Chapter Text
A modeling contract rolled in for the fall season and it had so many zeros tacked onto the end that— for the briefest of moments— even Mammon questioned the legitimacy of the fine text.
“Leather ain’t selling that well,” he had said while he scrounged around for a pen.
“Maybe it’s not leather?” you offered, getting up to get your jacket; it was a chilly day and the closest post-office was a ten minute walk into town.
“Nah, it’s usually leather. Fashion cycle isn’t going to swing back around to denim for another century or so,” Mammon explained as he handed off his signed contract — signed, noterized, and stamped, to a mail imp, “They just change up the leather type very decade to keep things feelin’ fresh.”
You decided then and there that it wasn’t worth questioning any further. You didn’t want to hear how human leather was outlawed six-fashion cycles ago, and certainly not from Mammon who would undoubtedly bungle the explanation so hard that he’d have to make it up to you with ice cream. To your relief, the conversation was never going to happen. As Mammon drove the two of you to the studio and lead you backstage, you learned that it was not, indeed leather.
It was worse. It was jewelry.
“What does ethically-sourced soul-gems even mean?” You didn’t mean to sound so incredulous, especially in front of the make-up incubus and the wardrobe stylist, but the four-word word-smoothie defied your mortal understanding of the underworld.
“Means they got a whole load of bleeding-heart money,” Mammon said as he leaned over to leave a healthy smear of lip gloss on your cheek.
“That doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“Well think of something that will. My treat!”
And then he was off to the photo set. You sighed and smiled knowing that nothing made Mammon happier than spoiling his (HIS) precious human.
It would be another hour before Mammon would be done. Curiosity caught you five minutes in and you snuck onto set to gap at the marble columns rise from a pool of impossibly blue water, flashing white and green with camera flash and creeping ivy. You managed a selfie but slinked back to the dressing room before the lead photographer caught wiff if your human-ness; better to keep all eyes on Mammon, you mused. Cradled by a salon chair, you listened to the click of the camera while lazily cycling through the apps of your DDD. The peace didn’t last long though. Asmo caught your latest reel and was so incensed to learn that Mammon was cast for Devildom’s primer jewelry brand’s fall marketing campaign over him that you didn’t notice the quieting of set over your DDD’s notification pings.
“Look at what I got you darlin’!” Something was slid across your collarbones. It was cool against your skin, heavy, and demanded your attention. Instead of to relenting to the demands of an ethically-whatever demon-bankrupting bird-bait you looked to Mammon, his reflection grinning at you through the mirror. He was there, as usual, hovering above your shoulder, but instead of his leather jacket he’s got his bare and bronzed chest peaking out from the lapels of a manitcore wool suit embroidered with vante black spider blossoms. It was different, classy and clean, but his smile? Even when smeared in lip gloss, it felt ominiously familiar.
“Mammon what are you doing?”
“Closin’ the clasp! Now sit still.”
“Well,” you said, resisting the urge to whip around lest some kingdom-ruining amount of jewelry gets flung to kingdom-come, “Maybe, and I mean this more as a suggestion than a question, but maybe it’d be best if it says, you know, unclasped?”
“What are you talkin’ about?” Mammon drawled.
And when he says, “This thing’s too heavy. I’d just slide off of you if we don’t clasp it good and tight. Trust me, the Great Mammon’s got you,” you know that whatever was to come next was a forgone conclusion.
Mammon finishes clasping you into the necklace with a flare of his hands. It was an absurdly beautiful thing, the necklace, with more than a dozen princess-cut golden gems, each flanked by two clear gems and double rimmed with a radiant yellow-gold.
“Even matches that ring of yours. Look,” he said as he raised your hand so it caught the mirror’s view, “No need to look so surprised. The Great Mammon knows real treasure when he sees it.”
And he was right. He was right more often than his brothers liked to admit, but even they wouldn’t deny the impeccable pairing that was the Ring of Light with this ethically-questionable bib of precious stones. If only they were all there to see Mammon’s indisputable good tastes in action, to smell the Devil’s blossom setting spray cloud that perfumed the dressing room, to hear the increasingly loud and increasingly frantic jewelry handler’s voice carrying across the warehouse set desperately asking where his piece de resistance of the collection went.
You smile at Mammon through the mirror and know, for better or worse, whatever happens next, he will be by your side.