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sweet-n-s4lty · 1 month ago

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I LOVEEEEEE

mc x mammon

you construct intricate rituals in order to touch the skin of the avatar of greed, ambiguous season but i would venture it's still during s1 of the original game, mostly just palavering about the gaze nothing actually occurs

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul.

"Don't you get eyestrain?" you ask Mammon, tilting your head as you sink back into the pillows on your bed. "With the sunglasses." It isn't bright in your room, the lights set just shy of their dimmest mode as you get ready to go to bed, and neither is his D.D.D.'s brightness set high. But he wears them all the time anyway, even in the evening. "Or are your eyes just sensitive?"

From where he's leaning at the side of your bed, frantically tapping some blinking lights on his D.D.D., Mammon shakes his head. "Nah, my eyes are fine," he says. "I just like the look of 'em."

A fair, if somewhat odd, assessment. You can't say you dislike the look, either, which has grown as familiar as the sight of him in your room — you're actually not sure why he's here today. It just seems like a given, some routine you've fallen into. There are two toothbrushes in the bathroom connecting to the bedroom, and there is a hamper in the corner for clothes that aren't yours, though they never seem to make it into the basket without your help, and the extra hangers in your wardrobe have lately been put into use more often than not. It's not exactly normal, you know that, but it comes so naturally.

"Are you gambling on mobile games again?" you ask, reaching over to pluck the sunglasses off his face, wondering if you should feel amusement or concern at the fact that he hadn't reacted to the motion at all. But maybe that's natural to him, too. You look at the orange-tinted lenses curiously. "You probably shouldn't, you know."

"I'm gonna win this one, serious, y'know, statistically and shit — "

When you put the sunglasses on, they're slightly large on your face, and they really aren't special aside from being from a Devildom designer brand that sounds suspiciously similar to the human world's Gucci. A typical pair of polarized sunglasses. You sigh, pulling them off. You lean over to place them back on Mammon's face, slightly askew. "Still losing?" You know he is; he's already out of in-game currency. Sure enough, the lights on the animated slot machine go red.

"Hey! You jinxed me!" he complains, adjusting the crooked sunglasses as the plaintive whine of a loser's trombone plays from his phone's speakers, but he turns off the game and stretches across your bed. His eyes peek out above the tinted lenses of his sunglasses, toward you. Like he's expecting something. You wonder if he's even aware of the way he looks at you sometimes, so intently it seems to go right through to the back of your neck.

"What's up," you say.

His gaze shifts, lands on the second hamper in the room, half-filled with his clothes by someone who isn't him. He's thanked you for it before, but you wonder what he actually thinks about the entire thing. "I dunno. Just lookin'." At this angle, you can only make out the blue in his eyes.

You sit up. "Are demon eyes different from human eyes? Like, in terms of biology."

Mammon looks at you, a little incredulously, and then laughs. "Man, how the hell would I know that? I ain't a nerd like Satan."

You shrug, moving so you're facing him properly. "I don't know. But can I check?"

He grimaces, but he's already folding up his sunglasses and hooking them into the collar of his shirt. "Like, you're not gonna poke 'em or anything, right? Would you even know the difference between, y'know, human and demon eyes?"

"Maybe. I don't know." When you moved just now, your hand brushed against his, where below the knuckles is the faded smudge of a stamp he'd had to get at one of Beel's games. Identical to one on your own hand. The game itself hadn't been particularly intriguing, and what you remember more than anything else is that it had been cold that day. You and he had to huddle up together beneath a blanket, and Mammon's bony elbows poked into your ribs to such an extent that you wondered if it wasn't less comfortable in the blanket than outside of it. But when he turned to you, smiling sheepishly, looking at you the way he does, warmth bloomed in your chest and you couldn't even feel the ache over it.

Mammon looks at you the way he does and shrugs. "Whatever. All yours."

There's no way to make this seem normal, you know that. When you take his face in your hands you don't think too much about how easily his face fits against your palms as you angle his head toward the light. His cheeks are warm. He doesn't resist at all. "Don't close your eyes so I can look at your pupils."

It's not an order, but Mammon goes along with it anyway, though his eyes tremble a little, avoiding your gaze, when you lean in to inspect.

When the light hits them, the pupils constrict like they would in any other eye. Whenever Mammon looks over his sunglasses, his eyes are like the bright blue sky of the human world above a sea of sand, but up this close, they're entirely normal. The same pupils, irises, sclerae. Tear ducts. The delicate blood vessels along the white of the eye. Eyelashes, to keep out debris. It's almost disappointing. The only distinction anyone could make between his eyes and those of a human's is that his irises are unnaturally vivid and possess two colors, but even then, there are some humans with those same traits.

"I can't tell the difference," you admit. "They look like any other set of eyes."

The set in question flicks to yours, narrowing slightly. "Hey, just 'cause I'm being generous doesn't mean you can go lumpin' me in with everyone else." He reaches up, his hand finding purchase at one of your wrists like he's going to wrench you away from him, but he just keeps it there. "I'm the Great Mammon, y'know?" The warmth bleeds into your skin.

"I know that," you say softly, still not thinking. "Hey, close your eyes." Again, it's not an order, no force behind the words, but again Mammon obliges. His eyelashes are so light they're almost transparent. You brush the pad of your thumb over the thin skin of the eyelid, over the light oily sheen there. His closed eyes quiver beneath your touch.

"Does eyeshadow give you trouble?" you ask. "Because of your eyelids."

"Lil bit," he says. "When I do gigs I gotta prime 'em and carry those blotting things. But hey, I always end up lookin' good, yeah?" His mouth turns up in a contagious grin.

"You do." It comes out of your mouth so easily. His cheeks go warm at the admission, but he doesn't say anything this time. He's letting you feel around his eyes like it's nothing, and you think, maybe there isn't any real difference between demons and humans, after all. Eyes or otherwise. You let your fingers trace along his face to under the chin, angling his head upward. During the game, you had reached down to one of his arms and squeezed, not because it accomplished anything for heat, but because it was instinctual, like scratching an itch, or like blinking.

Your faces are so close. Kissing Mammon would be so simple — twist of the wrist, tilt of the head. You'd land his lips in one try; it would come naturally, and his mouth would be soft and warm. You wonder if he would let you kiss him.

Mammon's eyes flutter open. His grasp on your wrist tightens slightly. You can feel his breath on your face. Your own breath catches in your throat. "What're you doing?" he whispers.

"Just looking," you whisper back. He doesn't let go.

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sweet-n-s4lty · 2 months ago

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im gonna cry aghhhh, this was so good?!

OMG! congrats on the followers milestone!!! can i do option 1 please? i can see ur nanami's wife haha so i'd love to see something about like, post-shibuya nanami angst...

it's going to be okay (but it's going to be different) ༺ nanami kento

↬ masterlist

wc : 2.6K

content : oneshot. post-shibuya nanami angst, hurt/comfort. you find out what happened to your fiance.

note : i'm literally his wife

“shoko.”

the brown-haired woman comes to a slow halt in the hallway ahead of you but doesn’t deign to turn around. you’re certain she’s aware of what you’re about to say; you can’t blame her for not being able to meet your eyes.

“i’ve known you for nearly my entire life. i know when you’re lying to me.”

shoko’s shoulders slump, and you feel a pang of sympathy for the weight she's had to bear throughout these long years.

“i am.”

you give a small smile, though she cannot see it. “so…?” your voice breaks slightly, and you inhale deeply to get yourself back in control.

“is he… alive?”

at your words, shoko turns and rapidly closes the distance between you, steadying your trembling body with her hands on your shoulders. “of course he is. i wouldn’t lie to you about that. never.”

she makes no attempt to conceal the hurt in her voice; you'd regret thinking so unjustly of her if you were able to feel anything at all.

“he’s alive - he’s healing. he just…”

“shoko, please,” you beg, the last of your restraint falling away from you. tears of exhaustion blur your eyes. “i don’t care what’s happened to him - if he’s lost a limb, if he’s blind, if he won’t be able to walk - i need to know. it’s been nearly three weeks - i need to see him. i need to talk to him—”

“he doesn’t want to see you.”

her compassionate tone does nothing to alleviate the harshness of the words, laid bleak and bare before you. you reel and accidentally tear yourself from shoko’s clasp. she makes no attempt to take you back, instead attempting to dredge up a saddened smile.

“i’ve tried talking to him, but i don’t know if he’s all there. there was no physical trauma to his head but he’s retreated so far inside himself… he’s barely spoken a word, even though his throat and vocal cords are undamaged. he’s a completely different person. i wanted to tell you earlier, but…”

shoko trails off as you pale further, trembling helplessly. she swiftly takes you into a tight embrace, holding you together as you fall apart. for a moment your combined grief thunders through you both like a tidal wave has crested and crashed through the hallway, threatening to sweep you away.

“he’s been broken, y/n,” shoko rasps.

“as if any of us were ever whole,” you retort, but there’s no strength behind your words.

after some time you pull away, clearing your throat. shoko takes your hands in hers, looking more tired than you’ve ever seen her.

“maybe you can still—”

“no,” you cut in. “i - i don’t think i will. if he doesn’t want me there - if he doesn’t want me at all—”

“it’s not like that. i think he’s… ashamed. insecure.”

“kento? insecure?” the words come out before you can stop them. your fiance has been self conscious at times, but never insecure. then again, you suppose the horrors of what happened in shibuya would change anyone.

“does he think i’d reject him, if he looks any different to how he was before? what kind of person does he take me for? how can he doubt the nature of my love, and reduce it to something so superficial?” your voice rises.

“i can’t speak for him, y/n. that’s something you need to talk about with him, yourself—”

“and how am i to do that if he will not see me?” you break in bitterly.

shoko continues calmly, as if you never spoke. “—but i know, and you know, that he’s the type to think of himself as now unworthy of your love, now that he’s… damaged.”

“damaged. and you still have not told me how.”

you know shoko doesn’t deserve to bear the brunt of your anger, but you’ve spent two weeks at the edge of insanity, and slowly, you believe you can nearly feel yourself starting to tip.

“maybe you should see for yourself.”

“you just said he will not see me.”

“he’s most likely asleep, now.”

“and… you wouldn’t tell him i was there?”

shoko gives you a tight smile. “if i can lie for him, i can most certainly lie for you.”

it's hardly a comfort, but you take it.

what else can you do? __

the outline of his body rises and falls with each breath he takes in his deep sleep. you can nearly imagine the slow rhythm of his heart - how often have you rested your head against your chest, and memorised its pattern?

you take small steps towards him, hesitant, as shoko closes the door behind you, leaving you alone with your lover. the trepidation that rises in you is foreign; never before has being in his presence unsettled you like this. but circumstances are different, now.

everything is different.

you fear what you will find when you reach him, staring at the curve of his back. the blankets of the hospital bed are pulled up, leaving only his head exposed, and there’s nothing visibly wrong with him that you can see. but those white sheets can hide a lot. you must walk around to his other side, to his face, to properly assess the damage.

but you find that you don’t want to.

it’s not that you fear what you might see would mar your love for him. nanami kento has, and always will be, your soulmate - the very oxygen you breathe. no… you fear to see that which has made him fear you so. what could possibly be so horrific that it has driven a wedge between you?

with slow, dread-filled steps, you round the bed to the other side, your gaze averted until you stand in front of his face. you exhale slowly, deeply, then look into your fiance’s face.

he’s as beautiful as the day you first saw him.

his face is the same, exactly how you’ve come to learn and love it, the curve of his cheek and jut of his jaw and slope of his nose all angles you’ve memorised in the dark, under the stars, bathed with sunlight.

he’s okay.

you don’t realise you’ve let out a strained gasp of relief until it’s too late. your hand flies retroactively to your mouth, as if it could snatch the sound from the air, as if it could reverse time and stop kento’s hazel eyes - well, the single eye you can see - from opening and staring into your own.

a moment of absolute stillnes; a silence thick and deep and prickly. the weight of betrayal in that single moment is so acute that you nearly stumble backwards. his gaze bores into you like an open wound, bleeding out his hurt. you’re certain that nothing could possibly be worse than this - until his eyelids fall shut and he turns his face into the pillow, essentially ignoring you.

“hey,” you whisper, trying to keep your voice light. “don’t hide from me.”

“why are you here?”

his voice is raspy and faint, and he has to repeat himself before you can discern the shape of his words. there’s no accusation in his tone, but rather a type of fatigue that extends beyond mere weariness.

“kento - i don’t understand… why didn’t you let me know you were okay? why did you push me away? i mean, you look—” fine, you’re about to say, but the word is caught in your throat as he wordlessly heaves himself upright, the blankets falling away from his bare shoulders as he sits against the headboard to reveal what you were unable to see before.

“oh, god…”

his entire left side has been fully burnt, separating his body in half in a manner so neat it feels entirely unnatural. much of it is a raw pink as it slowly heals; but in other places where the fire reached deeper, he’s had to have skin grafts - explaining the scars on his otherwise unscathed right side.

and he’s missing an eye. his left socket is dark and empty, and slightly out of shape.

“i can’t apologise for keeping you in the dark; i had good reason.” his hand hovers for a moment over his missing eye, as if trying to hide the horror of the gaping hole from you, before he gives up and drops it into his lap.

“kento—”

“i had intended to wait until i’d healed further, but i suppose you visiting me now simply means we’ll have to have this conversation earlier than expected.”

he tilts his head back to rest against the headboard and looks unerringly ahead. “i know we had a relationship - i know we had plans. but objectively, i’m a damaged man.”

“we have a relationship. nothing’s changed. i love you.”

he doesn’t respond.

“kento, i’m not asking for us to be the same.” you close the space and drop onto the bed in front of him, attempting to force his gaze towards you.

“i just… don’t even think of breaking up with me, because i’m not going to let that happen.”

“you’re not understanding.”

“help me understand, then. please?”

“i’m missing an eye. that alone would be enough cause for difficulty, but i also have the burns of my body to deal with.”

“but you’re healing.”

“some damage cannot be fixed; it’s too deep. my body is strained, and parts of it are stiff. rigid. if i manage to walk, it is only with much difficulty; i will at the very least require a cane.”

the dull steadiness of his voice breaks at his last words; his adam’s apple bobs as he tries to swallow down the sudden rise of emotion.

“i can’t be a husband to you, y/n. we can’t be the same. i won’t be able to provide for you; i’ll never be able to fight again.”

“good,” you lash, so savagely that he jerks his head back up to look at you. “you won’t be in danger again. i have a well-paying office job, and i'm a Window; we’ll be fine. i won’t have to wait at the door and imagine how much blood you’ll be covered in when you walk through it, and how much of it is your own. i won’t have to hunch over my phone in the deadest hours of the night, waiting for a text from you to assure me you’re alive.”

“i never asked you—”

“you didn’t, but that’s how it is. people worry about the things they love. about the people they love.”

“how could you love me when i look like this?” he scrapes out.

“kento,” you whisper. “do you really think my love is so shallow as that?”

“no. but i’m also being realistic. because every time i catch a glimpse of myself… it's repulsive - i'm repulsive. objectively. and i'm not saying this with any self pity or vanity, but there's no point denying that i'm not the man i used to be—”

“so it won't be the same between us? we'll never go back to how we were? you're right. we won't.”

you shift forward on the bed until your knees touch the side of his leg, closing the distance between you.

“and you know what? that’s okay. all that’s happened is you just have different needs now - a bit more support in some areas, a bit less in others. we’ll figure it out together. isn’t that what we did when i got my autism diagnosis?”

“see, but that’s…”

“kento. i know it's different, but...” you don’t know how to say it, how to verbalise any of it, but you try. “you know - at first i loved you with admiration, and then infatuation, with all the passion of youth. it was the novelty of it all, the freshness; the exhiliration of there being so much to know about each other, so much to experience together. but now it's the familiarity that gives me comfort. i know your scent, i know the shape of your body, i know the way you take your tea. i know how to kiss you until your knees are weak. and at some point in the future - or maybe slowly, gradually - it’s going to change again.”

you exhale, reaching out to take his hand in both your own, brushing your thumb over his knuckles, and he lets you.

“i guess what i’m trying to say is, neither of us are the exact same people we each fell in love with. time and circumstances have changed us. but we’re still here, aren’t we? we’ve survived everything that life’s thrown at us so far. this is just another thing we’re going to get through.”

his hazel eyes are fixed on yours, now, quietly imploring - drinking you in like he’ll never see you again, or perhaps like he’s just seen you for the first time. “are you sure?”

“of course i’m sure.”

“still, if you’ve changed your mind - if you don’t want to marry me…” he trails off at the look on your face. “never mind.”

“that’s right.”

you move forward, and his arms automatically come around you to pull you closer. you sit in silence for a while, head pressed against the beat of his heart, your face on the jagged line between his burnt and undamaged halves.

“i’m sorry,” he says suddenly. “for keeping you out. i can’t imagine - i know if the roles were reversed—”

“you would’ve broken down the door.”

“i would’ve,” he agrees. “but for what it’s worth, i’m sorry. i guess i was feeling insecure, if that’s the word, but i was childish and... disrespectful. to even think that about you - that you'd react in any way other than you just did."

“i understand. kento?”

“hm?”

you lift your face, rest your forehead on his. “you’re still beautiful, you know that?”

“oh? is that so?”

“it’s like you’ve been carved out of marble. you’re perfect.”

“i don’t feel very perfect right now.” his hand cups the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. it’s with a flash of his usual humour that he murmurs, “perhaps i’ll need some convincing.”

and when you kiss him it’s clear that the passion between you, at least, has not changed. it’s not fierce or heated; it’s tender enough to make him cry. but you brush away his tears with the pad of your thumb and press butterfly kisses to his empty eyelid, and the side of his ruined face, and his healing shoulder. you kiss every damaged part of him. you kiss all of his scars.

this time, when you say “i love you”, he says it back.

shoko walks in on u making out instead of fighting and is simultaneously relieved and Not Amused.

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