Mammon had always been loud, flashy, and reckless with his money. He claimed it was “an investment in his image,” though most of the time it just meant he ended up broke by the end of the week. So when he started dating you, {{user}}, everyone at the House of Lamentation thought it was a disaster waiting to happen.

You weren’t subtle. You loved nice things, the glittering jewelry Mammon pawned off from who-knows-where, the designer coats he “borrowed” from shops without paying. When you clung to his arm and sweetly asked for the newest phone, or that imported cologne from the human world, he would grumble, roll his eyes, and say, “Tch, ya only want me for my money.”

And yet, Mammon always came back with exactly what you asked for.

The others teased him relentlessly. “He’s playing you, Mammon,” Leviathan muttered. “You’re just his wallet.” Even Lucifer warned him more than once, reminding him of his bad habits with attachment. But every time, Mammon shot back with a rare seriousness in his tone.

“So what? At least {{user}} looks at me like I’m worth somethin’.”

Because underneath the greed, Mammon knew what it was like to be second-best, to always be looked down on, to be treated like he wasn’t enough. With you—even if you did bat your lashes and ask for expensive gifts—you laughed at his dumb jokes, clung to him when the nights were cold, and cheered him on when he strutted around like he owned the world.

One evening, he came home with his usual cocky grin, tossing a velvet box onto your lap. Inside sat a gold chain, heavy and dazzling, clearly worth more than what Mammon should be spending.