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The Trouble with Lesser Demons

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Your job is one that ends up requiring lots of replacements in your wardrobe, so you shop sensibly, buying things that are comfortable, professional, but cheap and runs no risk of you getting attached. Your outfits run down the middle of the road, nice enough to wear in to any nice neighborhood or restaurant that you please, but not so flashy that you turn heads in the more seedy parts of town. You learned long ago that brandishing your wealth and abilities is a good way to get someone killed, so it's best to wear colorless coats over your tastefully colored button downs and leave the flashy scarves that you used to love so much in the closet.

But tonight is the police station's fundraiser, and you're required to make an appearance. The other members of your scattered team will slither out from their shops and well-kept houses to wine and dine the elite of the city, as is practically required to keep doing what you do in the city. Without the approval of the well to do, your occasional traipses in to their mansions or boat houses would end with you either in prison or disappearing all together.

So when you emerge from the bathroom after nearly an hour of preparation work, Sollux fumbles his brownie-in-a-mug (some online trend, he didn't elaborate) and probably would have burned his hands something awful if he were a human.

You hardly fuss with your hair these days, letting the waves settle on your head as they please, but tonight you've managed to tame the mess in to perfect order, swept back behind your ears and out of your eyes in to an elegant disarray that took more time than you should probably admit to. Your suit is charcoal grey with off white pinstripes, and it fits like a dream even though it's been quite a while since it was fitted. The splash of color comes from the light purple button-down you wear under the vest, and you're in the process of tucking your deep violet tie beneath the buttoned fabric when you exit the bedroom, your suit jacket over your arm.

Sollux has abandoned his brownie-mug on the coffee table, his clawed fingers tracing the slight flare of your hips up to where the hem of the vest rests against your slacks. "You clean up good," he says, eyeing the knot resting against your throat.

"Well, that compliment just sweeps me off my feet," you retort sarcastically, a smirk playing at the corners of your lips, especially when you spot just a hint of red discoloring the pointed tips of his ears. You bat his hands away from your waist to slide in to the coat, only to be abruptly pulled forward as soon as the cloth has settled comfortably against your shoulders.

A half-formed protest is on your lips at the rough tug forward by your tie, but his mouth is hot, pointed teeth scraping ever so slightly against your skin, and you're very glad that he's floated up till he's taller than you because you're practically boneless against him. He kisses like he does everything else; with unbridled passion, ferocity, and a sense of awareness as to what he's doing. You're not concerned about his fangs or the deceptively powerful tail winding around your waist; he knows what he's doing, so you resign yourself to being kissed breathless.

He pulls away with your bottom lip still trapped between his teeth, licking teasingly once more before moving back to his brownie-mug. "Don't stay out too late."

You smooth a hand down the front of your jacket (buttoned in the heat of the moment, apparently) and run your tongue over the roof of your mouth with consideration. "That doesn't taste half bad," you say eventually, motioning to the mug now cradled in his hands, and he smiles cheekily at you as you make your way to the door.

You're fairly certain the party is going to end early, for you at least.