’m happy for them.”

Asmodeus closed the album slowly, “Me too,” he agreed.

Satan stood near the entertainment unit, “There’s more,” he said with interest. He knelt and opened the cabinet beneath the television. Inside were neatly stacked discs, each labeled in Mammon’s careful handwriting.

Wedding

Maternity

Junior

Maximus

Vacation

Graduation

The video stuttered once, then smoothed. Music filled the room, a melody that curled softly through the speakers. The camera found them at the center of the floor. The first dance.

Mammon stepped into her space, one hand settled at the small of her back, the other found her hand, fingers lacing together. He led beautifully. Every step was smooth; he turned her with a subtle shift of his wrist, a gentle pressure at her waist, and her dress followed like it was alive, fabric blooming outward as she spun, layers of silk catching the light. She laughed softly, and Mammon drank up the sight of her.

When he drew her back in, it was intimate. His forehead rested against hers, noses nearly brushing, the rest of the world dissolving into a blur of lights and murmurs. For a moment, they swayed, until Mammon leaned down, lips to her ear. Whatever he whispered wasn’t meant for anyone else.

The camera captured her expression; her eyes filled instantly. She laughed and cried all at once, joy spilling over; it was too big an emotion to contain, her fingers clutched the fabric of his suit as she went weak in the knees. Mammon tightened his hold, two arms curling more securely around her. They swayed like that for a few more beats before he kissed her. The camera wobbled slightly as whoever was filming sniffled.

Beel smiled. Something warm pooled in his chest as the screen glinted with shared joy. Laughter spilled from the speakers, and Mammon looked… happy. Beel folded his arms loosely over his stomach, the sound filling something deep and familiar inside him. Family. Belonging. He let the feeling sit there.

Leviathan, on the other hand, shifted uncomfortably. His gaze slid away the moment laughter erupted. At first his eyes were stubbornly on the wall, anywhere but the screen. There was a faint blush to his cheeks. This felt wrong, like stumbling into a private conversation you weren’t meant to hear or even worse...reading someone else’s diary. This wasn’t for him. This was too intimate.

Asmodeus did not once look away. He stared, refusing to blink as if he'd miss an important scene. Asmodeus typical playful expression was replaced by fascination. He watched the way Mammon leaned close, moments where she giggled into him. The way they touched naturally was foreign to a demon like him. This was affection; it was pure an emotion he understood once a long time ago.

Satan was too busy analyzing the content, fingers gripping his sleeves in thought. His eyes narrowed as the footage played, gaze intense as they absorbed the details. The trust was undeniable. It unsettled him, because who would have thought a demon of such high status would have let his guard down so low, it was practically nonexistent. Mammon trusted this human with his entire well-being, something that no demon takes lightly.

Belphegor manifested from the shadows near the back of the room. He was leaning casually against the wall, nonchalant. He was mildly confused why no one told him they were gathered here. His eyes were half-lidded, bored at first until they lingered on the screen longer than necessary. Once he realized what he was seeing, his eyes bounced from the screen to the album resting on Asmodeus’ lap, then around the room at the expressions he didn’t expect to see.

“…You’re kidding me,” he scoffed.

No one responded to him. On the screen, Mammon spun her around and around, her laughter spilling freely as her dress flared in a wide, luminous arc. The image froze for half a second as the disc skipped, her smile caught mid-laugh.

Belphegor glared, “So this is what you’re all crying over?” he caviled. “Some fake fairytale?”

Asmodeus stiffened immediately. “Belphie,” he warned. “Stop.”

Belphegor didn’t even look at him, “He lied to us!” his eyes locked on the screen. “Built a whole life behind our backs and you’re sitting here acting like you lost something. He chose them.”

“That doesn’t make it meaningless,” Asmodeus retorted, finally turning on him. “Did you even look at them?”

Belphegor gave a humorless laugh, “What’s there to look at? He's playing house with a mortal,” he scoffed. “Pretending he was something he’s not. Now it’s over, thee end.”

Beel’s shoulders tensed. Belphegor noticed immediately. “What?” he taunted. “You gonna whine over it too?”

“He loves them,” Beelzebub voiced.

Belphegor clicked his tongue and looked away, jaw tightening like he was biting down on something bitter. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, but there was no humor left, only irritation. He turned his back, voice rising. “You’re all being ridiculous. Mammon didn’t want us to know anything. So he can go fuck off with his choice. We were fine before. We’ll be fine now.”

Asmodeus stood abruptly. “Well, I want to get to know them.”

Belphegor scoffed. “I don’t care.”

Beel nodded, “I do too,” he said quietly. “And you should care, Belphie, they’re family.”

Shadows stirred at his feet, reacting to the spike in his emotion. “Mn,” he grunted. His eyes glared back at the screen one last time, “…This was never going to last,” Belphegor muttered before dispersing.

Asmodeus slowly sank into his seat. His hands came to rest on the closed album. His eyes were glossy, unfocused.

Satan rubbed his temples, exhaling through his nose. “That,” he muttered, “could have been worse.”

Leviathan hadn’t moved at all. He stared at the screen with glassy eyes as he continued to watch. The music played on. The scene shifted again. Mammon and her stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the cake, hands overlapping around the knife as they cut into it together. When he lifted the first piece, he was careful to not to let the excess icing smear her face, checking twice before feeding her, eyes narrowed in concentration.

She laughed at him for it, yet she did the same, feeding him just as carefully, mirroring his care. Mammon grinned, chewing exaggeratedly in delight before she dabbed a bit of icing onto her own nose, playfully. He leaned in, kissing it right off, lips lingering just long enough to make her giggle. The crowd erupted. Someone whistled. The camera shook.

Junior ran until the world stopped looking familiar, stone replaced pavement and wind replaced voices. The air thinned, carrying no trace of human warmth, only the cold earth. He didn’t know where he was, only that it was far enough. He crouched near the edge of a ruined structure half-swallowed by the landscape, broken columns, cracked stone, remnants of something long abandoned. The moon hung low, casting silver across the ground. It caught on the ragged edges of his wings, drooping uselessly at his sides.

Junior wanted to escape what he’s done, to get away from your eyes. Those eyes, the way you looked at him, he couldn’t understand what it meant, or maybe he didn’t want to, too afraid of its answer. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw your face and Maximus’ anger. He hadn’t meant it.

The shattered mirror fragment at his feet caught his attention. The glass was cracked and the moonlight spilled across it, illuminating his reflection in broken pieces. Golden eyes stared back at him. His white hair clung to his face, damp with sweat. Junior's shadow stretched unnaturally long behind him, wings distorting it further across the stone. A monster.

He didn’t look like a little boy at all.

“Put those claws away before you scratch someone again.”

“Stop biting your brother!”

“No wings! What did I tell you about flying in the house?!”

“MJ, you don’t growl at the table, use your words!”

In his eyes, you weren’t being mean, you were being mommy but sometimes the difference blurred. Every time he did just about anything, you were always there telling him to stop because he could hurt someone. He stared at his hands, his clawed hands. They tore through things easily, growing longer when his emotions spiked. Junior didn’t want to be like this; he just wanted you to hold him like you used to, to play with Maxi again and Papa…Papa hasn’t been around and he wonders if he’ll ever come back.

The tips of Junior’s ears twitched; his thoughts were answered. There was a sound in the distance, slow footsteps. The sound was familiar, comfortingly so. It was the way Papa used to walk after coming home from work; he’d searched for everyone so he could pull them into hugs and kisses.

The little boy kept his eyes low, unable to meet the eyes of his father. He stayed rested his pouty face on his knees.

“Mind if I sit 'ere?”

Slowly, he nodded. Mammon lowered himself beside him on the cold stone, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. For a while, nothing was said. MJ used the silence to study his father from the corner of his eye. It was strange. When Mama was near, she was loud: her heartbeat, her breathing, her emotions were all clear. That, too, felt wrong; his senses being sharper now, he could smell the emotions on skin. It felt invasive, like he was learning things he wasn’t supposed to know, yet with Papa, it was different. There was almost nothing; he couldn’t tell what his father was feeling at all.

“…Mommy, is she okay?” he asked after a while.

“She’s okay.”

“And Maxi?”

“Yes.”

The boy was content with the answers to his questions until one was asked about him.

“And is Junior okay?”

The sudden question startled him. He immediately looked to his father, who waited expectantly. The control he’d been holding onto slipped all at once, eyes filling with more than tears but the pain he had to endure the entire time.

The little boy shook his head. “Junior’s… n-not okay.”

Mammon cradled his small figure in his arms. He rocked side to side, as he’d done multiple times before. “Hey, hey… I gotcha,” he murmured, giving a rhythmic pat to his back. “Tell me where hurts.”

MJ cried into him, shaking, breath hitching in uneven pulls. Mammon rested his cheek against the crown of the boy’s head, careful of the small horn nubs there and held him closer.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with you,” Mammon said softly. “You hear me? Not a damn thing.” He kept rocking his son, encouraging him to release it all for him to carry. “You’re okay,” he whispered again. “You’re with me.”

As his father cleared the tears from his eyes, he was able to witness his loving expression. “Papa… am I dangerous?”

“No,” Mammon answered without hesitation. “You ain’t.”

“I didn't mean it,” he whispered.

“I know,” Mammon reassured. He pressed his forehead briefly to MJ’s. “And Mama knows too.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. She's waiting for ya.”

And you were.

Mammon stopped just inside the doorway. Ears following the sound, eventually you looked up.

There he was.

Junior stood half-hidden behind Mammon’s leg, small hands curled into the fabric of his pants, wings tucked tight against his back like he was trying to make himself smaller. His white curls dropped, his eyes were red and swollen, lashes still damp. He peeked out just enough to look at you, then quickly ducked back again, as if afraid of your reaction.

Your knees gave out beneath you, you dropped down in front of them without thinking, one hand bracing against the floor, the other reaching out but stopping halfway, afraid you might scare him.

“MJ…” Your voice wavered. “Baby.”

Mammon glanced down at the boy, then back at you. He gave MJ an encouraging nod.

“It’s okay,” Mammon murmured. “Go to mommy.”

MJ hesitated only a second longer, then he bolted. He ran straight into you, small body colliding with your chest as his arms wrapped around your neck. You caught him instinctively, arms closing tight around him as his face bury against your shoulder.

“Ooh, sweetheart,” you breathed, clutching him to you like you might lose him again if you let go. You kissed him everywhere you could reach, his hair, his temple, his damp cheeks, over and over, murmuring his name between each press of your lips. Your hands cradled the back of his head, fingers threading through soft strands as you rocked him gently.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “I’ve got you. Mommy’s here.”

MJ clung to you, shaking as the last of his fear poured out, small hands fisting in your clothes. You held him tighter, pressing your cheek to his hair, breathing him in. He was safe.

“A meeting?” you repeated in disbelief. “Of course there is.” You laughed once, hollow. There was a gradual cross of your arms over your chest as you looked at him with guarded eyes. “And who is this Lord Diavolo?” there was hesitation, but you added it quietly, “What, are you planning on sacrificing me?”

Moments earlier, Barbatos had arrived on time as always to deliver breakfast. He was polite as he informed you that Lord Diavolo had requested a meeting. Not an interrogation, he’d said. A necessary conversation.

Mammon stiffened at your question, eyes widening in genuine shock, “Don’t—don’t say that,” he said pleaded, eyes darting to your face as if trying to read where this fear had come from, “C’mon…” Then, softer, almost ashamed, “C’mon… baby. It’s me.”

The intensity of your eyes didn’t soften.  “Don’t… don’t look at me like that.” He shook his head, frustrated, words tripping over each other. “I ain’t— I wouldn’t— hell, I’d never, even to save my soul.”

The statement had some weight to it; his words pierced through your anger. There was a slight shift of your body, opting to look at the darkened window as if that alone might keep the tears from rising.

You barely had the voice to say words, so all you could do was nod.

“Diavolo, he’s… he’s reasonable. It shouldn’t be nothin’ too serious. He probably wanna know what happened.”

“You’re saying that like it’s supposed to make me feel better,” you replied. “It doesn’t. I don’t want to be here.”

“Look,” he said, voice dropping further, trying and failing to sound confident. “Diavolo runs this place. He’s gotta ask questions, yeah, but that don’t mean—”

“Is he dangerous?” you interrupted skipping straight to the point.

Mammon paused for a second. Was it a trick question? Technically, yeah. Diavolo can be dangerous, anyone here can, it’s Hell after all. However, compared to Lucifer, Diavolo was far more forgiving but how the hell was he supposed to explain that to you?

“…No,” he said at last. “Not to you.” Then, he doubled down too fast, “He’s harmless.”

You stared at him. “A demon,” you said slowly, “can be harmless?”

Mammon opened his mouth only to close it. He knew that nothing he said was going to make this better.

Time passed like sand in an hourglass. You sat perched on the windowsill, staring into the endless darkness beyond the glass. There was nothing beautiful about the Devildom, no horizon or stars worth naming. Mammon had gone quiet because everything he said only seemed to make things worse. He sat on the couch, turning his wedding band around his finger again and again, a nervous habit you knew too well. Your rings, your wedding band and engagement ring hung from the chain at his neck, hidden beneath his collar, close to his heart.

He can have them, you were never going to wear them again. The entire marriage had been built on a lie, not a malicious one, perhaps, but selfish. You weren’t angry he was a demon, it was due to the fact he decided for you what you could and could not know. Because now this lack of information made you unprepared and unfit to properly care for you children. This secret hadn’t stayed harmless, it had hurt them and will continue to.

Eventually, he went to check on the children. They were still asleep, both of them curled in their separate places, faces soft and unguarded, somehow untouched by the tension that had settled so heavily over everything else.

A knock. The sound hit the door like a command, heavy enough that you felt it in your chest. There was a slight jump in your pulse. This is him, your mind supplied immediately. The Prince.

He actually came. The comment you made to Barbatos after he delivered the message was reflected in this moment.  You were not walking into unfamiliar halls, separating yourself from your children not for politics or for the comfort of anyone else in this realm.

You did not know the Devildom. You did not understand its rules, its dangers, or what passed for mercy here and until you did, you were not leaving your children behind for even a moment.

If something happens you needed to be there, you would not forgive yourself if otherwise. You had already spent a few night haunted by what could have gone wrong. There cannot be another.

So the Prince came to you.

Whatever this meeting was about, whatever questions were going to be asked or judgments made, one thing was non-negotiable: you were not going anywhere without your children.

Carefully, you slid down from the sill and took only a few cautious steps forward.

“…Come in.”

The door opened and cold air swept in from the hall, sending goosebump up your body as you shivered. The figure who entered filled the doorway so completely that you instinctively stepped back from his sheer size.

He was enormous. He was taller than Mammon, broad enough that his shoulders brushed the frame as he came through. Golden eyes locked onto yours immediately, and a friendly smile followed.

“Good morning,” he greeted. He smiled warmly as if appearing to be friendly, however you did not return it.

“I am Diavolo, Prince of the Devildom,” he introduced formally. “Ruler of this realm, guardian of its balance.”

He gestured to the table, “Shall we?”

You sat first. He followed, the chair beneath him creaking faintly under his weight. Against your better intuition, you found yourself staring at his massive hands. His fingers were thick, strong with broad knuckles. He had hands that could cradle a skull as easily as a teacup.

The hell were they feeding him for him to be this size? The thought came uninvited and unwelcome.

They fed on humans. It had to.

There was a burning sensation in your stomach as if you wanted to puke from the image flashing across your mind.

“How are the children?”

It was an innocent question, however, your mind felt stuck on the image of those hands, on the impossible size of him, on the fact that you were sitting in Hell across from its prince with no shield but borrowed protection of being his guest. Finally able to look away, you met his eyes who waited expectantly but no answer came.

There was the sound of a distant door, Mammon exiting the bedroom. “They’re good, still sleepin'.”

Diavolo nodded, accepting the answer without further comment.

“As far as introduction goes, you are...?” he prompted.

You said nothing. Mammon joined by your side, seating close till your knees touched. His presence was almost careless, but there was something deliberate in the way he positioned himself just a fraction closer to you than necessary. He answered for you, he said your name, “My wife.” Diavolo eyes glanced to you for a reaction but when none came, he nodded.

Mammon leaned back in his chair. “So,” he started, raising an eyebrow to Diavolo, “what’s all this ‘bout?”

“I am simply seeking clarity of this rather delicate situation.”

There was a moment of nervousness flashing across Mammon’s face, but it eventually faded to understanding.

Diavolo folded his hands atop the table. “You two are husband and wife, correct? When did this union occur?”

Mammon answered easily, “Ten years ago.”

“Then she possess the mark of unity?”

Mammon’s demeaner faltered, “…No.”

“I see,” Diavolo said quietly. “So you do know that in the eyes of Devildom that this union is not official?”

Mammon gave an reluctant nod.

“Human marriages are recognized only within the human realm. They hold no legality here particularly when one party is a demon. There is a formal rite, a binding ritual of unity in order to be acknowledged under Devildom law. Currently, there is no legal recognition.”

The explanation was for you but you did not care.

“When did you intend to formalize it?”

Mammon glanced at you from the side of his eyes, but you gave him nothing. Your expression remained closed off, arms crossed loosely as you stared past the table, present but distant. Mammon looked away, shoulders slumping a fraction. He said nothing.

Diavolo observed the exchange, understanding. “I see,” he said, softer this time. “Now, the children,” Diavolo moved on. “How many is shared between you both?”

“Two.”

Diavolo paused just long enough to carefully craft this question, “And there are no…others?”

Mammon’s head snapped up. “What?”

“Are there any children outside your marriage?”

Your posture stiffened beside him, the reaction instinctive. The question had never crossed your mind before not once. It had never needed to.

And there are no… others? The words burrowed deep in your mind where they didn’t belong. You kept your face still, but inside, something shifted. A cold, creeping thought you hadn’t prepared for. Were there others before you?

Mammon had lived a life before you, you had made peace with that but knowing he had lived a longer lifespan than yours changes everything.

But the darker possibility followed too quickly behind it, during your marriage? A quiet, nauseating fear curled low in your stomach. Right now you were surrounded by truths you hadn’t known, secrets that had rewritten your life overnight. If something this significant—what he was—could be hidden from you, then what else had slipped passed without you ever noticing?

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye without meaning to. Mammon’s reaction was immediate, the sharp snap of someone insulted by the very suggestion. That should have soothed you. It didn’t.

Everything suddenly felt fragile, look how easily your mind now reached for worst-case answers where trust had once lived unchallenged.

“The hell kinda question is that? No. Hell no.”

Diavolo gave a short, awkward laugh, lifting one hand. “Forgive me. That was poorly phrased. It is not my intention to imply impropriety.” He cleared his throat lightly. “However, when jurisdiction between realms is involved, I am required to account for all possibilities.”

Mammon scoffed under his breath, offended but restraining himself. When Diavolo waved the implication away with polite awkwardness, you exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding; the uneasiness lingered because there are going to be things you do not know of Mammon or of this world.

“Let us continue,” he concluded. “Now, your children were born in the human realm,” he summarized, voice now returning to neutral. “They remained there without authorization. Their demonic heritage went unregistered and untrained.”

Mammon shifted in his seat. “I didn’t leave it unchecked,” he said, a note of urgency slipping into his voice. “I— I took precautions.”

“Explain.”

Mammon hesitated only a second before continuing. “I went to a witch. Cost me a fortune.” A humorless huff escaped him. “She brewed somethin’ to suppress it.”

“Untrained demonic power draws attention. It invites response. Had your son’s manifestation escalated further, there are external forces that could have intervened in ways they seem fit. And that,” Diavolo paused, “brings us to an unavoidable conclusion. I am not authorizing your children to return to the human realm.”

Mammon stood. The chair scraped loudly against the floor as he pushed back. His palms slammed flat against the table, not in violence but in disbelief.

“The hell you mean?” he snapped. “That’s their home. That’s where they grew up. You don’t just—”

“Mammon,” Diavolo said calmly. “You fathered half-demons children in the human world and concealed their existence from this court, and from me. The potential consequences of this secrecy are far greater than you seem to realize. The laws of our realm exist for a reason. If your son had lost control again, human authorities or worse, celestial forces could have intervened. It could have sparked a conflict between realms.”

“I want to return home,” you spoke. “Today.”

You wanted to see it, the demon beneath the prince. The threat, the cruelty, the inevitability you had been bracing for since you arrived in this realm. Part of you expected fire, or chains, some declaration of absolute authority. Something… monstrous. Instead, Diavolo regarded you in silence for a long moment.

“I cannot allow that,” he replied calmly.

Your voice rose despite yourself. “You bring me to your realm, tell me my children can’t leave, and expect me to sit politely at your table? This is kidnapping.”

Diavolo did not correct you immediately. He folded his hands together, posture still composed, “You are free to leave,” he said evenly. “At any time.”

 “…My children?”

“They are not.”

The room seemed to tilt. “So you’re saying I can go,” you said slowly, carefully, “but I have to leave my children behind.”

“I am saying,” Diavolo informed, “that your children are under my jurisdiction. You. Are not.”

The words landed with devastating clarity. You shook your head once, sharply, as if that alone might undo what you’d heard. For a heartbeat, it looked as though you might say something else, something reckless and utterly disrespectful. However, you opted to dismiss yourself from the room. The bathroom door closed behind you with a soft click.

You barely made it to the sink before your composure shattered. Your hands gripped the porcelain edge as your breath came apart, uneven pulls that made it difficult to breathe. Tears spilled, uncontrollably; you felt humiliated. Your new reality was setting in and you don't think your body was able to handle it.

Back in the sitting room, the atmosphere changed the instant the door shut. The warmth faded from his expression it was not replaced with rage but with gravity. The indulgent politeness fell away like a curtain being drawn back, revealing the ruler beneath. He no longer looked like a host appeasing a guest but a prince weighing a sentence.

Mammon couldn’t sit. He paced a short line across the rug, boots scuffing against the floor before turning back again. His hands dragged through his hair, fingers trembling just slightly. “They’re just kids,” he said, voice strained. “They ain’t weapons. Ain’t threats. They’re good kids.” He stopped, turning sharply toward Diavolo. “I’ll make sure of it. I swear.”

Diavolo watched him for a while. He briefly closed his yes. When he finally spoke again, the warmth was gone from his tone. “They are children which is precisely the problem. Children are volatile,” Diavolo disclosed. “They feel first and think later. In their rawest state they are destructive because they have not yet master restraint. You know this. Remember Satan?” Diavolo reminded. “His birth nearly tore apart this realm. He was so uncontrolled Lucifer had to bound him in chains because there was no other way to contain the sin of Wrath.”

Mammon’s voice dropped. “Satan ain’t a kid.”

“No,” Diavolo agreed. “He was a newborn demon with no emotional regulation and lacked the ability to reason. It took centuries before he could exist without destroying everything around him.”

Mammon stood rigid, fists clenched at his sides, chest rising and falling too quickly. Then, suddenly, “…Strip ‘em.”

Diavolo’s brow lifted slightly. “Strip them?”

“Their power,” Mammon said hoarsely. “Seal it, remove it, whatever you gotta do. Just—” He faltered, “Just don’t make ‘em stay here. They belong with their mama.”

Diavolo studied him carefully now. “You would deny your children their heritage?” he questioned. “Their birthright as demons?”

Mammon hesitated. The pause stretched long enough to be an answer on its own. “…If it keeps ‘em safe,” he said at last. “Yeah. I would.”

Diavolo was silent for a long moment, contemplating his next choice of words. “You are a demon, one of the Seven Sins. A being of excess, desire–greed, a force that consume and never satiated… and yet you would sever that very nature from your children to spare them suffering. To remove their power is to deny them of who they are.”

Mammon was at a loss for words. He stared at his reflection in the tall glass windows, the faint distortion warping his face just enough that he barely recognized himself. For once, there was no grin to hide behind. Greed had always been easy: wanting, taking, hoarding. He had lived his most of his existence embracing excess.

Mammon was confronted with the idea that he would be the one to decide which parts of his children were too dangerous to exist.

He had never questioned what was in him, yet the thought of those same traits inside his children made his chest ache in a way he didn’t have words for. He wasn’t afraid of them becoming demons. He was afraid of them being hurt because of it. Afraid that one day they’d look at him and realize he’d handed them a curse.

“Allow me to ask you this,” he continued. “If your wife had the means to remove the fragility of humanity from them, the parts that can get them hurt or betrayed, would she?”

Mammon’s gaze shifted from his own reflection to Diavolo’s, whose caught faintly in the glass. The prince remained seated, patiently waiting a response. Mammon didn’t need time to consider it. She wouldn’t.

The thought struck him with absolute certainty. She would never look at her children and decide that something about them was wrong that there was as a flaw to be corrected. She had always protected them by adding, whether that be more love, more care, more vigilance never by taking pieces away.

Where he saw danger in what they might become, she saw innocence in what they already were. Where he feared their power, she feared the cost of losing even a fragment of who they were meant to be. She would never strip them because them being a demon is part of their identity now.

At this point in time, Mammon was married with children, two, might I add, with a talk of having number three. Once Mammon knew he was in love with you, he revealed himself. He removed the false appearance and showed you who he truly was: a greed demon.

Despite being from different realms, the two of you made it work, creating a lovely family in the process. Life was good. The peace was soon shattered when his brothers appeared at his doorstep in search of him. At the time, Mammon was at work while you were home with the children. They stated who they were looking for, and their relation to your husband, whom you did not know had brothers. When you called Mammon, he came home immediately.

They varied in size, shape and appearance, which had the children peeking from behind the furniture, curious about the strangers. In the meantime, you offered water or tea, they were really quiet with various expressions of hurt and anger on their faces. Mammon came home hot. He did not look at you when he told you to go upstairs. A child in each arm, up the stairs you go.

How long has it been, a decade? The moment he heard your footsteps disappear, the restraint broke. He demanded to know why they were there and told them they had no right to show up. Voices rose, old wounds surfaced. There were accusations, resentment, things left unsaid for centuries spilling out in minutes. A few tried to reason, after all, they did not come here to fight, but Mammon wouldn’t let them explain. It wasn't until Belphegor said something disrespectful that everyone kicked out.

Once they were gone, you eventually returned downstairs. He was seated on the couch, his gaze was to the window, the last place they were. You joined beside him, quietly asking the truth, “Were those men your brothers?”

He scoffed, “Tsk. They’re dead to me, ain’t want nothin’ to do with ‘em.”

Mammon does not elaborate further; his knee was bouncing uncontrollably until you set your hand on it, sliding closer. His fidgeting eventually slowed until it came to a complete stop. He was silent, ashamed even as he sat there, unable to explain himself.

“They shouldn’t’ve come ‘ere,” he muttered. “They don’t get to just show up like that. Not after everythin’–” he paused as if second-guessing himself to continue. “Forget it.”

“When you’re ready, I’m here,” you whispered, supportively, your hand patted his knee.

Mammon let out a humorless huff and turned his head, blinking hard. The tears came anyway, traitorous, sliding down before he can stop them. He scrubbed at his face with one hand, embarrassed.

“I could forgive ’em for what they did to me. But I swear if they ever made my kids feel like I did back then…” He shakes his head once.

“They did search for you,” you reminded. “Maybe they’ve changed and want to do better.”

He scoffed, “Demons don’t change,” he laughed in disbelief. “We’re bound to what we are: greed, wrath, envy—pick your poison. We’re cursed to carry it for eternity to be miserable fucks.”

“Are you miserable here with us?” you asked softly.

Mammon sat up, “What! Of course not, babe – !” He stopped himself mid-sentence. The words caught in his throat when he realized what he was saying. He looked at you then, truly looked, as if the answer had been sitting in front of him the entire time.

“I know,” you murmured. “I know you’re not.” You reached up without hesitation, brushing your thumb beneath his eye, wiping away the tear he had missed. “Because you changed.”

Mammon’s shoulders slumped as if exhaustion had finally caught up to him. He laid in your lap, face inward, burying it against your stomach as if the past could not reach him there.

“There, there,” you murmured, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head. Your fingers moved slowly through his hair, smoothing, stroking, the same gentle rhythm you used when the children were overwhelmed.

“I know you said they’re dead to you; however, you should use this moment to get closure, to tell them exactly how they hurt you.” Your hand slid down to the nape of his neck, massaging gently. “Honey, you deserve peace. This must have been bothering you for a long time now. If hearing them out gives you the help you need, then let it happen. And if all you need to do is tell them goodbye, that’s enough, too.”

Mammon finally lifted his head from your lap. His eyes were red, lashes clumped together. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah… I should meet with ’em. Tell ’em to fuck off properly this time.”

You offered him a small, approving smile, “If that’s what you need to say, then say it.”

Mammon paced the living room, eyes constantly checked the clock, then the door, until he ran a hand through his hair like he might rip the nerves out by force.

“They’re gonna be here any minute,” he muttered. “This is stupid. I shoulda told ’em to get lost through text! I don’t— I don’t gotta relive all this shit.”

You watched him for a moment before speaking. Then, calmly, you held out your arms. “Come here,” you said.

He hesitated, pride flaring on reflex, then it fizzled out just as quickly. He crossed the room and let you pull him in. You wrapped your arms around his waist. Mammon exhaled as soon as his chest met yours, tension bleeding out of him in a slow, uneven breath.

Rising onto the tips of your toes, you lifted your hands to his shoulders, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your palms. His hands found your waist almost instantly, fingers gripping gently, to hold you close.

Your lips brushed his lightly, testing, a soft question rather than a demand. He responded slowly, tilting his head slightly, pressing his lips to yours. The kiss deepened just enough to convey reassurance.

You felt the tension in him begin to dissolve under your touch, the tight line of his jaw softening, his hands loosening ever so slightly. Your heart swelled at the vulnerability he allowed in this small, sacred moment. You simply held the kiss, letting it speak all the things words could not: love, support, understanding, and the unspoken promise that you were a safe place for each other, no matter what's to come.

He let out a relieved sigh and murmured, “…I needed that.”

“I know,” you whispered, your voice warm. “And I’ll always give it to you.”

Mammon's blues eyes widened slightly, a warm blush spread across his cheeks, creeping even into the tips of his ears. He stared at you, unblinking, as if seeing you for the first time all over again.

He couldn’t find words; none of the clever, snarky lines or boasts he usually used came to him. He was speechless, captivated by the depth in your gaze, the quiet certainty in your voice. The thought struck him with a shiver of reverent wonder. She's Father's best creation. And she's all mine.

His lips parted slightly, just enough to draw in a shaky breath, and he continued to stare, completely lost in you. Mammon's eyes shone, sparkling in delight, not with mischief but with pure, unabashed adoration. The moment was disrupted when there was a knock at the door.

“Okay,” he found his voice. “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

“This is my wife,” he said, gesturing toward you as he called your name. You stepped forward with a calm smile and a slight nod, acknowledging each man as Mammon introduced them. From the moment your eyes met theirs, it was clear the room was charged with different, complicated energy.

Lucifer’s aura carried a tension beneath the surface, a silent storm he masked with an almost clinical indifference. His jaw was tight, lips pressed together and his gaze lingered on Mammon with a cold scrutiny that hinted at frustration and disappointment. He didn’t meet your eyes for long, as if dismissing you entirely from his existence.

Leviathan’s presence was weighted with guilt. His shoulders slumped slightly, and his eyes flicked to Mammon then back to the floor, as though he wished he could erase the years of his ill-treatment. The air around him was tense with remorse, asking for forgiveness even before words were spoken.

Satan’s aura was probing, curiosity evident in the way his head tilted slightly, brows arched. He observed you analytically, not judgmental but intensely focused, like he was trying to understand your place in Mammon’s life and the dynamics that had kept this family together.

Asmodeus' energy was wounded, a subtle mix of hurt and disbelief. His smile was forced, eyes softening as they lingered on you. The aura he radiated was warm yet brittle; he realized a cherished part of Mammon’s life had been kept from him, and it stung.

Belphegor, on the other hand, exuded anger. Every movement was tight, controlled yet brimming with irritation. His glare landed squarely on you, dark and accusatory, as though you were responsible for every year Mammon had kept his distance. He didn’t bother hiding his resentment, the faint edge of a growl audible in the back of his throat.

Beelzebub’s presence was heavy with quiet hurt. His eyes held a sorrowful weight, the sort of pain that comes from feeling excluded, untrusted, left out of the life of someone you deeply care about.

 “And… that’s all of ’em,” he muttered, voice tight. “My brothers.”

Everyone was located in the living room, complementary water remained untouched on the table. The conversation started as an argument. Belphegor was the first to openly lash out, his voice sharp with anger and accusation. “You kept him away from all of us!” he spat, glaring at you as if you were the one responsible. “All these years, and you just let him hide his life from us!”

Mammon didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t move much at all. “Belphie,” he said evenly, “disrespect my wife again, and I’ll show ya what it feels like to have me as an enemy, ya 'ear?”

Belphegor huffed, clearly simmering ready to say more but Asmodeus and Beelzebub intervened before things escalated further. “Belphie, calm down,” Asmodeus said. “You’re just going to make this worse.”

Beelzebub nodded in agreement. “Yeah, stop. This isn’t helping anyone.”

Once the tempers settled slightly, Mammon calmly explained his reasoning for keeping his family secret. Slowly, the brothers started to share their own pieces.  Eventually, they reached an understanding. Each brother, including Mammon, acknowledged their failings and vowed to do better, not to erase the past but to move forward without causing each other more pain.

The tension broke when Asmodeus, unable to contain his emotions, started to cry. “Can… can I get a hug?” he whispered, “I missed you!” Mammon pulled him into his arms without hesitation. Soon after, Beelzebub stepped forward, and Mammon hugged him as well. One by one, he embraced each brother.

When it came to Belphegor, he remained aloof, crossing his arms and leaning back, pretending indifference. Asmodeus, with mild annoyance despite his tears, gave him a gentle shove. “Come on, Belphie,” he said softly. “Get over yourself.” Reluctantly, Belphegor allowed himself to be pulled into Mammon’s arms.

Finally, it was Lucifer. He had remained composed and quiet, but Mammon stepped toward him hesitantly. Lucifer’s arms went around him almost reluctantly at first, shoulders stiff, but then he pressed a little closer. His voice, low and uncharacteristically soft, reached Mammon’s ears only:

“I’m proud of you,” Lucifer stated quietly, “After everything… after all the mistakes and the years apart, you found yourself, you found your life, your family. I am happy for you.”

Mammon’s eyes welled up, blurring slightly, and he had to blink quickly to keep the tears from spilling over. “L-Lucifer…” he murmured, a waver in his voice.

Lucifer stepped back enough to look him in the eye, the slightest trace of a smile tugging at his lips. He placed a hand on his shoulder as he said these words: “You’ve done well, Mammon. That’s all I wanted to see.”