Jas🤍 @cursedmoon-doll13 - Tumblr Blog

Plus Two

So this is more than a bit indulgent, and I don't know how well it would be received, and I totally had to create some new characters just to make this scenario work but!!! If you're looking for something to read here is a reader insert fic of you attending a gala with the worlds (@eldritch-spouse's) most emotionally constipated demon (don't worry it's by design). You scheme against said demon's entitled and rude ex to make her look bad in front of everyone, attend a gala with Mervin, and then fuck nasty with him in a semi public place afterwards. Enjoy <3

M demon x F reader. 8500 words. Context required? Not really. Just that he's like that on purpose. Divider by firefly-graphics.

Mervin is visiting his mother.

It’s... frustrating, to say the least.

You’re sitting in the kitchen, watching Obie cook. He wanted you as a taste tester, but honestly, you’re not very helpful. Many of the small tweaks he’s making to his dishes go above your head.

Katia is asleep upstairs. Ludwig is elsewhere. It makes you wonder why the pride demon is pacing around the kitchen, obviously getting in his brother’s way. You get the sense he’s waiting for somebody to ask what’s wrong.

Thankfully, Obie picks up on the mood. “So, why the stick?”

Mervin stops, drawn from his thoughts. “What?”

“The stick up your ass. Who put it there?”

Mervin scowls and resumes his pacing. Then lets out a huff and joins you at the table. He crosses his arms. Mutters under his breath. You think you catch the name he says.

“Stasia.”

Obie snorts. “Should have guessed.”

You glance at Mervin. “Who’s that?”

He grits his teeth. “Not your business, human.”

You shrug, but Obie turns with a smirk. “His girlfriend.”

“Not my girlfriend, corkscrew.” He’s just as scathing towards his brother.

Obie turns back to the stove. “You might not guess it, but my dearest brother doesn’t have many friends.”

“No?” You feign shock.

Obie grins. “No. But he does have one. Kind of. Stasia. So, whenever Merv is pressured into attending some event or gala, or whatever they do over in Pride, he has to take a date or risk looking like a dolt.”

“And he takes Stasia.”

“And he takes Stasia. Well, he invites her. And she says yes. And then, always the night before, she says no. And then sometimes she says yes again. It’s hard to keep track. Regardless, Merv always works himself into a tizzy when she says she won’t attend, and then shows up anyway.”

You glance at Mervin. He’s fuming at the explanation but doesn’t dispute any of it.

“She sounds like a piece of work.”

“She is.”

You turn to Mervin, who looks more miserable than usual. “So, what do you usually do?”

He rests his head on the table and doesn’t reply.

“Sometimes he cancels. Can’t do that too often though, or risk looking like a recluse. One time he found another date.” Obie frowns. “Somehow. But then Stasia showed up and embarrassed the fuck out of her.”

You wince.

“He usually goes alone. Sometimes Stasia swoops in like nothing is wrong and they’re meant to be together. Other times she doesn’t show, and my dearest brother is left to roam the event by himself.”

“Why do we even have these parties,” Mervin mutters.

“Here, here,” you can’t help but agree. “Even working at them was boring.”

Mervin turns his face towards you, raises his brow. “You’ve been to a gala before? I refuse to believe it.”

Your nose crinkles. “I did security for a few. They were human events, mind you.”

Mervin grunts, turning his face back down.

You kind of pity him. The demon doesn’t even bother sitting up straight – the event must weigh heavily on him. “So, are these parties exclusive?”

He shrugs. “This one’s for mid-ranked Pride. The especially wealthy demons. Might be some others there as plus ones.”

You raise your brow. “I thought you lot grew up in the common rings.”

“We did.”

“Without a lot of wealth.”

Mervin curls his lip at the perceived dig, and sits up. “They started inviting me after they recognised my exceptional skills. I’ve worked for many influential demons in Pride, thank you very much, and as such have a very robust income.”

You appease him with a gentle smile. “I don’t doubt you deserve to be there, Mervin. I was just curious as to how it came about.”

He lifts his chin. “Good. I suppose even a human can recognise talent such as mine.”

“How would everyone react if you brought a human as your date?”

He grimaces, “you mean to imply I should bring you?”

“I mean to offer my company if you don’t want to turn up alone. I could even help you get some petty catharsis over Stasia, if you’d like.”

He looks at you, more sharply. But considers. “I don’t know. You’d be a bit of a novelty, I imagine.”

You feign indignance. “I’m famous, you know.”

He doesn’t look impressed. “Infamous. Topside. Nobody in Perdition knows who you are.”

“Ah, yes, precisely why I’m hiding at your mum’s house.”

His expression sours for a moment. But the longer he considers, the lighter it becomes. “It might be interesting. Taking a human to a gala,” he mutters to himself, “if a little demeaning.”

“Not too demeaning, I hope. I’ll be there to make you look good. Being polite to Stasia, using lovely manners, mindlessly rambling about how amazing you are to anyone I pass. Easy.”

He has to try to keep the scowl on his face, but you can tell he’s seriously considering the offer.

“You’re vastly underestimating the danger of this evening.”

He’s right. But you can’t help but straighten. Rise to the challenge. “And you’re underestimating my ability to turn on the charm.” You give him a sweet little smile. “Besides, you’ll be there to protect me.”

He sneers. “You’re just bored.”

“I'm having a pleasant afternoon with Obie.” You lower your chin. “But, yes, I haven’t left the house for days. It’d be incredibly charitable of you to take me as your plus one.” You blast him with another pretty smile and lighten your tone. “It’s a shame your date had a last-minute emergency and had to cancel, but I’m so very fortunate you were generous enough to bring me along. A truly serendipitous turn of events.”

He keeps his face blank as he mulls over your excuse. Weighs the pros and cons. Before, ultimately, shrugging. “Let’s see how you clean up, first. I doubt your clothes will be of high enough calibre.”

He plays it cool, but you know you’ve won.

-

Mervin is right, and you don’t bother disputing it. You have a bag of stage clothes that are marginally prettier than your casual wear, but none of them are formal. Some of your accessories might be of use – the lingerie, or perhaps the stockings – and you have multiple pairs of sandals and boots. But what you wear will ultimately be decided by your escort.

“You don’t have anything black tie. These might pass as black tie optional,” he mutters to himself, rifling through your clothes in a way that would probably offend most women. “We should head to Pride. I’ve a place you can dress at. Your makeup supplies are passable, but I’m going to have to take you shopping for a decent dress.”

You don’t complain. It’s been a while since anyone bought you nice clothes. You wave goodbye to Obie as Mervin whisks you away. And before long you’re in another ring entirely.

You hadn’t been to Pride yet. You’d worked in multiple rings, sure, but standards in this one tended to sit a little higher than you could provide. It’s affluent, with the streets laid out in a way that demonic urban planners no doubt agonised over. Mervin leads you straight to a commerce district, dragging you by the wrist in and out of boutiques and dress shops.

He barks orders at imps and attendants, listing off dress styles and materials. Very few meet his standards, though several he does make you try on. You almost get a headache listening to store owners bragging about their stock; the quality of their goods. Even if hearing other demons sound so similar to Mervin makes you want to laugh at first.

“What are you wearing tonight,” you ask him.

He pulls out his phone and shows you a photo. The suit is high end, in his usual colours. You’re not surprised.

He listens to your input over the dresses, for which you’re grateful. You choose the colour you think will match Mervin’s outfit best; a purple so dark it appears black.

Then finally, you’re heading back to his place, three new dresses in tow. You’re not sure how you managed to pick not one but three (three!) gala dresses in the space of one afternoon, but Mervin had insisted on purchasing them all, some excuse about their iffy quality and you needing alternative options.

Once at his place, you let him fuss over the dresses and dig through your accessories again, while you look at your other equipment. A glance at Mervin reveals he’s still in his casual wear, sai crossed over his back. “So, is this an open carry event, or..?”

His gaze cuts to you, where you’re looking over your weapon holsters. His lip curls. “No. It’s not.”

A thigh sheath it is, then.

“You really think that’s going to help you here? You should let me worry about safety. I doubt you’ll be able to take care of yourself.”

You give the demon a too bright smile. “I don't go anywhere without my family jewels. Have you picked a dress yet?”

Conversation successfully redirected, Mervin ushes you to his bathroom, pushing you the dress of his choosing. It’s certainly elegant, with slits up the thighs, a cinched waist, and most the skin above your cleavage on display. The fabric is silky, and feels nice against your skin.

When you step out to show him the fit, Mervin is silent. You wait for him to voice an opinion.

The dress looks good. You look good. You know it.

Mervin only scoffs. “I need to get ready. I assume you can finish dressing without any hand holding.” He turns for his room, almost slamming the door behind him.

You assume his weird behaviour has something to do with his prideful nature. He hadn’t disparaged your appearance, so it probably passes.

You spend the next half hour applying the finishing touches. Braiding your hair into an updo. Masterfully applying makeup. Pulling on a garter belt and stockings and choosing which of your knives to holster. You’re lacing up your sandals when Mervin emerges from his room again, dressed in a suit.

He pushes a box towards you. “Put it on. I don’t want people thinking my plus-one looks plain.”

It’s a jewellery box. Inside lies an intricate necklace of silver, dotted with indigo gems. A discrete glance reveals they match the rings Mervin wears.

You can’t hold back your smile. Regardless of meaning, the gesture is sweet. “Thank you, Mervin. It’s beautiful. You have good taste.”

“Naturally.”

You struggle with the necklace until Mervin ‘tsks’ and steps behind you to help with the clasp.

“You’re a sweetheart,” you grin up at him.

He shakes his head, before looking away quickly. “And you’re useless. Honestly. Who can’t put on a simple necklace?”

You pick up on the deflection. It’s almost cute. You decide to needle at him some more. “Me, apparently. Thank you for helping. I’m sure this would take ages without you.”

He looks down his nose at you. Perhaps you overdid it.

“Whatever.”

Finally you two stand, dressed and ready to go. Looking down at yourself and back at Mervin leaves you satisfied: you match.

“So, do I clean up well enough?”

He looks you over. “You won’t be winning best dressed.”

You raise your brows. He was the one who chose the outfit.

But something almost akin to a smile crosses his face. “But I guess, you’re only human.”

-

Mervin hires a driver to take you to the gala. You’re honestly impressed, having never ridden in the back of a stretch limo before. You quiz Mervin on the way there, asking after etiquette, who to chat up, who to avoid. How much dancing is expected. What is the schedule for the evening. Everything you should know to avoid making any faux passes. Because while you’d visited high society before – in various service industries – you'd never participated in it. It’s daunting. Exciting. Terrifying.

You make plans for the evening. Scheming; laying contingencies. Because while this night is supposed to be social, you know you’re honestly just here to show up Mervin’s ‘friend’. He paints the picture of a conniving demoness. One who dominated in certain social circles. One who will be dismissive and icy towards you, and increasingly aggressive the longer you stick around.

Mervin dictates how you’re to behave. How you’re to react to her insults. You interject here and there, swapping ideas until you have a seamless blend or characteristics to take into the night. A fleshed out character you’ll be playing before the surrounding audience.

All too soon, you’re arriving.

Mervin opens your door. It had been pre-negotiated, and he’d fussed about it (if anyone deserved the door opened for them, it was him, he should be served all night, he was only doing this because it was polite, because he needed to look like a gentleman). You brace yourself before stepping into the light.

In the moment before you straighten there’s enough time for trepidation to rush through you. You remember how exhausting it can be, meeting new people. Playing pretend.

But then you’re giving Mervin a starry eyed smile, and linking arms. It’s too late to back out.

You’ve settled on a bubbly personality. Too demure and you risk fading into the background. Too assertive and it leaves you open to social mistakes. You’ll go with friendly. Lively. Sweet. Not quite arm-candy, not quite Mervin’s equal.

It’ll be tiring, but you might manage to have some fun. Pry a dance or two out of Mervin. Or try some expensive wine. Somehow Mervin hasn't yet learned how you’d caught his brothers’ eyes (an incident involving too much alcohol, and a bar fight), so you haven't been forbidden from indulging. Yet.

Mervin doesn’t let you wander. You mingle in the foyer, where most of the crowd lingers. Shaking hands, trading introductions, smiling. There’re a few surprised exclamations at your appearance - “A human! Where in Perdition did you find her, Mervin?” - and a few too many pinches and gropes. But you bear it all with a smile, playful indignance, and charming redirection.

You’re just settling into your role when Mervin stiffens, almost imperceptivity.

“There you are, sugar plum. I’ve been looking for you all night.”

Stasia has arrived.

---

Stasia is an envy demon, graced with a classic sort of beauty that would do well on Earth. She has a wide and elegant set of horns, curling back from her temples, and her long tail swishes with confidence behind her as she crosses the room. She’s wearing a floor length evening gown in a bright scarlet, and a lipstick that matches.

Mervin is silent beside you.

You slide into action, another starry eyed, bubbly smile fixed onto your face. “Oh wow, you look gorgeous. You must be Stasia, I’ve heard so much about you.”

Her arms had been open, clearly about to embrace the demon by your side, but you intercept, shaking one of her hands with enthusiasm.

You crinkle your brow and look up at the demoness with concern. “Your schedule cleared then? That’s such a relief. Mervin was worried when you had to cancel on him so suddenly.”

Several sets of eyes land on you. Stasia narrows her own at you, but you’ve already outed her as a flake to the crowd. Somebody nearby laughs.

She pulls her hand from yours. “Mervin, who is this?”

Your companion relaxes. “Stasia, this is an acquaintance of mine,” he tells her your name. “Pet, this is Stasia.” No honorific, you notice. You imagine anyone looking on also notices.

You beam up at the envy demon, “Mervin was generous enough to bring me as his plus-one. I’ve been stuck at home for weeks, it was really too kind of him. I should thank you too, Stasia. You’ve indirectly brought me here.”

The smile frozen on her face slips, just a little.

You’re kept from formulating any further praise – or jabs – when the host announces the doors open. The crowd dissipates, making their way towards what appears to be a genuine ballroom.

Stasia walks lockstep with Mervin, almost shouldering you aside. You’d be offended if you weren’t expecting the treatment. Instead, you trail shyly after them, a step behind Mervin’s other side.

Stasia is already chattering to your date, linking her arm through his.

“You two should catch up! I’ll get drinks while you do.” You lean up to kiss Mervin on the cheek.

Even though you’d discussed and planned PDA with him (that part of the drive had been like pulling nails), he still stiffens at the gesture, blanching a little.

You give him a smile, “Your regular?”

“Fine. And something for yourself.”

You don’t catch the glare Stasia sends you, but others do.

You hasten towards the bar. Nobody stops you, but you suspect it might get harder to navigate the crowd as the night goes on and the guests get more inebriated. Even now you’re subject to stares, and the occasional frown.

The bartender takes your order, thankfully.

You’re watching as it’s made when a demon you don’t recognise sidles up beside you.

“Watch yourself, girl. Last time somebody got between Stasia and her prey it wasn’t pretty.”

You take in the demon (purple hue and the pronged horns) with a glance, before choosing a sympathetic expression. “I appreciate the concern, sir. I can’t help but feel for her, though. Scheduling conflicts are such a pain. Imagine making time for an event, only to find you’re no longer invited.”

The demon watches you critically. You don’t mind. You’ll either come off as naive or conniving, and both are acceptable.

He shrugs. “You’ve been warned.”

“Again,” you say, taking your drinks from the bartender, “thank you.”

Mervin is wearing a strained smile when you return, locked in a conversation with Stasia and two other demons.

He accepts his drink with a nod, and when the conversation next lulls, he introduces you to his companions.

The night continues like this, with Mervin introducing you around, and Stasia growing tense each time he stops to draw attention to you.

She positively writhes if the conversation so much as turns your way, stink eyeing anyone who deigns to ask you where you’re from, what you’re doing in Perdition, what you do for a living.

Over and over you repeat yourself. You’ve been indoors for weeks. You were feeling stir crazy. Mervin was so generous to show you around. Mervin was charitable. Mervin was kind. Stasia was too; you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her actions.

Until she’s red in the face, and not in a pleasant way. You decide to back off, before she erupts like a tea kettle.

The music has since started, and more and more demons are flocking to the dance floor. You look wistfully after them. “It’s a shame I don’t know any of the dances in Pride. Why don’t you two take the first? I could watch and learn.”

The demoness jumps on the opportunity, though conveniently ignoring you. “Come on, Mervin. It’s been months since we danced together. You remember that one time on Earth-” you don’t catch the rest of her reminiscing as she leads Mervin away.

One of the demons you’d been standing with gives you a sympathetic coo. “You’ve been neglected all night, little bird. Why don’t you dance with me?”

You give them an amicable smile. The excuse falls smoothly from your lips. “I’d love to, but I think it’d be rude to my date if I gave my first dance to somebody else. Maybe later?”

The demon tuts. “Why should you be polite to him when he’s having a good time with his ex over there?”

You manage to keep your face relaxed. Obie had called Stasia Mervin’s girlfriend. Had there been some truth to the jest? Still, you manage to shrug, looking towards the dancing pair. They’re locked in a stuffy waltz of some sort.

“Does he look like he’s having a good time?”

The demon blinks, before following your gaze. True to your implications, Mervin is tense. His smile is strained. He looks slightly bored, or even resentful at the way Stasia chatters.

They huff, conceding to your point.

You nail it in anyway. “He can spend the whole gala with her if it pleases him. He’ll still do me the honour of taking me home afterwards.”

Stasia keeps Mervin for not one, but three dances, before he manages to escape her grip and find you. You pass his drink back to him, giving him an amused smile. “Having fun?”

He scowls.

You give your empty glass to a passing staff member before looking back up at Mervin. You’re pretty sure he’s never going to ask you to dance. Not directly. Not even if he wanted to (a surprising number of wallflowers stand testament to Pride’s inability to simply ask for a dance).

You take the initiative instead. “Dance with me?”

He looks almost grateful but doesn’t manage a response other than a mute nod.

He leads you to the floor, and you take his shoulder and hand. The weight of his own at your waist is pleasant. You don’t remember the last time you danced a waltz, but it’s easy enough to slip into, and Mervin leads well.

You want to ask him how you’re doing (you know you’re doing well, and he won’t be able to tell you honestly). You want to ask him how he’s doing (he’s clearly tired and frustrated, and likely won’t take kindly to your prying). You want to ask about Stasia (is she really his ex?). Instead, you dance wordlessly for the next few minutes.

He starts to relax towards the end of the dance, and on a whim, he lifts you during your next turn.

You inhale sharply, before letting out a laugh. He gives a begrudging smile back.

The exchange wheedles some words out of you. “You know, if I’d known the dances were going to be this simple, I might have asked to dance first.”

He raises his brow. “And go against your careful manipulations? How stupid.”

You grin. “Maybe. But I’d still consider it.”

He huffs. “There’ll be a few traditional dances after dinner. I doubt you’ll be able to keep up.”

“Speaking of dinner-” You’re glad you’d questioned Mervin on the drive here. Because of it, you can easily guess what will happen when the dining hall opens. “She’s going to be in my seat.”

He purses his lips. “We’ll get there first.”

You’d discussed the possibility but hadn’t made any explicit plans to deal with it.

“No.”

He cocks a brow. “No?”

“If I sit first, there’s no telling what she’ll do.”

“You have something better in mind?”

You give him a smile, this one less bubbly, and more genuine. “I think we should renegotiate your terms regarding public displays of affection.”

His face scrunches with displeasure. “You think you deserve to touch me without express permission?”

“No. Never,” you butter him up. “But I think she’d hate it if you allowed it.”

He chews his lip, appearing to consider.

You inch closer, intent on enjoying what’s left of your dance. “Don’t worry your pretty head so much, my prince.”

He blinks and opens his mouth to reply. Undoubtedly still wanting to know your solution. Then the rest of what you’d said catches up to him, and he shuts it. He straightens, chest puffing a little.

You try not to smirk. He’s cute sometimes.

The waltz finishes. You give him your last words before parting. “And please don’t push me off.”

Mervin almost stumbles as he understands your request. But before he can protest, the doors to the dining hall are opening, and dinner is due to start. You gesture for Mervin to lead the way.

After a beat he does, and you trail after him. He pauses several times, greeting aquaintances and stopping to chat. Numerous demons still mill about, not quite ready to take their seats.

It’s almost suspicious how Stasia doesn’t intercept you. You’d be worried if you weren’t almost certain of where she was.

Sure enough, when you reach your reserved table, Stasia is seated in your place. She smiles at you, in a way that’s just a little too condescending, but does not otherwise acknowledge you.

“You kept me waiting, sugar plumb.”

You pull out the chair for Mervin, inclining your head respectfully as he takes his seat. Then, without missing a beat, you follow him down, settling on his lap.

He stiffens, but Stasia's expression makes it worth it.

You cover his surprise with a sweet smile. “Sorry to keep him from you, Stasia. I just thought it might be rude if I danced with somebody else before him.”

She stares, face now blank.

After a beat, Mervin’s arm wraps around your side. His claws dig into you, giving away his discomfort. “At any rate, I’m back. Where did we leave off...”

Stasia resumes her chatter, and Mervin makes an effort to engage. The three of you aren’t alone; there are other pairs seated around the circular table, speaking amongst themselves, and occasionally interacting with Mervin and Stasia. You receive several glances, most of which are accompanied by amused grins. Stasia receives a handful of smirks too. You’re not sure who they favour, but at least you’re cause for humour. None of the pride demons are forward enough to ask Mervin why he apparently has two dates.

Nobody looks your way when entrees are brought out. Stasia gets your food. It smells delicious, and your stomach rumbles with envy.

Mervin frowns. “Did my brother not feed you enough?”

You pout up at him. “Humans typically eat three times a day.”

He stares down at you. It’s hard to tell, but you think he’s looking at your lips. Eventually he sighs, and passes you his spoon. “I don’t share with just anyone, pet.”

You beam up at him, placing a kiss on his cheek before he can react. “Thanks babe. You’re literally the best.”

A muscle in his leg twitches, and he has to work to hide his surprise. It almost has you smirking. The fingers digging harder into your side betray his growing tension. You wonder if he’s flustered at the compliment, or irritated at your relaxed demeanour. Perhaps he’s just been touched too much tonight.

There’s a glare fixed on you when you take a sip of the first course. It’s a particularly fragrant soup, served with bread. Unimaginative, but damn if it doesn’t taste amazing.

You lock eyes with Stasia, and smile. “It’s good, right?”

For a moment she doesn’t reply. But after a beat she sneers. “Bland, actually. The chef must have messed up my order.”

“Actually, the order was changed, Stasia,” Mervin interrupts. “We’re being served human safe variants of the menu.”

You blink at the new information. You didn’t realise Mervin had gone to such lengths to accommodate you. It leaves you feeling... nice.

Mervin notices your stare and scowls.

“Of course, Stasia is right. It’s terribly bland compared to the usual fare. But I doubt you could handle our food. Your stomach is far too weak. Pathetic, really.”

You smile at his disparagment. You’re honestly genuine when you praise him next: “You’re too kind, Mervin. I appreciate it.”

He turns his face away with a sneer, ignoring you as you finish the entrée.

You insist that Mervin eats the main course. You assume a greed demon would appreciate your excuses more – you wouldn’t dare take the food from his plate, he’s already been kind enough to you, it’s his meal, he should get to taste it, it’d be rude of you to even think of touching the food before he does – but they do the trick, and Mervin still looks a bit pleased at your fussing.

Dessert passes without incident, and you’re ready to stand and go for a wander. Mervin’s lap isn’t the most comfortable – not while he’s at a dining chair, at the least. The food is cleared and you’re about to get up when another demon at the table ropes Mervin into conversation.

You can’t help but fidget, not sure whether it’d be acceptable if you stood right now. You think you’re being discrete, shifting your weight just a little, but Mervin grabs your thigh and squeezes it, pointedly.

You blush and look down in apology, reigning in your wiggles and acting the picture of relaxed and demure once more.

Instead of releasing you, his hand creeps upwards, along your thigh.

You force yourself not to fidget again at the touch. It had to be unintentional. You hadn’t discussed anything like this ahead of time. Perhaps he didn’t realise how high his fingers were trailing.

You hazard a glance over your shoulder, desperate to see his expression, to gleam his mood.

He grabs your jaw instead, and turns your face forward, before leaning down to murmur at your ear. “Stay there, pet.”

You hadn’t really considered the possibility of Mervin being dominant before. It was always too much fun flustering him with compliments, or making fun of his stunted emotional responses. But you forget that for a moment, enjoying the firmness of his tone.

To your immense frustration, he doesn’t do anything more. Just stroking your thigh, claws tracing the slit upthe side of your dress. It’s almost impossible to keep from squirming, and you watch the crowd critically. You’d be mortified if a concubi wandered by just now.

There’s a cold touch at your wrist. The interruption frustrates you, before you notice Stasia leant forwards. The smile she gives you is unnerving. “Would you mind getting that drink for me now, pet?”

Mervin’s hand stills.

You manage a pleasant expression and a nod. “Of course. And anything for you, Mervin?”

He grimaces. “No. One is enough for me.”

Stasia gives you her order and you remove yourself from the table. With the distance, you’re almost grateful for the interruption. Mervin would be tempting fate, starting something with an audience so close. No doubt Stasia had noticed. You’re just lucky she’d been calm in her redirection.

Your second trip to the bar is a little more perilous. The number of stares you receive is doubled, and one demon has the gall to actually slap you on the ass as you pass.

A glance reveals his reddish hue, and you’d gamble he has wrathful origins. As such, you have no compunction about grabbing the hand that had touched you and twisting his fingers painfully out of place, dodging any further grabs from him.

“Bitch,” he accuses.

You roll your eyes, moving on before he can drag you into a fight, or inspire too much anger in you.

You’re breathless by the time you make it to the bar, and it’s an exercise in your evasive skills to make it back to your table without spilling either of the drinks.

Mervin and Stasia are gone. You’re irritated, but not surprised.

You catch a glance of them dancing in the thick of things. Mervin wasn’t wrong; the music upbeat and fast paced. You don’t know your ballroom music particularly well, but based on their movements, you assume it’s a quicktime dance of some sort. You sit at the table and take the opportunity to watch carefully. You’d love to be able to replicate it by the end of the night.

You’re so focused on analysing your date’s distant footwork that you miss your name being called.

You start at the touch on your shoulder.

Another wrath demon chuckles at you (did everyone bring one as their plus one?).

“I hope I’m not interrupting.”

You blink. “Not at all.” Then blink again. “Have we met?”

The demon grins, revealing some of his chipped teeth. “Sure have. I probably went to all your shows when you were touring Wrath.”

You raise your brow. You’d never done any meet and greets. So when had-

“We met after your show at the Splatterfest.”

You wince at the memory. Some imps had tried to protest the inclusion of a human at the music festival, and dumped a bucket of blood over your band, ‘Carrie’ style. You’d kept performing and probably given every demon in the audience a boner (you were in Wrath, what did they expect?).

Even so, you grin. “You tried to give me your shirt afterwards. Sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”

He holds out his hand. “Friends call me Bean.”

You try not to laugh at the name. “Nice to meet you, Bean.”

“I couldn’t help but notice you staring daggers at your date.”

You huff. “I was actually watching the dance. If I’d had any time to prepare for tonight, I’d have bothered to learn some of the dances.”

His face lightens. “I could teach you?”

“Do you know these dances?”

“Too well. My mum is from Pride.”

You’d already danced with Mervin. It might reflect poorly on him if his date looked too antisocial. So you shrug. “Sounds like fun.”

It is fun. You stumble a lot at first, tripping over your own feet in an effort to copy Bean’s step pattern, but he grips you by the elbows, keeping you upright even as he laughs at you. You have stamina, at least, and manage to keep up with the punishing pace. By the time the first dance ends, you’re covered in sweat and panting, but you have some of the footwork down.

Bean grins. “You’re not terrible.”

You crinkle your nose. “You’re sufficient too.”

Bean has his head cocked, listening to the opening of the next song. “Ah. This next one’s fun. It’s got a lot of lifts though.”

“That doesn’t bother me.”

His chipped grin reappears. “We take turns raising each other.”

Oh. You bite back a frown. “How much do you weigh?”

Bean isn’t that big. His horns and tail are on the small side, and he’s only an inch or so taller than you. Still, the number he tells you does not fill you with confidence.

He laughs at your expression. “Scared? Or just weak?”

You scowl. “Weak, unfortunately. May I?” You ask before touching him.

He lifts his arms enough for you to grab him by the waist. You brace yourself and lift.

His heels leave the ground.

He laughs at you again. “Cute. But mostly pathetic.”

You scowl harder. “Whatever. If you want to keep dancing, you’ll have to jump a little.”

His laughing quiets to a chuckle. He takes your hand and pulls you in to dance. “It’s alright. We’ll manage. This one is... well I’m not sure of the translation. It’s a genre unique to Perdition. I guess you could liken it to a quick waltz? There are several lifts in each of the refrains. Then towards the end we start spinning, taking turns with the elevations. It’s easier with the momentum, but you’ve gotta watch your surroundings too, or you’ll crash into another couple.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter. You’re not too worried about bumping into anyone. Your spatial awareness is decent enough. “I feel like this dance is just so everyone can flex at each other.”

Bean laughs again, though not at you this time. “No, you’re completely right. It's how this genre was started. It’s a competition of strength and stamina. It’s not actually that common in Pride, since it usually tends to lack finesse or grace.”

“Hmm,” you appreciate the history lesson.

You ease into this dance smoothly; despite the lifts it’s easier than the last. Bean is a good teacher, and he warns you ahead of any changes. You brace yourself for the first rise, and when your feet leave the ground by almost a foot, you can’t help but grin.

“Show off.”

“Absolutely,” he agrees.

His feet actually leave the ground when it’s your turn to lift. Bean springs up a few inches, turning the elevation into something closer to an assisted jump. Regardless of the terminology, you’re grateful for the assistance. It sets the tone for the rest of the dance, and you find yourself having a pleasant time.

Your dress flairs when you’re next lifted, and Bean gives you a grin. “Is that a knife, or are you happy to see me?”

You’re breathless, but manage to reply. “A knife, actually.”

He eyes your legs appreciatively. “Expecting trouble?”

“Most of my weapon belts would clash with this dress,” you joke.

“Nonsense. You’d look good with any weapon,” he argues.

You can’t help but smile. “You sure know how to lay on the charm.”

“Pfft, this is nothing. You should see me when I’m actually trying.”

You’d laugh but there’s another series of spins coming up, and you have to brace yourself of them. The recapitulation begins, and you know the dance is nearing its end.

“Steady now,” Bean encourages, before raising you again.

You’re able to keep spinning. To avoid any collisions. To lift him the first few times. But your arms quickly tire, and Bean doesn’t do much more than bob his knees instead of completing any jumps. He still manages to send you upwards on each of your turns though, and you have to reign in your laughter.

Especially as you make eye contact with Mervin, dancing with Stasia beside you.

It jars you enough that your grin fades, and you remember to school your expression into something a little more dignified. Slightly less carefree.

The song ends and you and Bean nearly collapse against each other, panting and laughing once more, even if you’re feeling subdued.

You realise your face is only inches from his, at the same time he does.

He glances down at your lips. “Do you... want to take this elsewhere?”

Any other night and you’d take him up on the offer. But-

“I think that’d give my date a conniption.”

His smile shrinks. Bean pulls back. But he maintains that relaxed demeanour. “It’d serve him right for leaving you here alone.”

You shrug and give him an apologetic smile. “Another time?”

He sighs. Ruffles your hair.

You scowl and duck out of his grasp.

“Can you imagine his face though?”

You bite back your grin. “I can.”

Bean steps away. “Thanks for the dance, love.”

You wave him off. Take a breath to compose yourself. Then turn back to the gala.

---

It doesn’t take long for you to find your date. Not with the way he’s striding towards you, shoulders squared and a scowl on his face. He grabs you by the wrist and leads you out a nearby door, practically dragging you down some unpopulated corridors.

“Where’s Stasia?” You ask.

“I cut her off when she started trying to make me jealous of that shit-for-brains dance partner of yours.”

You’d only danced with Bean twice. Was Mervin really so bothered?

“Key word ‘trying’?” You ask, tentative this time.

He doesn’t reply, but it’s obvious he’s not happy.

You wince. Stasia’s meddling or not, this one was genuinely your fault. “I’m sorry, Mervin. It wasn’t my intention to make you feel that way.”

“I know,” he grumbles, before practically flinging you at a wall. “But you still need to deal with the consequences, human.”

Then his hand is on your jaw, holding you still as he crushes his lips against yours.

You freeze, more surprised than upset.

His other hand rests against the wall, caging you in. He doesn’t meet your eyes when he pulls back, still scowling. “How dare you ask a stranger to teach you to dance. You should have gone to me.”

You’re still processing the kiss. Part of you is indignant – you never thought he’d work up the nerve to kiss you first. The other part of you struggles to stay grounded. To listen to his complaint. “I’m sorry, I-”

He cuts you off with another kiss. Bites down hard on your lip this time. You think you taste blood.

“You should consider yourself lucky that I’m still willing to associate with you. That I’m willing to do this.”

Your head spins when he pushes your face sideways, gaining access to your throat. He kisses his way down your neck, across your shoulder. Not shy about using his teeth to punish you.

His other hand slips below your dress. He grips the hem of your underwear and your breath hitches. As much as you enjoy leading him along, you could get used to this. Mervin's display of dominance is doing things for you.

“I’m lowering my standards so much just to do this with you. So, you’d better hold fucking still.”

Your mouth waters at his words. You’re somehow both burning with tension and turning into putty under his hands. And you know just what to say to make things worse.

“Yes sir.”

He stiffens. “What was that?”

You have to bite back your grin, to force yourself to appear contrite. “Yes sir?”

“Fuck,” he mutters before grabbing you bodily and turning you around. Your hands splay against the wall, bracing yourself. Mervin presses between your shoulder blades, bending you over while his other hand drags your dress up.

The position sends nerves and excitement through you in equal measures. “Somebody could see.”

He ignores your half-hearted protest, dragging your underwear down and palming your ass. “You didn’t care if somebody saw you flirting with that meathead.”

Facing away, you can let your grin creep out. He sounds angry.

His knee spreads your legs and your heart speeds up. Then there’re fingers at your folds. You can practically hear his sneer when they come away wet.

“Pathetic. Is this really all it takes to get you going?”

“Mhm,” you hum agreement, throat tight. Coherency is starting to leave you when all you can focus on is the cold air against your nethers. You wish he would touch you again.

He scoffs. “You really are just a slut.”

You think you get wetter at the insult.

There’s the sound of a belt buckle, then a zipper. You can’t help but clench in anticipation.

But Mervin doesn’t touch you.

You try to look over your shoulder, to give Mervin your most I’m-pathetic-please-fuck-me stare, but he just pushes your face against the wall.

You let out a whimper and squirm. If he keeps drawing this out, somebody really could see you.

You push the thought down. As enticing as it is, things could quickly turn dangerous if a third party got involved.

“-you think I’ll do this with anyone? What makes you think you deserve me, huh?” he starts.

Honestly, you thought he’d start talking himself up sooner. He’d barely insulted you yet.

“-don’t deserve a single piece of pleasure until you earn it-”

You try rubbing your thighs together, but you only succeed on clamping around Mervin’s knee.

“-should be singing my praise, I shouldn’t have to touch you until you’ve begged for me-”

You let out a groan. If you were still facing him, you’d snog him just to make him stop talking. “Ughh, shut up and fuck me.”

He grips you by the hair, his voice raised in pitch, “The nerve of you, human, the utter disrespect-”

You cut him off with a whine, “Pleeease Mervin. I need you to fuck me.”

His breathing stutters.

“Please touch me, please, I can’t wait any more, pleasepleaseplease,” you squirm around his knee.

He grabs your ass again. Squeezes. “You’ve been so casual with my name tonight. I don’t think you deserve to use it.”

You want to groan again. You barely restrain yourself. “Please, sir, I bet you’ll feel so good, please, I need this so badly-”

His breathing is even more laboured, but he still manages to slap your ass.

“Needy.”

You flinch away, and end up grinding down against his knee – fuck. It’s not fair how good that feels. You decide that if he doesn’t fuck you soon, you’ll just have to rub off against his leg. Though you might leave a wet patch so noticable that concubi wouldn’t be the only ones turning heads.

You bite down on your lip. You just want to get dicked down. Picking your words is hard when you’re this horny.

“Needy,” you huff. “Yes. For you.” You grind against him. “Please help me, sir. Please fix it.”

He shudders. The hand at your shoulders pushes harder, and you have no choice but to stick your ass out, curving your back as far as it will go, or topple over.

“Fine,” he says, and you could die from relief when you feel his erection against your ass. “But only because I feel sorry for you.”

He hilts himself in one rough movement and you moan, practically high at the sensation. There’s possibly a bit of drool escaping from your lips.

Mervin’s not unaffected himself, one hand braced against the wall, the other digging into your waist. The groan he levels at your ear is delightful, stretching on into a softly pitched rumble that’s almost like a purr.

Interesting. A disembodied part of yourself definitely notes that for later.

He doesn’t move.

You let out a whimper, trying to grind back against him. He swats you on the ass, tuting. “Ask nicely, pet.”

Having him speared inside you feels so good. But it’s not enough. You need him to move.

“Please,” you whisper, “please fucking fuck me, please-”

You’re rewarded with a single thrust. “Why should I?”

You groan; a whiney, needy sound. “You’re making it so hard to think right now- I can’t-” You want to bang your head against wall. “Nngh, Mervin-”

He takes pity on you. Or maybe you’ve convinced him. He’s probably barely pretending to be composed right now - you don’t care about the reasoning, you’re just relieved when he starts to fuck you. He’s fast, and rough, and the ridged texture of his cock serves as a pleasant reminder that he’s in no part human.

It doesn’t take long for him to come, practically crushing you against him when he does. One arm wraps around your throat, and the other around your waist; he bites down on your shoulder to keep from making too much noise. It hurts, but that only adds to the experience.

You close your eyes, panting, trying to savour the way his dick twitches inside of you. But as soon as he’s finished he straightens, practically shoving you away.

Your brain is hazy, and it takes you a few moments before you can stand, fixing your underwear, then your dress. You clamp your thighs together, to keep from dripping spend everywhere.

By the time you turn around, Mervin has composed himself – cock receeded back into his slit, clothing fixed. You feel incredibly raw in contrast.

He raises an eyebrow. “What?”

You open your mouth to reply, but your thoughts stall. Forming words is somehow harder.

His face goes blank as he takes in your details. Processes what’s wrong. The seconds that pass feel incredibly long, and you’re tense, wondering how he’s going to react. You know that biology literally compels him to be an ass, but you’re not sure how much derision you can take right now.

You can’t describe how grateful you are that he only shakes his head, and cages you in again. “Like I said before. This is only because I feel sorry for you.”

He slips his hand under your dress, back into your underwear. You’re slick; a mess of your own juices and his cum. There’s no resistance when he sinks two fingers inside of you. Hardly any friction when he rubs his thumb against your clit.

You shudder, grabbing his lapels and pressing your face against his shoulder. “Fuckkk,” the word is barely muffled.

His free hand cups your jaw, dragging your face upwards. “Don’t get makeup on my jacket, idiot.”

“S-sorry,” you reply, eyes glazed and mouth agape.

He doesn’t seem to process your apology, watching intently, instead, as you come apart on his fingers. You can barely stand, fighting the impulse to sieze and crumple, clinging to your date like he’s a lifeline.

“Go on then, pet,” he murmurs, pushing hard against a sensitive spot inside of you. “You can come.”

And you do. Head lolling back, whole body arching, gripping Mervin’s arm like a vice. You don’t care what kind of noises you’re making, but perhaps he does, because he covers your mouth with his own in another messy kiss.

His fingers don’t stop moving until you’re limp against the wall, almost turning into a puddle in his arms. Your head buzzes. You feel high.

Fuck, that was incredible.

Your eyes are closed. You’re listening to Mervin’s panting; almost as loud as your own, when he pulls you upright suddenly.

“Someone’s coming.”

Your eyes spring open.

“Come on,” he practically drags you away, down another corridor and into what appears to be a coat room.

You’re still breathless, and it takes you a moment to compose yourself. Mervin has his ear against the door, tense. It almost makes you laugh.

“If I’d known how much fun pity sex can be, I’d have doubled down on my efforts to be pathetic.”

Mervin scowls. “Clean yourself up. You look like a whore.”

You give him a coy smile. “Your whore, though.”

He turns away, masking his expression.

Still, you do the best you can to clean the fluids from your thighs, shamelessly using the sleeve of a stranger’s coat.

Mervin is examining you when you turn back. Wordlessly he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. “Your lipstick is everywhere.”

You smirk, taking in his own features. “It certainly is.” You wipe it from your face, wishing you had a mirror, but Mervin doesn’t say anything so you assume you got it all. Then you stand on tip toes, cleaning the lipstick from his own face. He stiffens, but allows the treatment.

Your eyes catch on a smear across his throat. You don’t even remember kissing him there. Feeling mischevious, you leave the mark. You consider it a parting gift. He’ll notice it later, you’re sure.

“Your hair is a rat’s nest.”

You’re sure he’s exaggerating, but you roll your eyes and attempt to fix it anyway. “You’re the one who was pulling on it.”

Soon enough you’re both presentable again, bracing yourselves before returning to the fray. Nobody has noticed your absence, you think.

You glance towards the dance floor. “So, are you going to teach me this next dance?”

He manages to keep his expression level as he considers.

“Not here. Having you trip and stumble in front of everyone is too painful to contemplate. You’re going to take private lessons with me. That way you won’t look like a fool next time.”

“Next time?” You ask.

He winces, unable to meet your eyes.

You want to make fun of him. You want to poke at him so badly. You barely restrain yourself.

“How generous of you, to invite me not once, but twice. I should be honoured.”

He relaxes minutely at your acceptance. Then crinkles his nose. “Obviously.”

“But this was simultaneously the most stressful and most boring event I’ve attended all year. You’re really going to have to make it worth my while.”

He grits his teeth. Tries his best to look calm. “Did you have something in mind, human?”

You can only grin. “I don’t know. I’ll be sure to think of an especially pitiful request.”

--