#Mayor will most certainly not he amused

[askblueandviolet]

Why don't you go into the mayor's office? Imagine that they arrive in the morning to... be whatever they do and they see you sitting in their chair (like in spy movies).

MASTER POST

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[cui-nisi]

Lavender And Cinnamon (Leon x Reader)

•Notes•

Pairing: RE4 Leon x Reader

Summary: You work at a high-end spa called Exotic Luxuries where you’re assigned to take care of the alluring and mysterious Leon S. Kennedy. But late-night sessions can lead to more than just a regular massage…

Warnings: slight cursing, no protection (use protecting!), workplace sex, riding, blowjobs, pet names (‘good girl’), dom. Leon, praise kink, slight nipple play

WC: 6,750

A/N: A bit different from my usual stuff but I’ve been obsessed with this man especially with the release of RE4 so I wrote this one-shot to help get him out of my head (it didn’t work)! I hope you like it!

Enjoy!

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Your eyes looked over the list of reservations you’d be handling for the day, your boss standing behind the check-in desk mumbling about the shortage of massage oils.

“Seems like the regulars…” you stated as you looked over to watch your boss.

“Yeah…” they sighed, turning to look over at you with tired eyes, “but you do seem to have a newcomer coming in later today. Ensure that you treat them with the utmost respect and professionalism, alright?”

You nodded before glancing back down at the list to see your last and latest reservation set for eight o’clock. “Leon S. Kennedy?” You tested the name, it sounded like a pseudonym as you cocked an eyebrow skeptically, “is that a joke?”

“It most certainly is not.” Your boss finally stood to turn and face you, their expression serious, “they’re a high-class customer, alright?”

You nodded, understanding what your boss was saying. You’ve had your fair share of “high-class customers” from mayors to senators who would come in and reserve a massage. The spa in which you worked had humble beginnings but by the time you were hired the reputation of your spa had grown to become a fairly luxurious business that served people with important backgrounds.

Confidentiality was key with this job; so much so that you were even required to sign an NDA upon being hired. You weren’t sure why it was such a big deal as nothing explicit ever occurred with the patrons, at least not to your knowledge. But you refrained from asking questions and focused on doing what you were hired to do and giving out high-quality massages.

“I’ll do my best to satisfy him,” you proclaimed, your boss offering you a small smile before leaving to carry out their other tasks for the day.

You push aside the ominous ‘Leon S. Kennedy’ as you go about your day, your scheduled reservations trickle in, many of them regulars who you’ve attended multiple times. By the time the clock hits 7:45, your hands are starting to feel sore as your joints ache. You bid your last customer goodbye before going into the bathroom to wash your hands.

“Long day?”

You startle at the sink, turning around to see one of your coworkers entering the bathroom.

“Oh hey, Jenna,” you offer her a small smile before turning off the faucet.

She stalks over to you, her eyes wide with an excitement you don’t trust, “I heard about your last customer.” she says knowingly.

“Okay?” You quirk an eyebrow at her, unsure why she seems so vested in your customer’s affairs.

“You’re not excited?”

“Why should I be? It’s just another customer.”

You watch as Jenna’s eyes widen, an amused smile pasted on her lips as her voice drops to a hushed whisper, “so you really don’t know?”

“No..?”

Jenna chuckles softly to herself before she responds, her voice light, “Leon S. Kennedy. He was hired by the federal government to act as a special agent. Rumors say he was tasked with saving the president’s daughter a few months back when she was kidnapped.”

You stare at Jenna as she talks, her words registering in your head before you give her a dubious look. She was known to stretch the truth at times and you couldn’t help but quirk an eyebrow at her.

“I’m serious!” she urges after a second of silence passes between the two of you.

“I’m sure you are! It’s just… you gotta understand that that’s a lot of information you dumped on me.” You explain, grabbing a paper towel and drying off your hands as Jenna moves around you to one of the empty stalls.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. I’m just telling you so you know what you're in for, okay? Treat him nicely. I heard he’s easy on the eyes so it shouldn’t be too hard for you.”

You roll your eyes as you exit the bathroom, your voice meeting Jenna’s quiet laughter as you call back to her, “real professional, Jenna.”

As you make your way back to the front desk, awaiting your last customer, you can’t help but let Jenna’s words wash over you. Was she really telling the truth? Why would she lie about something like this?

Your eyes glaze over to the open computer on the front desk before darting to the clock: 7:56. Your customer would be here any minute but your curiosity was eating away at you. You chewed on your bottom lip… one quick little Google search of his name couldn’t hurt, right? Besides, you rationalized it by saying that it was best to be prepared and know your new customer so that you knew how to better take care of him during your session.

Temptation and curiosity made a heady mix as your hands as if automatically, lept to the keyboard and quickly typed in the name ‘Leon S. Kennedy’. You weren’t sure what you were expecting, but considering that Leon was a supposed federal agent, you guessed that you shouldn’t have been too shocked to see little information about him online. Being a federal agent must mean that you have to keep a lot of personal information offline, but the lack of information on him could also mean that he’s just a reclusive kind of guy.

You sigh tiredly before looking back up and yelping at what you see. Across from you, in front of the desk, you’re met with a tall man with long light brown hair that slightly shadows his sharp-looking eyes. His narrow nose and small pink lips along with his angular jaw all came together to create a face that could have anyone stunned on the spot.

“I have an appointment.”

His voice almost sends a shiver down your spine. His voice was a bit deep yet not unfriendly, just distant. His tone gave nothing away except pure professionalism despite him being here as a customer and not a worker. Everything about this man just oozed secrecy and you guessed that Jenna was right when she said this guy was a federal agent.

“Of course, eight o’clock for Mister Kennedy, right?” You say, forcing your eyes away from the man and trying your best to remain calm and polite, just as you are with every other customer.

“You can just call me by my name. It seems like you’re fairly familiar with it anyway,” your eyebrows raise slightly until you notice the quick glance Leon sends the open computer on the desk with his name clearly typed into the search bar.

Your eyes widen in horror before you swiftly power off the computer, a wavering smile on your lips as you respond, “I apologize… Leon.”

“It’s no problem, really,” Leon assures, the hint of a smile lifting the corner of his lips as he looks over you, his gaze analytical as if he’s trying to read you with a distant curiosity.

You swallow the dry spit that has collected in your mouth as his gaze stays on you. “If you’ll follow me to the back, Leon. My name is _____ and I’ll be taking care of you this evening.” You state as you lead Leon down a series of dimly lit hallways, remembering that you have a job to do and need to fulfill it as such.

“Nice to meet you, ____.” the man behind you greets, his voice calm and measured as he says your name. “Is it usually this quiet here?” he asks after a second of silence passes.

You do your best not to focus on the way your name fits on his tongue and simply offer him a small smile as you briefly turn around to look at him before answering his question, “we try to keep a serene atmosphere here at Exotic Luxuries. Although since your appointment was a bit later most, if not all, the other workers have headed home for the night.”

You see Leon’s eyes widen slightly an apologetic look flickering over his piercing blue eyes, “I apologize for keeping you so late. I understand the frustrations one can have when having to work overtime… that’s actually the reason why I had to book this so late.”

You shake off his apology, “don’t worry about it. Were you working earlier?” You say carefully, not wanting to sound too interested in his line of work.

There’s a second of silence as your footsteps occupy the space between you and Leon. For a second you worry if you crossed the line, you don’t usually ask your customers about their jobs unless they confide in you first but you can’t help but want to know more about this man… this man who was tasked with saving the president’s daughter, supposedly. You can’t help but be curious.

Luckily though, it doesn’t seem as if Leon is upset with your intrigue as he responds a few seconds later, his voice polite. “Yes, you’re correct. I just got off about 30 minutes ago.”

Your eyes widen, unable to curve the shocked tone in your voice as you blurt out, “you just got off? Jesus, you must be so tired!”

Another second of tentative silence stretches on between you two as you curse yourself out for saying something so obvious. Before you can apologize for your rudeness you hear a quiet chuckle from behind you. Turning around you cast a brief glance up at Leon’s face and see him laughing softly, it’s not a full-on laugh and more of a close-lipped chuckle, but the way his lips curve slightly upwards makes something in you twist as you force your gaze away.

You continue your way through the halls until you eventually stop in front of a door made of glass but with a tint over it that makes it hard for anyone to see anything through it.

“This is where we’ll be having our session for the evening,” you say formally while gesturing to the door, “I’ll give you a few minutes to change out of your clothes. There’s a towel in there for you to use to cover yourself. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Leon nods curtly at you, his eyes gazing at you briefly before he opens the door and heads inside. You watch the way his leather-bound jacket hugs his broad shoulders before the door closes, sequentially cutting off your vision of the beautiful man.

“Get yourself together, _____” you mumble to yourself before quickly walking away to the supply room.

According to the reservation, Leon reserved the first-time package, a promotion your boss was running that allowed new customers to get an hour-long massage at a 50% discount along with 30 minutes free in the sauna room. It was a pretty good deal and had brought in a plethora of new customers who left with a membership. You at least were used to doing it and felt better prepared to not embarrass yourself in front of Leon. You only hoped you could get through the massage without any incidents that would have you fired.

You reach for the supplies you’d need including a lavender and cinnamon scented oil before making your way back to the room you left Leon in. When you take a deep calming breath and open the door you expected to find the man lying face down on the cushioned bench centered in the middle of the room like everyone else. So imagine your surprise when you instead find Leon with his back facing you as he observes the different oils on display on a shelf. You can’t help but let your eyes travel across his bare back, the tendrils of his muscles flexing as he reaches up to grab one of the oils. Your eyes travel lower down his back until they reach the white towel wrapped around his waistline.

My god did he look gorgeous.

As much as you wanted to keep looking at him you had to remain professional. You knocked briefly on the door to alert him of your presence, causing the man to turn his head slightly to you, his voice calling out to you in the small room.

“Sorry, am I not meant to touch these?” he holds up the small oil in his hand.

You shake your head, stepping further into the room and closing the door behind you. “You’re fine. Did you have any questions about them?”

He shakes his head before setting it back down and turning around, striding over to the bench as you begin prepping on a nearby wooden stand.

“I was just curious to read each oil’s scent, I’ve never been to a spa before so…” as his voice trails off you glance back to smile friendly at him but immediately feel your cheeks flush at the sight you’re met with.

In the dim candlelit room, you notice how the warm glow from the tiny flames bathes Leon in their serene glow. The flickering shadows of their fiery nature create patches of darkness across Leon’s skin before being overtaken by light once again resembling a makeshift mirage of shadows. Every flex of his defined muscles is outlined by the shadows they leave on his skin like delicate brush lines dipped in black paint. He truly was a piece of art- a walking canvas.

It takes all your willpower to tear your eyes away before you start drooling as you try to remember what he said and provide an appropriate response, “yeah…um. Each oil’s unique scent can have a different effect on the person using it depending on what they want.”

“Like what?”

You think for a moment before picking up the oil you chose for Leon as you turn to him and force your eyes to meet his rather than glance down at his chiseled body. “This is a lavender cinnamon essential massage oil. The contrast of the sweet and cool lavender with the warm and spicy cinnamon produces an indomitable romantic blend. It creates a calming yet stimulating feeling when massaged into the skin. The scent also restores your mind to a more relaxed state.”

Leon nods at your explanation, a ghost of what you assume to be a smirk crosses over his lips before it's quickly wiped away as he heads over to the bench and sits down.

“Where would you like me to start the massage? We could start on your front or on your back.”

“My front if you don’t mind. I don’t really like having my back turned.”

You nod, somewhat understanding why he’d feel that way if his job always requires him to be on alert. “That’s fine. Do you mind getting under the sheet and removing your towel? I’ll turn around as you do so.” You say gently, turning around.

You hear some rustling sounds before Leon’s smooth voice tells you that’s finished. You turn around to see the sheet covering his lower body, leaving his chest and arms exposed.

“Is it okay if I leave the sheet off my chest?” he asks.

You nod, “that’s completely fine. As long as you’re comfortable,” you move closer to Leon and grab the massage oil before opening it and beginning to lightly pour it over his arms as you explain your movements, “since this is your first time I’ll start off slow. I’m going to pour this oil over the parts of the body you feel need the most attention, okay? For now, I’ll massage your arms.”

Leon listens closely to your instructions, his eyes flick down to the oil that begins to roll down his arm until you reach out and begin slathering the slippery liquid across his warm skin. As soon as your fingers grace Leon’s skin you feel your brain begin to short-circuit. His arms are so firm, it takes you a second to properly grip his arm so that you're massaging him more effectively. You do your best to not imagine how his arm would feel wrapped around you as you begin the session. Instead, you let your eyes wander across his chest (which also turned out to be a bad idea) where you’re met with his broad shoulders and defined collarbone that you want to sink your teeth in. As beautiful as he is you also can’t help but notice various cuts and bruises on his skin, some looking fresh as a red tint surrounds the cuts and a blue color defining his upcoming bruises.

“I’m fine.”

You startle at hearing a voice call out to you. Your eyes quickly flick up to find Leon looking at you, his eyes almost glowing under the light of the candles, and yet his voice has a slight edge to it as he speaks.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare…” you trail off, embarrassment flooding through your skin.

Leon studies you for a moment, his whole body still, almost disguising his presence as you try to focus on the massage before he sighs and finally speaks, “no, I’m sorry if that came off rude. I got these from work…”

“Do you always suffer from injuries like these?” you ask, your voice tinted with worry as you furrow your eyebrows.

To your surprise, Leon smirks when he sees the expression on your face. His lips curl up dangerously, subtly, as if amused before he answers. “If I’m lucky. Today wasn’t too bad. They’ll heal.”

You don’t like how dismissive he is of his injuries but you supposed him coming down to a spa was a way for him to try to relax and take his mind off of his strenuous job. You redouble your efforts, determined to give this man the best massage of his life. For a while you’re able to do this, your eyes focusing on his pressure points as you massage his arms. From time to time your eyes glance up to catch Leon already looking at you, his eyes watching you with a glimmer of something that you can’t discern.

“Is there something wrong? Am I applying too much pressure?” you question hesitantly after catching him looking at you for the fifth time.

He shakes his head, his eyes still attached to yours, “no, sorry if I was making you uncomfortable. I guess I was just trying to get a read on you. You seem young, but by the looks of it you’ve been doing this for awhile.”

Did he want to learn more about you? You pushed the thought away quickly, he was probably just trying to make casual conversation. You answered with a small smile, “I’ve always liked making people feel good. As a kid that was in the form of giving my mom really bad back massages that she pretended wasn’t practically cracking her spine,” you see Leon’s chest heave up and down slightly as he chuckles quietly, “seriously though, something about giving someone a massage is just… fulfilling to me. It’s intimate, quiet, and serene. It’s just as relaxing for me as it is for my clients sometimes…”

Leon observes the way your voice becomes softer, and more thoughtful as you speak. He smiles at your words, this time allowing you to see his shiny teeth and you feel your heartbeat speed up knowing you were able to draw that kind of expression out of him.

“I admire your passion. I’m sure this job isn’t easy.”

“‘I’m sure it’s nothing compared to what you have to do.”

“Doesn’t matter which one is harder. The point is that you like what you do and you do it well. That requires a lot of patience and discipline. You should take pride in that.”

You feel your eyes widen slightly at Leon’s words, sincerity pouring through his tone.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lecture you…” Leon huffs out a humorless laugh as he turns to look away from you, his eyes tracing the lines on the ceiling.

“You weren’t. I appreciate it, Leon,” you say honestly with a small smile as you finish massaging his arms. You turn around to face the clock that hangs on the wall, “we have about 45 minutes left. Is there any other area you’d like me to show attention to?”

Leon seems to think for a moment, his icy-blue eyes traveling over to you before he speaks, “would you be okay with massaging my legs? My job today required a lot of running and I can tell I’m going to wake up sore in the morning.”

You nod before moving down to his legs and cautiously moving the sheet up until it’s lying halfway across his thighs. You do your best not to stare at his toned legs as you begin pouring more massage oil on him before pressing your thumbs into his calves. You continue massaging the different parts of Leon’s legs, the oil glistening off of his skin while the candlelights reflect a warm glow onto him. You gradually move higher and higher up his leg until you press down on his inner thigh absentmindedly when you're brought back to the present after hearing a noise escape from Leon’s lips.

Fear spreads through you as you quickly pull your hands away from him as if he was a fire.

“A-are you okay? Did I do something wrong?” you ask frantically, your eyes wide with worry.

Looking at Leon however, you’re met with an interesting sight. Rather than the scowl or grimace you were expecting to see you notice a slight tinge of red dusting over his cheeks. Was he blushing? He quickly meets your eyes, his eyebrows furrowed slightly but not in annoyance at you as he speaks lowly, “I’m fine, sorry if I startled you. I closed my eyes momentarily and when you pressed into my thigh it just-” he cuts himself off, promptly clearing his throat and stealing his expression. “I was just surprised is all.”

You look at him, studying his behavior with confusion pooling into your eyes as you speak up hesitantly, “did you… want me to stop? I can always begin working on your back if you feel uncomfortable.”

“No… you don’t need to stop. You’re doing fine, really. I was just… taken aback.” while he speaks politely, you can just barely pick up a shred of something else in his eyes. A flash of… want?

Before you can dissect the look further Leon leans back down and closes his eyes. You take a second to register what just happened before cautiously reaching out and massaging the skin just below his thigh, your brain whirring with thoughts… a lot of them are unprofessional and would most likely get you fired if you acted on them and especially if it was unwarranted. But you can’t help but wonder if Leon didn’t want you to stop because it felt… good?

What would happen if you raised your hand just a bit higher?

Your eyes glance up to look at Leon whose eyes are still closed shut, his breathing even. You glance back down to your hands around his knee and tentatively begin moving your hand higher up on his leg. You stop halfway up his thigh where you had left off and ever so gently press into his inner thigh, his skin folding under your touch. Once again a noise escapes Leon’s lips, but this time you can discern what it is. A quiet small moan slips through his pink lips.

You can barely believe what you’re hearing. You manage to not freak out and continue massaging his thigh, this time adding even more pressure as your thumbs slide over the skin on his inner thigh. Again, another moan escapes Leon’s lips and it’s incredibly sexy.

Before you can continue, however, you see Leon suddenly open his eyes in shock, as if he had been in a daze. His gaze darts over to you, “I’m sorry…” he begins, “I didn’t mean to- that was unprofessional of me. I don’t usually… I’ve never…”

You watch in amusement as Leon begins floundering over his words, surprised to see the seemingly cool-headed federal agent flustered over your touch. With a calming breath, you muster all your strength to prepare yourself for what you’re about to say and pray that you won’t regret it.

With a determined expression, you give Leon a look that stops him from talking, your eyes piercing into his as you speak with an air of confidence despite you wanting to throw up on the inside. “It’s okay. I did it on purpose.” Leon squares you with a confused look as you continue talking, “I told my boss that I would satisfy you. I was instructed to help you relax and to take care of you. And like you said… I’m very passionate about this job.”

You watch as Leon takes in your words, you can practically see the gears in his head turning as he takes in what you’re proposing. “Are you sure?” he asks after a long second, his eyebrows knitted in concern, unsure if you’re being serious.

You nod, “if you can’t trust my words…will you trust my actions?”

The man before you eyes you warily. A specific and stringent tension begins to fill the air, the feeling so palpable that you can practically feel it prickle your skin. You don’t even realize the breath you’ve been holding in your chest as you await Leon’s response until he finally speaks, his voice low and quiet.

“Help me relax, _____.”

That’s all it takes for you to continue your massage, but this time you let your hands roam freely. You start back up at his thigh, your hands sinking into his malleable skin as a small soft huff of air leaves Leon’s lips. You continue your climb up his leg until your hand eventually reaches underneath the towel, you can see the growing tent of Leon’s desires and smile up at the man before looking back down.

“I don’t think you’ll be needing this…” you say softly before pulling the towel off and revealing all of Leon, his bare body completely and utterly at your mercy.

One of Leon’s arms props him up on the bench as he stares at you, a small smirk clearly expressed on his lips. “Impatient?”

“Eager.”

Leon’s eyes glimmer at your words before you rest your hands on the base of his shaft, your attention drifting from Leon’s face down to his pretty cock. It’s perfectly trimmed and curves upwards at a beautiful angle. You can see the faint outlines of his blue veins that run up and down his shaft. You trace your oiled index finger over them delicately eliciting a shaky breath from the man you have cupped in your hands.

You smirk seductively, your plump lips curling upwards before you put your mouth to good use and lean down, your tongue making contact first as it swirls around the pink glistening tip slowly. The taste of Leon’s precum is surprisingly pleasant- or as pleasant as precum can be. You supposed his job kept him in shape along with whatever healthy diet he probably has set for himself.

“That’s it…” you hear Leon praise quietly, his voice warm and intimate. “Do you mind if I hold your hair back?”

You shake your head as you open your mouth a bit more, your lips closing fully around Leon’s tip and sucking slightly. As you do so you feel Leon’s expansive hand entangle itself in your hair, holding it up gently. You open your mouth more, feeling like you’ve teased him enough, and begin to take him in your mouth, his shaft fitting snugly in your mouth. Your hands move from his base to fondle his clean-looking balls while your mouth entertains his cock, you feel his tip hit the back of your throat before you’re able to fully take him in. He wasn’t huge, but he was big enough to have you needing to take a breath after feeling him hit you in the back of your throat.

“Don’t strain yourself.” the statement was supposed to come off as comforting but when your eyes looked up to look at Leon you knew it was anything but. He was teasing you and the now smug smile on his lips was a big indicator of that.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” you snapped back with the same teasing tone in your voice.

You turned your attention back to Leon’s dick before using your hands to pump him from the base, they were lubricated enough from the massage oil to set a quick pace while your mouth latched back on to the tip before you opened your mouth further to take more of him.

“That’s a good girl…” Leon’s gruff voice called out from above you, his hand still in your hair but gripping it a bit harder.

You feel your core ache with need at the praise, oddly satisfied to have this man’s approval as you continue working his cock in your mouth. The texture of his veins slides against the walls of your mouth, and your tongue runs against them, flicking over the long lines. Your hands continue their ministration of pumping the base of Leon’s shaft, they slide over him easily.

From the side you begin to hear Leon’s breathing pick up, the sound harsh and impatient. You continue sucking him for a few more seconds before popping your mouth off of him and smirking triumphantly at him, “don’t strain yourself, now.” you say mockingly as you observe the way Leon has his bottom lip crushed between his teeth, “should I let you cum in my mouth?” you ask with mock innocence.

Before you can revel in your temporary victory at seeing Leon succumb to your mouth Leon sits up abruptly, his hand that was propping him up leaves the bench to lightly grab your chin and bring your lips to his. The movement momentarily shocks you but you quickly get yourself under control and kiss him back eagerly.

Your lips slot together perfectly, he feels so soft against you despite his callused hand tracing your jawline and down to the back of your neck, adding a bit of pressure to pull you closer to him.

“I’d prefer… doing that inside you with your permission,” Leon mumbles into the kiss, his tongue running across your bottom lip before slipping inside your mouth.

��Fuck…” you whisper, too consumed by his lips over yours to come up with something more coherent to say.

You feel Leon laugh slightly against you before he finally pulls back, his lips glistening and wet just like the rest of his body. Your hands absentmindedly trail across his slippery chest, your hands brushing against his pert nipples.

“You…” he says after letting you explore his chest for a minute, “are severely overdressed,” he says before leaning into your space, his mouth traveling over to your ear as he whispers sultrily, “take this off,” he commands you feel him tug at your shirt.

You nod, swiftly discarding your shirt and leaving you in your lacy black bra. For once you’re proud you didn’t wear a sports bra like you usually do despite how comfortable they are.

Turning back to Leon, you’re met with his gaze solely glued to your chest. His hands come up as he gingerly traces the frilly lace on top of your bra. Despite him not touching you yet, your skin burns, eager to feel his strong hands caress and squeeze you.

“Beautiful…” you hear him whisper lowly.

Without warning you see Leon duck down before you lose focus when you feel his tongue poke out to lick over your covered nipple through the lace. The feeling is euphoric as you feel his other hand massage your other breast slowly. After a second you feel his hand leave your chest and travel to your back where he fiddles with the clasp for a second before suddenly the bra hangs loosely from your chest.

“You seem to know your way around a bra…” you sigh, eyeing him with mock suspicion.

His eyes twinkle with something as he leans back to observe you once you let the bra fall from your chest. Rather than answer though, after he’s gotten an eyeful he leans back over to you and pushes his lips back onto you. This time the kiss is slower and sweeter as your lips push and pull against each other. As you kiss Leon’s hands travel up your body until both of his hands are cupping your breasts. He takes a second to feel them, his rough hands warm against your cool skin before his index finger and thumb wrap around your nipples and squeeze them slightly.

You break off the kiss to moan softly, the pressure from his fingers on your nipples sending a string of pleasure through you and down to your core. Leon eyes your reaction, a pleasantly surprised look glimmering in his eyes as he smirks at you. Before you have time to recover you feel Leon duck back down before sucking on your nipple, his teeth nibbling slightly as he alternates between your two breasts. The pleasure and pain blend perfectly and you can’t help but arch your back the more he bites your nipples before soothing the pain with a soft lick of his tongue.

“Leon…” you gasp, your hands landing on the federal agent’s strong shoulders.

“Do you want more, _____?” he asks, taking his mouth off of your hard nipple.

You nod, your eyes staring up at the ceiling as you try to get yourself together.

“I want to hear you say it. What do you want from me, _____?” You feel Leon’s breath hit your ear, the smell of the lavender and cinnamon massage oil taking over your senses and easing the tension in your body.

You wanted this man bad.

With a shaky breath, you tear your gaze away from the ceiling to look down at Leon. “I want you to fuck me.”

At your words of admission, an almost tender smile graces Leon’s face as he presses a quick kiss to your lips, “that’s all I needed to hear.”

Swiftly, Leon has your pants and underwear pulled off and sits on the edge of the bench. He taps his thighs before looking back at you, “don’t worry. I’ll be holding you the entire time.”

You sigh, eyeing him warily before biting your lip and climbing onto him. True to his word as soon as your thighs are pressed to his, his hands latch onto your hips, holding you firmly in place.

“Now just lift your hips up for me…”

Leon’s voice is soft yet stern as he looks down to eye your movements. You carefully lift yourself up before centering yourself. Leon gives you a nod before you sink down on top of him. A loud moan escapes the both of you as your body stretches a bit to accommodate him. Luckily, you were already wet enough beforehand so Leon didn’t need to worry about warming you up. As you both take a second to adjust you latch your hands around his neck, pressing your body against his as you bite back a moan and stare deeply into Leon’s icy-blue eyes.

“Are you ready?” he asks after a second passes.

You nod, “ready.”

You then begin to slowly test the waters, setting a steady pace, and begin riding him. You’re careful at first, letting your body get used to Leon before quickly picking up the pace. The feeling of Leon’s thick cock running deep inside you has you moaning in a matter of minutes as you squeeze him tightly, a tumble of curses falling from his clenched teeth as his hands hold on to you tighter the faster you move.

“Fuck… you feel amazing…” he grunts, his body glistening with both massage oil and sweat as your eyes take in the sight before you.

“You too…” you moan your eyes drinking him in, “you’re definitely the sexiest client I’ve ever had.”

He laughs airly, his eyes opening briefly to look at you, “I’m sure you say that to every client.”

You know he’s joking but you feel the need to clarify to him anyway, “I mean it. I’ve never done this with a client before and… ever since you walked in I’ve had a hard time being professional. That’s why I was so excited when you first moaned when I touched your thigh.”

You see a slight blush cross over Leon’s cheeks. Whether it’s from him having to keep you upright or because of your words you’re not sure, but it looks cute on him regardless.

“Since we’re both confessing. I thought you looked extremely sexy when I first saw you. I actually planned on skipping this because it was my coworkers who had initially signed me up for this but…” he pauses, his eyes full of sincerity as he speaks, “I’m glad I didn’t.”

This time it’s you who’s blushing as you take in his words. Leon simply smiles brightly at you before crashing his lips against yours, his grip on you tightening as you begin moving faster against him, your hips rolling smoothly over his cock. After a few more minutes the heat that has been building in your core finally begins to overwhelm you, your breath coming out in harsh pants as you whisper harshly into the kiss with Leon, “I-I’m close…”

He nods, holding you close before pecking you once again on the lips, his voice quiet and husky as he leans into your ear, “come for me, _____. Let go…”

As if earning his permission your body lets go as the heat envelopes you, caressing your body and filling your entire body with pleasure as you tense up at the intense feeling, your orgasm hitting you hard and fast as you let out a loud moan.

At hearing and seeing your climax Leon quickly follows suit, his eyes squeezing shut, his mouth falling open as a sexy groan fills the air. His breathing is ragged and you feel his hold on you tighten even more. You can feel him fill you up as you begin to come down from your high. You squeeze a bit tighter on him to milk him even more earning a sly smirk from him as he tries to get himself together after finishing.

As you both come back to your senses you can’t help the small smile you have on your face as you gaze at Leon. The glow from his orgasm made him look even more alluring than he already did. You lift your hands to push his light brown hair out of his face. As you play with his hair you feel him grab your wrist lightly before bringing it down to his lips where he presses a feather-light kiss to your pulse point.

“I had a great time,” he says lowly, staring deeply into your eyes.

“Same here…” you sigh, sagging your body against him as his hands wrap around you, holding you in place.

“I think my session is up though.”

You sigh, your ear pressed to his chest as you listen to his heartbeat.

“But I’d like to make a reservation for another session in a few days if you’re available.”

You lift your face off of his chest to stare at him in disbelief, you figured this was a one-and-done deal. “You want to do this again?”

He nods, clearly amused at your reaction as a gentle smile takes over his face, “of course. You were able to take my mind off of my job and that’s a pretty damn hard thing to do.”

You smile widely at the man before pressing a quick kiss to his lips, “I’d be honored to take you on as a client, Leon S. Kennedy.”

Leon chuckles as he kisses you back before pulling back and tucking a piece of hair behind your ear.

“You know you still have your free sauna that comes with your package. You could redeem that for your next session.” You inform with a smile.

Leon looks at you before a twinkle appears in his eyes as he pulls you closer to him, his arm wrapping more protectively around you as he speaks softly, “as long as you join me… I’d be down for anything.”

You seal the deal with a tender kiss, entangled in one another’s arms as the smell of lavender and cinnamon cascade over you, the candlelights flickering gently around you.

[mlbigbang]

2022 Ladynoir Fic Rec List

It's the end of the year which means it's finally time for the ML Big Bang's yearly fic rec lists! We're really excited to bring you our contributors' favourite fics started this year to supply you with plenty of reading material while you're waiting for the Big Bang fics' publication in January.

Movie Date, Interrupted by @purrfectlypunny 1,043 words, General, 1/1 chapter

Ladybug and Chat Noir finally have time to spend together at a movie; unfortunately, a goofy akuma and a moody teenager have other plans.

"The dynamic between Ladybug and Chat is so good!!"

Polaris by @miabrown007 4,029 words, Teen, 3/3 chapters

Adrien had lost everything. Along with his Miraculous, he gave up his freedom, his kwami, his partner; there’s nothing else left to lose. But maybe it is an akuma attack going so predictably wrong all it takes to change his fate, and prove his worth in the team to the only person doubting it: himself. *** Kuro Neko-divergent hurt/comfort fic

"I am weak for any hurt/comfort that is made worse (better) by identity barriers. This fic very much delivers."

breaking me down to my knees in the dead of night by @sunfoxfic 2,429 words, General, 1/1 chapter

Marinette ran off in the middle of an argument and Adrien panicked. Now, he has showed up to patrol as Catwalker, and he has to lie in the bed he's made, even if he overreacted a bit much.

"(technically Ladywalker, but anyway…) A very sweet fluff-and-angst fic that gently but realistically portrays neurodivergence."

Maintaining a Professional Distance by @buggachat 43,417 words, Teen, 11/11 chapters

“I mean, how dumb does the mayor think we are? Offering us a permanent hotel room as a ‘gesture of gratitude for all our work for Paris’, like it isn’t clearly just some half-baked political ploy to place him more in the public’s favor after the whole school funding scandal, like we’ll allow ourselves to sleep in a hotel that we were publicly offered, making ourselves sitting ducks for Hawkmo—” “It’s a pretty big building,” he countered, and at least he seemed amused, because she certainly wasn’t, “Nobody knows which room we were given but us.” “It doesn’t matter!” she scoffed, “It’s still a security risk that he can narrow our location down at all! Also,” she jutted her arms out towards the bed a second time, “May I remind you? ONE. BED. ONE!” ——— Or, Ladybug and Chat Noir receive a hotel room from the city, which they most certainly will not use. After all, that wouldn't be very professional, would it? Yes, it's a Ladynoir bed sharing fic.

"Genuinely one of the most in character Ladynoir fics I've read. I love how the conflicts are resolved, how the characters deal with the fallout, and how no one is villainized. There's the "there's only one bed" trope, Marinette is a MESS but we love her for it, clownbug, Adrien is oblivious, Chat is a dork. Fun times all around."

"The best "There was only one bed" fic you will ever read. Ladybug and Chat Noir get their own dedicated suite in Le Grand Palais, as thanks for their continuing work protecting the city. Only one bed shouldn't be a problem since they both have a home and a bedroom anyway, right? Except.... sometimes Marinette needs to get away from the kwamis and have some space, and sometimes (a lot) Chat Noir needs to get away from whatever is happening with his family, soooooo..... "Friends with benefits without the benefits" is the perfect tag. It's hilarious. It's sweet. It's romantic and emotional."

Hamburger Ladybug by RaspberryCatapult 1,773 words, Teen, 1/1 chapter

Ladybug runs into a burning building. What comes out no longer resembles anything that can be described as a person.

"So, it's a little graphic, as it's about Ladybug running into a burning building, getting charred up, and Chat staying with her in the hospital. BUT...it is beautifully written - descriptive and emotionally spot on (pun intended). And the ending is mind-blowing. It never leaves you. Totally original."

i am not a puppet (i will work against your strings) by @bugchat 7,525 words, Teen, 1/1 chapter

Nothing quite hurts like loneliness– unless you count being thrown against a wall at top speed, while Ladybug’s horrified expression follows you. Adrien questions how he got here, pressed against a wall while fighting for his life, watching the city crumble around him while Ladybug stares. There are other heroes, a second, third, fourth villain, and all he’s done is give the villain the power to win. It’s over.

"GORGEOUSLY WRITTEN!!!! in love with how Cartara provided an Adrien POV to the season 4 final!!!!"

Wait— Don't let this line go slack by DescentIntoAbsurdity 14,418 words, Teen, 1/1 chapter

I think you've got the wrong number She sends her simple text, satisfied. Then she goes about and wipes down the benches and puts away the flour, and thinks, wait. I have a thousand neighbourhood cats that loiter around my apartment complex and threaten me for food. I cook cat treats in my free time. I know what to feed cats. Marinette deals with her crush on Adrien, cute neighbour and well-known model. She also tries to cope with baking in her free time, and her college assignments, and her growing feelings for Chat Noir; a boy who accidentally texted her regarding his cat. It's going about as well as can be expected.

"loved to follow their interractions via text and their fumblings irl"

Take 31 #LadyNoir kiss, action! by @malauu-ladynoir 41,422 words, Teen, 31/31 chapters

How many kisses does it take to let feelings spread free? How many redo to finally get over the subdued inhibition? Is it a first tentative kiss propelling you in an awkward leap into the unknown? Or is it the one built from years of holding back repressed feelings? When Ladybug and Chat Noir get asked to play themselves in a movie the drama doesn’t just stay on set. With a new nemesis, a dreaded kissing scene, consuming feelings and a new revelation can Ladybug finally give in to what she’s always held back…her love for her partner? Can Chat Noir's heart still be able to surrender?

"I absolutely loved Ladynoir's dynamic in this fic, it's so good!"

one does not love breathing by @wackus-bonkus-maximus 99,476 words, Mature, 34/43 chapters

All of Paris watched as Hawkmoth murdered Chat Noir, taking the Black Cat Miraculous for himself. Ladybug swears revenge, but her enemy—and every miraculous in his possession—disappear without a trace. Six years later, a new team of villains launches an attack for the last remaining Miraculous: Volpina, armed with new powers; Queen Bee, with questionable loyalty; Argos, the new holder of the Peacock Miraculous; and Cat Walker, who Ladybug hates the most. Takes place after S4 - Strike Back.

"Quite possibly my favorite ml fic ever. Is really all sides of the love square (Ladynoir is emphasized, especially towards the beginning, also Mari...walker?), as well as other pairings (Lukazoe, DJwifi, and Feligami), and a lot of amazing action and office espionage. Chat Noir was killed by Monarch in front of all of Paris, and Ladybug swore revenge. Now, after a strange visit from Bunnyx, Monarch is suddenly back, along with a team of Miraculous users that Ladybug has to face all by herself. Amazing character interactions, new uses of Miraculouses, fantastic action scenes, and heartbreak, heartbreak everywhere. Also senticousins."

[copperbadge]

So like. I'm definitely voting Brandon Johnson over Vallas in the Mayoral runoff. but like. speaking of corruption and vice. did you realize that Johnson has been so excessively funded by the Chicago Teacher's Union that he might technically be violating campaign funding laws? I mean, I'm rooting for the guy. But it does mean that if he wins, things are going to get interesting, politically. (I mean. Aren't they always.)

Yeah, I don't think anyone is over the moon about Brandon Johnson, but I'd much rather have him than most of the alternatives, and certainly rather than Vallas. Johnson's not popular among certain segments of the activist community, which surprised me, although having read up on why it turns out to be real inside baseball and I don't think actually reflects approbation of Johnson's political or social stances (I also think Vallas is selling some of them a real strong line that he can't and won't deliver on).

I'd say both are at least Not Lori Lightfoot but realistically Vallas kinda is. He's just more palatable to white male voters.

I mean...I've lived in Chicago long enough for my literal demographic to change from young hourly-wage blue-collar apartment-renter to middle-class, middle-age homeowner in a firmly white-collar salaried job, which does change one's attitude towards the level of corruption in the Chicago government; I pay more taxes now and different ones, and they're actually impacted by the nepotism and nonsense that goes on locally. You'd think I'd take a less distantly amused view than I did when none of it impacted me personally.

But at the same time, it's so entrenched and unchanging that corrupt Chicago politics is basically a year-round sporting event. I take it seriously in the sense that I research my ballot thoroughly and vote an extremely liberal agenda, but I can't take news coverage of it seriously outside of elections. (Also holy shit this election cycle's advertising. Like fifteen flyers a week for various causes and candidates, sometimes multiple flyers a week for the same candidates.)

[fgfluidity]

curiosity

Summary: There’s nothing wrong with an autumn amusement.

Pairing: Mayor Attorney (Damien x DA) but it’s light

Warnings: Just some good clean fun, really.

a fall commission

my ko-fi

@opprose​ @vverebeast​ @mirrorslament​ @statictay​ @otterlyinluv​ @flerpdederp​

It wasn’t meant to be anything more than a fair.

Autumn always meant the fair, a rather large affair with decent funding from the local chamber of commerce and a few charitable businesses. The square would be filled with people and booths, advertising delicious-smelling food and hand-crafted wares.

You always enjoyed it, and now is no exception.

Thankfully, the air is a touch crisp, leaving you cozy in your soft knit. It’s a bit big, maybe, but that makes the sweater all the more comfortable as you peer into booth after booth, curious.

Carvings, jewelry, snacks… nothing persuades you to pull out your wallet, but you aren’t the only one at the fair. Out of courtesy, you glance over your shoulder to where you last spotted Damien.

He isn’t there. Or— no, there he is, a few feet away, caught up in conversation with some constituent you don’t recognize.

As expected, really, with his position, but you can’t help a sigh. You’d hoped for some alone time, as much as being in a public space as public officials can qualify; it’s so rare you get a moment to simply be good friends spending time together.

You have little room to judge him for taking work along with him, though. Goodness knows you’ve brought case files on trips before, carefully tucked away in your bag and ready for any spare moment.

You’ve gotten the lecture before.

He gets the excuse of his work not being so avoidable, as much as it irks you. When you’re the face of the city, everyone has to say something when they see you.

Just as you’re debating the best way to sneak in and sweep him away, because you’re just as entitled to a bit of his time as anyone else, he nods to his conversation partner and turns away. The moment he spots you through the throng, he makes a beeline right for you, his limp be damned.

“Thank goodness,” he sighs once he’s at your side. “Perhaps now they’ll realize this is an appearance for pleasure, rather than politics.”

“I wouldn’t bet money on it,” you point out, patting his arm sympathetically. “It’s so hard being the mayor, isn’t it? Everyone clamoring for your attention?”

He gives you a look. “It’s the most loathsome part of my job, if that’s what you mean. I’m not Mark.”

“Fair, but it’s not so bad. It could certainly be worse.” You wrinkle your nose. “Remember my university job?”

He shudders, hand clenching the grip of his cane tighter just for a moment. “I certainly do. I’d take any election over that— though it does give me an idea.”

You look to him curiously, and he gives a sly smile. “Do you think that was any more frightening than the haunted house?”

“Haunted-?” You bark a laugh, not derisive but surprised. “Infinitely. Are you interested in a little scare in the name of the season, though?”

“I have nowhere else I’d want to be.” He smiles at you, warm, and gestures forward. “I’ve heard it’s just down the way— and you can protect me with your killer fists all you like.”

You gesture for his cane with a grin. “With your cane, I think you might be a match for me these days. Any ghouls that come for us should think twice.”

From the look of the haunted house, though, you can’t imagine it filled to the brim with frights. It’s artificially shabby, a storefront decorated with fibrous cotton and fabric and old boards, without the dust and rot to add any authenticity.

It’s mostly quiet, too, no scary records or actors making noise, no one tempting passersby into the dark depths. By all accounts, it just looks like an abandoned building; the only thing that marks it as an attraction at all is the hand-painted sign above the door saying as such.

Damien must note your apprehension, because he nudges your shoulder lightly. “It’s the town fair,” he explains, “and besides: the people who come out always seem to have had fun. It won’t be so frightening.”

“I’m more worried it won’t be frightening at all,” you reply. “It ought to be, shouldn’t it? It’s a haunted house.”

Damien nods, giving the facade his own once-over. “I’m sure they did their best,” he assures you, smiling. “By all means, my friend, you first.”

If he were anyone else, you might expect he held some ulterior motive in pushing you ahead of him into the building. Mark, for instance, would have shut the door behind you or disappeared the moment you took eyes off him; Damien, however, remains a comforting presence at your back as you walk forward.

The inside— or, at least, this first room— seems to be the same as the outside in terms of decor: sheets over furniture, boards over windows, with the singular addition of a few paper cutouts of seasonally ‘scary’ things like skeletons and pumpkins.

In all, it’s a bit of a disappointment, until a shadow skirts around one of the counters unexpectedly. Thankfully, you don’t yelp, but you do jump and stumble back a step or two.

“Oh—“ Damien’s warm hand presses into your shoulder blade to keep you steady, and he peers around you for the culprit. “Oh— it’s only a little cat. Are you alright?”

You heave a breath, heat rushing to your face in your embarrassment. “Yes, I’m alright. I wasn’t expecting a cat in here.”

In the flesh, the cat gracefully leaps up onto the counter it came from, curling its long tail around dainty black paws. With glittering gold-green eyes, it watches you, then lazily blinks. It accepts a scritch when you extend your fingers, butting gently into your hand, which you’ll take as an apology.

“Seems you’ve made a friend of our host,” Damien teases gently, and you give him a wry look over your shoulder. “You always had a way with others.”

“I only didn’t realize it extended to cats,” you comment dryly. “Well, little miss, do you have anything more in the way of scares, or are the only things that should be afraid in here mice?”

The cat blinks at you again, then saunters down the counter, casually as any cat could manage. It jumps down with a mrrrow, then pads over the hardwood to a far door, just slightly ajar.

Could it really know what you asked for? A little chill runs up your spine at the thought, and another once you look through the crack in the door.

Nothing but pitch black, the same as the cat’s silky fur.

“Damien..?”

He’s looking at the door when you glance back, brow slightly furrowed, but you couldn’t guess his thoughts. Finally, he steps around you. “Maybe it’s a little more magical than we thought,” he murmurs. “Stay behind me.”

You don’t dare stray a step or two from his back. Not even when he swings open the door, and any ambient light— noise, anything— vanishes.

[astralari]

what npcs does the prodigal astronomer interact with the most?

generally, he mostly hangs out with the bohemians, and NPCs aligned with them, considering his profession as an author, poet, and amateur correspondent. mark also enjoys a good fete with those who will not be caught red-handed, which is another bohemian-aligned minor faction. in specific, he has an on-and-off friendship with mr pages, since mark created a great deal of works for it to add to its collection, but also resists at every opportunity pages’ attempts to revise and redact his works, scandalous as they may be. his progression through his ambition (heart’s desire!!) has only deepened their weird friendship/rivalry. he also wants to shake mr pages like a maraca, but that’s for…unrelated reasons.

mark's also very involved with the other players of the marvellous, so, the cardsharp monkey, former mayor virginia, the topsy king, the manager of the royal beth, the bishop of st. fiacre's, and of course mr pages. the only ones he's really friends with among them are the topsy king and the manager (and mr pages, occasionally), but he talks to all of them pretty regularly.

outside of marvellous, he has a fast friendship with his amused lordship, who sponsored mark's entry into the dilmun club and who keeps mark supplied with an unending stream of booze. he also consorts with the northbound parliamentarian, because. you know. reasons.

also, he's married to the master jewel thief! which. won't end well. again. reasons. but for the time being, they certainly enjoy their shared honey-dreams.

[therobertfrasergang]

James Mayor on Robert Fraser

"I only really met Robert when he returned from India at the end of 1979. We became immediate friends and from then on in barely a day went by, when we were both in London, that we didn't either have a drink or a meal together. He adopted my wife and myself as his family; both his parents were practicing Christian Scientists, which Robert was most certainly not. When I came back to London in December 1972 to take over the gallery, there was a huge gap in the London Art scene left by the closure of Robert's gallery that I was able to try to fill. His 1983 reopening in Cork Street was welcomed by everybody with open arms.

One morning on my way to work I remember seeing Godfrey Pilkington on all fours trying to get into his gallery, Robert came up to me rather sheepishly to explain that he had been a bit miffed with Leslie Waddington and the night before, rather the worse for wear, he decided to fix Leslie's door with superglue. Unfortunately he got the wrong gallery. Sadly by the summer of 1985 his illness was really taking hold and he had to close his gallery. For the August Bank Holiday he really wanted to come to stay with us in Shropshire and have a chance to see his old friends locals to there. Paul and Linda McCartney arranged for somebody to bring him down and bring him back to London. He really rallied to the occasion much to everybody's great enjoyment. Sadly he collapsed on the way home and was never really the same afterwards. We had done a number of deals together and the final one, when he was basically bedridden, was when he sold Giorgio di Chirico's Nude, 1911-12, to one of his clients. It had originally belonged to René Gaffe who had an exhibition of works from his collection at the Zwemmer gallery in 1937. The show included major cubist works by Picasso and Braque as well as a few di Chiricos. At the end nothing had sold so Roland Penrose bought the lot including this painting. We got it by exchanging it for a di Chirico Still Life that we had bought from the Edward James Foundation with Mario Tazzoli. Robert was very much a Robert, never a Bob let alone 'Groovy Bob'. He was an inspiration, a life enhancer and a true friend and I miss him to this day. How Robert would have enjoyed his funeral as one of the mourners came by helicopter and his pilot not having been to the South London Crematorium before thought that he had found the perfect landing spot, only to discover too late that it was a sewage farm!"

—Stories from the Mayor Gallery 1986

And:

"At the 2012 Combine retrospective in Paris I was amused to see a film by Bryan [Robertson] and Bob [Rauschenberg] at the 1964 Whitechapel show, both smoking as they hung the show; two really sweet, really handsome, young men – what a loss to women, those two! You only needed Robert Fraser there and you would have had a mass suicide of desperate women, all three being gay!"

—Stories from the Mayor Gallery 1973

[ashes-555]

Miraculous Fic Shoutout #5

Maintaining a Professional Distance by buggachat

11 Chapters. LADYNOIR. I reread this one a lot for reasons.

““I mean, how dumb does the mayor think we are? Offering us a permanent hotel room as a ‘gesture of gratitude for all our work for Paris’, like it isn’t clearly just some half-baked political ploy to place him more in the public’s favor after the whole school funding scandal, like we’ll allow ourselves to sleep in a hotel that we were publicly offered, making ourselves sitting ducks for Hawkmo—”

“It’s a pretty big building,” he countered, and at least he seemed amused, because she certainly wasn’t, “Nobody knows which room we were given but us.”

“It doesn’t matter!” she scoffed, “It’s still a security risk that he can narrow our location down at all! Also,” she jutted her arms out towards the bed a second time, “May I remind you? ONE. BED. ONE!”

———

Or, Ladybug and Chat Noir receive a hotel room from the city, which they most certainly will not use. After all, that wouldn't be very professional, would it?

Yes, it's a Ladynoir bed sharing fic.”

[vigilvntes]

A World Alone - Bruce Wayne x Reader

Masterlist

A/N: i went from bruce wayne finger-banging to 8000 words of fluff, mutual pining and a lil bit of angst. i am not ok <3 also can you tell i listen to lorde :// anyway come talk to me about batman or the riddler or adrian chase <3

Word Count: 8.1k

Warnings: Language, mentions of alcohol, not beta read idc we die like men, spoilers for the batman, cringe fluff and i don't CARE because bruce wayne deserves loves ok???? (i think that's all <3)

Summary: Bruce makes his first public appearance since the memorial service, with you by his side.

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

The creaking of floorboards behind you catches your attention instantly. You place your teacup on the table gently (avoiding another lecture from Alfred about taking care with his finest China) and twist your head, a small smile crawling on to your lips when you see him approaching slowly. “Oh, look who's finally emerged from his cave.” You tease, glancing over at Alfred in amusement. He doesn't find it that funny, though.

“I can only offer my apologies, (Y/N). I did call him up an hour ago.” Alfred says pointedly, shifting to stand up from the seat beside you. You recall sitting at the table, listening to Alfred bicker back and forth with Bruce, until a few stern words and the slamming of the telephone had him making his way back to you, informing you that Bruce would be up in ‘just a moment’. An hour, in Bruce Wayne terms. “Tea, Bruce?” He offers, his hand already on the handle of the teapot.

“No. Thank you, though, Alfred.” Bruce says, his voice quiet yet polite. Like a child who's been scolded by their parent.

The room falls quiet. He hasn't made any moves to sit down, to join you at the table. He's just lingering behind you, probably wondering why the hell you're here. You know he's suspicious, you can tell by the way his gaze flicks between yourself and Alfred. Then, his eyes land on the small envelope in front of you. Now he's definitely suspicious.

You're not so sure what to say. It's been a while since your last visit, since you last saw Bruce Wayne without the cowl or the suit. You see him on TV screens much more than you see him in person, nowadays. While he's been busy helping the people, working with Gotham P.D. on search and rescue missions (you're sure he's been patrolling the areas with high crime, too), you've been working closely with the mayor and politicians. You spend most of your days in conferences and meetings, negotiating donations to whoever and whatever cause. You don't care. As long as it helps, as long as it contributes to the rebuilding of Gotham, you're game. You always wanted to do good with your money, and now you're doing exactly that.

Alfred breaks the silence, the quiet cling of his teacup against the saucer echoing around the room. You watch him down the rest of his tea quickly, more than eager to leave before your conversation with Bruce can even begin. You curse him internally for that. You always found it easier to negotiate with Bruce in Alfred’s presence. Bruce would break out the classic 'you're not my father’ line, (as if that's ever deterred Alfred from advising him, or telling him what to do), but in the end he'd always buckle. And you… well you'd sit there with a smug smile, watching the whole thing go down. You're on your own this time, evidently.

“Well…” Alfred starts, picking up the saucer from the table, “It's certainly been lovely seeing you, (Y/N). Unfortunately, I can't stay and chat any longer. The Wayne household doesn't run itself, you know.” He jokes. Though it's not really a joke.

You smile up at him, “It'd be lost without you.”

“Oh, I know that.” His gaze lands on Bruce for a moment, before flickering back to you.

“It's been so great seeing you, Alfred. And thank you for the tea.” You say.

“My pleasure.” He squeezes your shoulder before he begins making his way out of the room. His footsteps stop after a few moments, and you hear whispering, though you can't quite catch what's being said. Then, the gentle tap of his shoes resume until they're out of earshot.

You suddenly feel incredibly awkward without Alfred by your side. You can feel Bruce’s eyes burning into the back of your skull like lasers in the mist, cutting right through you. Your palms are sweaty, you can practically hear your heartbeat, feel it pounding through your entire body. “Why don't… why don't you come and sit down?” You ask, patting the backrest of the seat next to you. Nothing. “Please?”

He moves then, slowly circling the table, though he walks right past the seat you gestured to. Instead, he sits himself down two seats away from you. You can't help but scoff at how petty he's being. “Really?” You shove your tongue into your cheek in annoyance. He doesn't respond. Instead, he turns his attention to the window, seemingly taking in the scenery in the bright light of morning. Which is funny, really, because he never cared for the view.

You're getting a good look at him now, and he looks like shit, to be quite frank. Like he hasn't slept, showered or even been out of the literal cave underneath the mansion in days. All of those things are probably true. In fact, you know they're true. Except for that last one, you're sure you saw Batman on the news yesterday. Either way, he looks like he hasn't seen the light of day in, well, days. There's dark circles under his eyes, and he's squinting against the natural light flooding in through the window. He looks tired. You're starting to feel bad for what you're about to spring on him.

You're staring at him, and he's staring out of the window. You're trapped in some kind of deadlock. Neither of you know what to say or do, how to break the silence or cut through the tension. You figure out pretty quickly that he has no intention of cracking first, so you decide that it's up to you. You'll take the fall, happily. Anything to feel like you can breathe again. “Look, I know it's been a while—"

“Two months.” It's quiet, barely above a whisper, but you hear it loud and clear.

Two months.

You nod your head, “Yeah. Two months.”

Two. Whole months. Fuck. The last time you saw him was at the hospital when Alfred was hurt. You remember that not much was said between the two of you. You just sat next to him quietly, holding his hand in yours and hoping for the best.

“Listen, you know as well as I do that things just got really crazy. We've both been busy, and—”

You almost jump when he snaps his head to you, but you have no plans to back down under his intense gaze. “We have?”

“Yes, we have.” You say through gritted teeth. “And you know that.”

“Do I?” His voice is soft, quiet, yet there's a certain degree of animosity in his tone.

You huff out a laugh, though there's no humour in it. You're smiling, but you're far from amused. “Can you just let me fucking finish?” One more snide remark, one more interruption, and you would be walking out. Judging by the slight nod of his head, he knows that too. “Look, I know it's been a while, okay? I know that. Two months is… it's crazy. And I'm sorry, okay? I am sorry. I just... I needed some time to think. I felt like I was losing my mind here. The sleepless nights, the worrying... The isolation. It just… it got a little too much for me. Two weeks. That's all I wanted. But then shit got so crazy. I think—… I think both of us just lost track.”

He drops his head, focusing his gaze on the table and the intricate patterns in the wood. “Yeah.” He mumbles under his breath, but you hear him loud and clear.

You've known Bruce your entire life. Family friends, as cliché as that may be. You're not sure when your little affair started, but you remember the moment you found yourself in his bed as clear as day. It was an unspoken thing, as far as you knew. Neither of you mentioned relationships, becoming something more wasn't a topic either of you wanted to broach. It kind of happened naturally, though. He sought you out after spending his nights on the streets, and sometimes you'd make the trip to the mansion to be there for him when he got back. You'd have sex, and then you'd have breakfast together, sometimes dinner, and then he'd drive you back to the city in the evening. It was… nice. Really fucking nice. You might've called it love. But it didn't come without its fair share of grievances. Evidently. You just needed to be away from him for a while, to clear your head. Things had gotten really intense, and you needed some time. But then the Riddler happened, and the flood. You'd managed to get on with life for a while, doing what needed to be done before dealing with personal matters. But a part of you felt— feels empty, like you're missing something. There's a huge, obvious hole in your heart in the shape of Bruce Wayne, and you can only hope that it's able to be fixed at some point.

“What's that?” He asks quietly, gesturing to the envelope on the table.

You're thrown off by that, yet it's so typical of him. He never did like to talk about his feelings, or give you anything deeper than an 'I'm fine’, even when he clearly wasn't fine. Whatever. You know him well enough to know that he'll come around at some point, that he'll talk when he's ready. You shake your head quickly, pulling yourself together. “That would be your invitation to tomorrow night’s charity ball. We're raising money for people who lost their homes in the flood.” You tell him, sliding it across the table slowly.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you have it?” He questions, picking up the invitation, pulling the seal gently.

“Because I told the mayor I'd personally deliver it to you. She's getting tired of being ignored and sent to voicemail, Bruce. She wants to talk to you.” You lean back in your seat, your shoulders finally relaxing as you let out the breath you didn't realise you were holding in.

“So that's why you're here.” He says, unfolding the invitation, his eyes scanning over it quickly. You know he isn't reading it, that he has no interest in reading it.

“That's part of the reason why I'm here.” You shrug.

He huffs, raising his eyebrows at you and dropping the invitation back on to the table, “There's another reason?”

You shove your tongue into your cheek for the second time, suddenly understanding why Alfred was so quick to leave. You forgot that dealing with Bruce sometimes feels like dealing with a moody teenager. “I heard Batman dabbles in detective work now.” That gets his full attention. “Y’know, I always thought you to be a little more… What's the word?” You pause for a moment. “Hm. Intuitive.”

No response. Just his eyes staring straight through you.

You sigh, “Yes, I'm here on behalf of the mayor. I told her I had a personal connection to you, and that I'd deliver the invitation myself.” You pause, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth. “But… I'm also here because I wanted to see you, Bruce.” You admit.

“You needed an excuse.” He says, finally catching on.

You drop your head, huffing out an awkward laugh, “Yeah. Sounds kinda pathetic, now that you're saying it out loud. I mean I could have just called, or… stopped by. I don't—”

“It's not.” You glance up at him. He clears his throat, repeating, “It's not pathetic. I'm… I'm glad you're here.” He doesn't meet your eyes, but it's okay. You don't feel uncomfortable or awkward anymore. You feel relieved. You're certain there's no way he'll want to talk about… anything. That you're better off just moving past it, at least for the time being. You are glad to see him, and he is glad to see you. Middle ground.

“I'm glad you're here.” He repeats, and you brace yourself. “But—” there's always a fucking ‘but’. “I'm not going to the charity ball.”

“Bruce—”

“No. I'll make a donation, but..” He shakes his head.

“Look, I know going out isn't really your thing. But the mayor wants you to step up—”

He cuts you off, “I am stepping up. I'm already playing my part.” There's a certain bite in his tone.

That's true. There's no denying that it's true. Almost everyday you see that familiar cowl on the news or in the papers. Everyday you see headlines about the Batman, about how he's doing the right thing for Gotham, protecting the people and the streets. But that's Batman. Not Bruce Wayne. Well, it is Bruce Wayne. But it also isn't, as far as the people and the mayor are concerned.

“Batman is playing his part.” You say gently, leaning forwards and resting your hands on the table. “I know what you do for this city, I've seen everything. You're working so hard and I feel so guilty being here, asking for more. But as far as the mayor is concerned Bruce Wayne is living outside of the city, sitting in his ivory tower and doing nothing.” He seems to straighten up. “You— Bruce Wayne, were mentioned by name. He had a whole— I don't know even know what to call it, a… a whole presentation dedicated to you and your family. Whether you like it or not Bruce Wayne played a part in what went down.”

“That's not— It's not—… I didn't know. I had no idea about—…” He tries to argue but voice breaks.

You push your chair back and stand up, plopping yourself down in the seat next to him. The one you asked him to sit in earlier. You take his hand, feeling him tense up for a moment before relaxing into your touch. “I know. I know it's not your fault. I can't—… The people know it's not your fault, too. They just… they just want to see you. He tried to ruin you, but I promise you that the people are still on your side. You just… you need to make an appearance.”

He's silent for a moment. More than a moment, actually, and you hope that he's considering you. Or he's thinking of a way to let you down gently. Yes, definitely that. “I'm not accepting the invitation.” He mumbles, pushing the invite away. Ouch. Okay. That wasn't gentle.

You were quite convincing just then, you think. It didn't seem to be enough, though. It's okay. Because you came prepared. You anticipated this from the moment you agreed to give him the invitation yourself. “Oh, well that's perfect.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “Why's that?” He asks slowly. He knows. Oh, he knows you have something up your sleeve.

“Because I kind of, sort of, maybe… already have you down as my plus one.” His stare is blank, but it says everything. He's less than impressed. “And my driver might have the night off.” You add, placing the cherry neatly on top of the already-pissed-off-Bruce-Wayne-Sundae.

“I suggest you fix that.”

You shake your head. “Uh-uh. No. I don't think so. It's his daughter’s birthday so… special occasion. I wouldn't want to ruin any plans.” You shrug.

“Well you're ruining my plans.” He comments, sitting back. He hasn't dropped your hand, though.

“And what are your plans for tomorrow?” You ask. He glances away, and you can practically see the cogs in his head grinding against each other as he tries to think of something— anything that he could possibly be doing tomorrow night.

“Gordon needs me.” He answers, finally.

“That's a lie.” Blatant, actually. You're offended that he thinks you're stupid enough to fall for that.

“It’s not a lie.”

“You're lying. Your nostrils flare when you lie.” You can't help but smile at him. You know him, and you've always known him. You know when he's lying, when he's being truthful, when he's happy, when something’s bothering him. You know him like the back of your hand. Like you know the alphabet. “And even if Gordon did need you, the event starts at six. So I was thinking we get there at six thirty, leave for eight. You show face, and it leaves you plenty of time.”

He's staring at you. You're staring at him. He's silent, you're waiting for a response. He sighs quietly, “I'm not getting out of this, am I?”

You shake your head, “I don't think so. I think I've backed you into a corner enough. But I have more excuses and reasons if you wanna hear those, too.”

His lips twitch, and soon enough he's breaking out into a smile. It's not a big grin, but you can see his teeth and that makes you grin right at him. He drops his head for a moment, shoulders shaking as he laughs quietly. “You're unbelievable.”

You squeeze his hand gently. “So are you.” You really mean that, too. Maybe not in the way he means it. “So, I expect to see you parked up outside of my house at five thirty tomorrow. It's black tie, so do what you will with that.”

“Fine.” He mumbles, though his smile still hasn't dropped, and he's staring down at your intertwined fingers.

The two of you sit there in silence for a minute, finally comfortable in each other’s company. Without the tension, the awkwardness, the uncomfortable elephant in the room. It feels nice, you think, to just sit there for a moment and be. It makes you realise how much you've missed him. How much you've missed just sitting at his table in a comfortable silence, eating breakfast together in the late afternoon while Alfred scolds you for being lazy. You hope this is the first step to fixing things, getting things back to how they used to be. Maybe you would become more.

You don't want to go. You want to stay right there with him. But you have to go.

You chew on your bottom lip for a moment. “I hope you don't mind but… I have to leave. I have a meeting soon.”

Bruce shakes his head, “No. No, of course. You—… Do you need a ride back to the city?” He asks.

You shake your head, “No, I'm good. Patrick’s waiting for me.”

“He's been out there the whole time?” He asks, his eyes widening in surprise and… probably guilt. It did take him an hour to bring himself to leave the cave.

“Uh-huh. Even more reason for me to give him the night off.” You stand up, and he doesn't let go of your hand. In fact, his grip seems to tighten. You feel guilty for leaving already. You really don't want to fucking go. You want to sit with him, kiss him, wrap your arms around him and tell him how much you've missed him and how you think about him every single day. But you have to go. “I'll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.” He mumbles.

You start to walk away, and he still has your hand in his. Right up to the moment you're no longer in reach, his arm is outstretched. You swear you see him lean his body back, so you're fingertips can graze against each other for just a moment longer. You drop your hand down by your side slowly, the ghost of his touch lingering on your skin. Fuck, you miss it already. “If you stand me up tomorrow, I'm telling every magazine and newspaper in Gotham.” You tease.

“I wouldn't dare.” He reassures.

And then you're gone, your footsteps fading as you make your way down the hall.

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

Bruce doesn't disappoint. You didn't think he would, anyway. He was parked outside at exactly five thirty, looking far from impressed, but his frown dissipated as soon as his eyes landed on you. You smiled at him, and he managed to smile right back. He's wearing a simple black suit and tie, that long coat of his over the top. You remember it's the one he wore to the memorial service, too.

Now, you're sitting in his car, dressed to the nines, waiting in the traffic. You feel like you've been here for two hours already, but really it's only been ten minutes. It's quiet in the car, which doesn't surprise you. He's nervous. So, so nervous. You can see it in his furrowed brows, his tense jaw. In the way his eyes flick between you, the road and his own hand on the steering wheel. You do feel guilty for dragging him out, for making him leave the comfort of his own home, the comfort of his armour and cowl. Tonight, the eyes of Gotham would be on Bruce Wayne, not Batman. People would talk, because that's what people do, and they'd talk for a while. But at least he'd only have to do it once. One public appearance is enough to cause a stir, you think.

“How are you feeling?” You ask gently, glancing over at him.

“M’fine.” He mumbles in response, nostrils flaring every so slightly. You know he tried so hard to hide that. His eyes are focused on the road now, the traffic moving along just a little. There's only five or six cars in front of you now. They'll know it's him immediately, just from the model of the car. You swear he's the only person in Gotham who drives himself to events.

“Okay. That's cool. Now tell me the truth?” He looks at you, then, almost incredulously. You shrug, “Why do you always forget that I know exactly when you're lying?”

He sighs. You're right and he knows it. “I'm feeling okay. Just… Just a little nervous.” There's more truth to it. Not the full truth. You know he's shitting bricks, to put it quite plainly. But you'll let him have that. You figure that's the most honest answer you're going to get.

“You'll be okay.” You reassure, but he doesn't look so convinced. “It's just for tonight. You don't have to answer any questions, if you don't want to. We'll go right in there, talk to whoever you need to talk to— definitely the mayor, and then we'll get out of there. Sound good?”

“Yeah.”

Soon five or six cars turn into two or three, and before you know it, you're right in front of the steps. You turn to look at him, to make sure that he's okay one last time before you step out, but he's already opening the car door, getting out quickly and slamming it shut behind him. Never mind then. You watch him walk around the front of the car, keeping his head down the whole time as all eyes and all cameras are pointed directly at him. He opens the door for you and offers you his hand, which you gladly take, mumbling a quiet ‘thank you’. And then you're in the thick of it, too.

Cameras flashing in your face, reporters shoving microphones in front of you, everyone’s so desperate to get anything from either you or Bruce. He has his back turned to the press, handing his keys to the valet while you try and offer your best smile. It's pointless though, all attention is focused on the prince of the city, as they like to call him. You don't even register that he's turned his attention to you until he's tugging on your arm, pulling you gently towards the steps.

The ball is being held at some fancy hotel just outside of the city. It's big and bright and lavish, lit up from top to bottom, totally opposite to everything else in the city. It looks so out of place, honestly, compared to the monochromatic nature of Gotham. Oh well. You'd have plenty of time to complain about the ugly venue later.

You loop your arm around his, pulling him close to you, and immediately you feel him relax against you. The two of you ascend the white, marble staircase arm in arm. You smile and occasionally wave, answering any questions directed to you as quickly as you can. Bruce, on the other hand, ignores all of them. He doesn't even smile, you don't think. He just keeps his head down, blocking out the screams of his name.

“Mr Wayne!”

“Mr Wayne! It's so good to see you!”

“Mr Wayne, why are you here tonight!?”

“Mr Wayne, how are you contributing to the effort to rebuild Gotham?!”

“Mr Wayne, are you dating (Y/N)?!”

“Mr Wayne, you're the only one mentioned by name that survived the attacks. Is it true that you were working with Edward Nashton?!”

You feel him tense up.

“Mr Wayne, how does it feel knowing your father’s a murderer?!”

Fuck.

That one gets to him.

He stops dead in his tracks, and you stop too. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. You don't know what to do. He's frozen in place, breathing heavily, cheeks turning red with anger, giving the reporter who asked that question the deadliest glare. Seriously, if looks could kill, this guy would be dead one million times over. He'd be six feet fucking under. The only thing that comforts you is the fact that Bruce makes a conscious effort to not kill. You still fear that he'll lunge over the barriers, though. Give the reporter a piece of his mind with his fists instead. Warranted, though not entirely ideal, and you know he has enough sense to not go through with any acts of violence running through his head right now.

It’s your soft voice, the gentle tug on his arm that snaps him out of it, that quells his rage for just a moment. “Hey, let's get inside.” He looks between you and the reporter for a brief moment, then nods his head. You sigh quietly in relief as the two of climb the last few steps, making your way into the building quickly.

He's shaking. You can feel him shaking against you. You assume it's because he's angry, but then you see his eyes, red and glassy, and you realise he's on the verge of tears. You're not sure whether he's upset, or whether he's just really fucking wound up. Or both.

“So much for ‘the people are on your side’.” He mumbles under his breath, but you hear him. Oh, he's pissed off. Rightly so, but you don't appreciate his snide comment. He tries to pull away from you, but you don't let him. You keep your arm firmly locked around his, wrapping your hand around his bicep and squeezing gently. The moment you allow him to let go of you will be the moment you lose him. You don't trust him to not bolt straight out of the doors, to fly back down the steps, get back into his car and drive home. You've only just got him back, and you'd like to keep him for good this time.

You're in the fancy lobby, now. Bright red carpets, golden wallpaper and large paintings in golden frames hanging on the walls. It's ugly even on the inside, you think, but it's far nicer in here than it is out there. In here, you're surrounded by ugly decor, politicians, socialites and pretty much anyone who's anyone in Gotham. But you're safe. Out there… you're like pieces of meat to a pack of wild dogs. They're hungry, desperate for anything they can get from you. At least inside you're away from the flashing lights, the microphones being shoved under your noses and the screaming of your names.

The large, wooden doors that lead to the hall where the event is being held are just up ahead, but you pull him to the side before you even think about going right in. “Hey…” You whisper, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Don't.” He warns, refusing to meet your eyes.

“You just have to ignore them, Bruce. I know it's hard—”

“You don't know.” He's trying to be cutting, actively trying to ward you off. The same way he does with Alfred. But just like how it doesn't work with Alfred, it doesn't work with you, either. You know that deep down he's desperate for some kind of reassurance, but he only knows how to fight against it.

You bring your hands up to his face, cupping his cheeks with your palms. “You're right. I don't know. But what I do know is that not everyone thinks like that.”

“But some people do.” He sounds genuinely hurt. Bruce spent his entire life idolising his father. He started the Gotham Project for his father, to continue his family's legacy. He knows the truth about what went down with his father and Falcone and the reporter who had dirt on his mother, and that should be enough. But it isn't, and you can understand why it isn't enough. It has to be, though.

You nod. “Yeah. Some people do. They'll believe the gossip and the lies and the fucked up shit they hear over the truth, as long as it lines up with their ideals. You know the truth, and the majority of the city knows the truth, too. And they're on your side, I promise you.” You take his hand, intertwining your fingers with his, squeezing gently.

The two of you stand there in silence for a moment. He seems to be calming down, which is more than a relief to you. His cheeks are returning to their normal, pasty colour and he's breathing deep and slow now. He's okay. He's going to be okay. He's going to get through the next hour, at least, and then you'd be free to leave.

You bring his hand up to your lips and press a soft kiss against his knuckle, “Are you good, Bruce?” You ask gently. You don't want to push him if he's not ready yet.

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Are you sure? Because—”

“(Y/N).” He speaks your name so softly, and it commands your full attention. “I'm okay.” He brings your hand up to his lips now, pressing a kiss against your knuckle just like you'd done only seconds ago.

You almost melt.

God. Just being with him, touching him and talking to him, makes you wonder why you ever spent so long away from him. Two fucking months. You can't even comprehend it, but you know it's never going to happen again. You're never going to spend that long away from him ever again. It's Bruce, it always has been and it always will be. You're certain of that. You'll never miss anyone like you miss him, crave anyone’s attention like you crave his, buckle under anyone’s touch like you buckle under his. You're not sure if the same can he said for him, but he's here with you, and that's all that matters.

“Okay. Do you wanna head in?” He nods his head, and this time he moves to take hold of your arm first. You smile up at him, and you see his lips twitch upwards. That's enough for you.

The two of you make your way towards the wooden doors. Most, if not all, guests are already in there, you assume, since the lobby is almost barren. “Are you ready?” You ask. He nods and without a second of hesitation you're pushing open the doors. It feels like there's a spotlight shining directly on you, or maybe that's just the effect of the bright lights and golden walls meshing together to create some kind of optical phenomena that has you blinded for just a moment. Fuck, if you thought it was light out there, you have no idea how to describe this. Though, it's prettier in here than in the lobby, you think.

People are staring, and he's incredibly tense, unsure of what to do. So, you just pull him along, out of the doorway and into the crowd. “People will talk, and they'll stare, but it's because they probably weren't expecting to see you here tonight. So you're gonna say hello, you're gonna say 'I'm doing fine thank you, how are you?’ and then we're gonna move along. Okay?”

And that's exactly what he does. He's still quiet and mildly awkward, but there's a charming edge to him, too. One that doesn't come out so often in public but it's there and tonight, as he chats to politicians and friends of his father, with you by his side for comfort, you see it. You know he wants to leave, to be out of there as soon as possible, you can see it in his eyes, but he's pulling it off. He's playing the part and he's playing it well. He's latched on to you, his eyes never seem to leave you, but you're more than happy to be his safety net. Though that won't last much longer.

“(Y/N), you must work miracles.” An oh-so-familiar voice calls from behind you. You turn around, dragging Bruce with you, and you're met with the eyes of the mayor, Bella Reál. She's beaming, smiling brightly at the two of you, but you can't help but notice she's eyeing Bruce from head to toe. Almost in shock. “Look who it is. Mr. Wayne himself.”

“In the flesh. I thought I'd never get him out of that tower.” You tease, a grin on your lips as you squeeze him closer to you. You can feel his unimpressed stare, but you're not intimidated.

“I always had faith in you.” She reassures. “Do you mind if I steal him from you? I've been dying to speak with him.”

“Oh, no. Of course not. He's all yours.” You try to pull your arm away from him, but his grip tightens. He won't let go, he doesn't want to let go. But he has to. You give his bicep one last squeeze before you yank your arm away from him, careful to keep your elbows to yourself. “You'll be fine. I'll talk to you later.” You mumble. He isn't happy, his tongue is pushed against the inside of his cheek in annoyance, but there's nothing you can do.

“I promise I'll bring him straight back.” She jokes, giving you one last smile before she turns and starts walking away, with Bruce reluctantly in tow.

You're not so sure what to do now that you're on your own, so you pick up a flute of champagne from a waiter and make your way through the crowds of people. You talk to family friends, introduce yourself to unfamiliar faces and chat about any new plans or projects you have in the works to aid the city. You keep a smile plastered on your lips and a glass in your hand at all times, ready to greet anyone and everyone. It's exhausting, you have to admit that, but it's what you do. Occasionally, you feel Bruce’s eyes on you. When he's not in conversation, and even when he is, you feel him staring right at you from across the room. You're surprised he can even find you amongst the crowd of black suits and dresses, but he does. Every single time. You always look back, give him a reassuring smile and watch as he visibly relaxes. You're glad he's making an effort, that he's finally giving the mayor a chance to speak to him and discuss how he's going to help the city (though if she knew even half of what Bruce had done for Gotham, you're sure there's no way she'd be on his case about it). You can't wait for him to be back by your side, though. He's a comfort to you just as much as you're a comfort to him.

You're at a small table in the corner that's covered with champagne flutes, your back turned, when you feel hands grab on to your waist from behind. You gasp and jolt backwards, bumping against a firm chest. You're about to swing your elbow back when you hear a familiar huff in your ear, the fingers on your waist digging into your flesh lightly, forcing a quiet giggle out of you and making you squirm in his grasp. You curse the day he realised you're ticklish. “You're an asshole.” You mumble, but there's no real anger or annoyance in your tone. “How'd it go?” You ask, picking up a flute and bringing it to your lips.

“Terribly.” He says simply, though there's amusement laced in there somewhere and you know he's messing around.

“Hm. I'm sure it was awful. I bet she had you talking about all sorts of diabolical shit. Like going outside, making more public appearances, attending meetings, doing inter—”

Bruce squeezes your waist gently, cutting you off, “Yeah, yeah. I get it.” A pause. “Can we leave now?”

You pry his hands from your waist and turn around, your eyebrows raised in amusement. It's not a shock to you that he's already so eager to leave. “You wanna go? Already?”

He nods his head once. “I did what you asked me to do. I spoke with the mayor. You said we could leave early, so let's go.” He tries to tug on your arm, but you stay firmly in place.

God, you've only had two or three glasses to drink but you're already feeling slightly fuzzy. You give him your best pout, “You wanna get rid of me already?”

A beat of silence. His brows furrow, “That's not— I didn't—”

“We should dance.” You tell him. There's an orchestra playing in the background, certainly not anything yourself or Bruce would typically listen to, but that's not a problem to you. There's other couples dancing in the middle of the room, stiff and looking far from happy. Probably talking about some important matter or another that would be too intense to discuss without the distraction of dance.

“I can't dance.” A lie, for sure.

You scoff, shaking your head, “Do not disrespect Alfred like that ever again. I know he's taught you how to dance.”

He sighs, fully aware that you're right. Alfred would scold him for that. “Fine, then I don't dance.”

“You could.” You retort.

“I don't like dancing.” He says.

“Do you like anything?” You ask playfully.

His mouth opens and closes for a moment, as if there's something he want to say, but he's just not quite sure how to say it, or if he can at all. “I just don't want to.” He says, as if it's final, but you know he'll cave.

“I think it'd be fun. Just one dance.” You hold up your index finger, as proof that you truly mean just one dance.

He's silent for a moment, and you hope he's considering you. “People will talk.” He mumbles. About him, about you, about your maybe, sort of, kind of relationship. About your outfit, his hair. About why he's here tonight, why he came with you on his arm. You can understand why taking your hand and allowing you to lead him into the middle of the room, to have him wrap his arms around you and pull you close in front of so many people would be so daunting, but—

“Fuck it.” You say confidently. “People are always gonna talk. They're talking right now and we're just standing here.” You bring your hands up and cup his cheeks, looking up at him. “Let them.” You grab his hand suddenly and begin leading him to the dance floor. He tries to pull against you, to tug you backwards, but you don't care, you know he'll give up eventually. And he does. He reluctantly lets you guide him around small crowds of people and couples dancing together until you're right in the middle of… everything. The room, the dance floor, the crowd. The song that's playing is something classical. You think you recognise it, though you can't quite put a name to it. You don't really care to. You're more focused on Bruce. He looks so fucking awkward, and you can't help but feel guilty. But then you remember that if he really didn't want to dance, he would have said so. He's a big boy, and you're sure he can make his own decisions.

So, you wrap your arms around his neck, and after a moment of hesitation and a barely audible sigh, his hands find their way to your waist. You're quiet, just watching him and his facial expressions. His eyes are flickering around the room, his lips pressed into a thin line, and there's a slight tinge of pink in his cheeks. Completely different to the angry red you saw earlier. You can feel the stares, the whispers and the conversations, and you're sure not all of them are about you but you know he probably thinks otherwise. You know he wants nothing more than to sink into the floor. “Hey…” you whisper, catching his attention. “It's okay. Forget about them. It's just us. We're alone. Just me and you.”

He doesn't respond, but he sways when you sway, he moves when you move, breathes when you breathe, until the pressure releases from his shoulders and he relaxes into the dance. He still looks anxious, and slightly uncomfortable, but you're just grateful he's still entertaining you. He never did know how to say no to you, after all.

“I'm sorry.” His quiet voice cuts through the silence between the two of you. It's so sudden, and it almost makes you jump.

You're confused, though. “You're sorry… for what?” You ask slowly. You're not trying to make him admit anything, you're genuinely baffled. He hasn't made any sudden moves to leave, he hasn't left you stranded, or done anything wrong at all.

“Yesterday… when you said you were sorry for leaving for so long. I never said sorry. So I'm saying it now.” He's not looking at you, instead choosing to look straight over your shoulder, but you know he's being sincere. “I missed you.” He breathes out.

You screw your eyes shut for a moment, shaking your head. “No— You don't— Please don't be— We're both at fault.”

“I guess we are.” He looks at you, finally. Wanting you to know that he really, truly means every word. “I thought about you every day.”

You glance up at him, slightly taken aback by that admission. “Y-you did?” You curse yourself internally for stuttering over your words. God, you must sound so pathetic.

“Yeah. I did.”

“Well… you could have called.” You shrug. “I don't bite.”

“I wouldn't say that.” He's teasing you, and he's trying so hard to stop himself from grinning at his own joke.

“Wow, your comedy career’s really coming along, huh?” You bite back (fitting), but there's no malice. You take note of the fact that he doesn't even entertain the idea that you could have called him. He's somewhat self aware, at least.

“Hm. It could use some work.” A beat of silence. “I'm sorry, though. Truly. I—” He stops himself, because he knows you're about to cut him off. The look he gives you is stern, and you back down instantly, deciding to stay quiet. “I'm sorry for driving you away. It shouldn't ever be that complicated.”

“I don't mind complicated. I just— I just needed a little time. I was always gonna come back because— Fuck. Because I can't stay away from you. I'd go through forty sleepless nights in a row for you.” It's all coming out now. You're just talking and talking and you can't stop it, you're not even sure that you want to stop it.

“You shouldn't have to—”

“But I want to. I just— I want you. And everything that comes with having you.” You admit quietly, barely above a whisper. It occurs to you then that you've become the couple on the dance floor having an intense discussion. But it's not about finances or divorce or whatever the hell else, it's more along the lines of love. “I want you.” You repeat, reaffirming it to yourself and to him.

He's silent, and you fall silent too. You're not sure what to do, what he wants you to do. You're just staring at each other, and you only realise now that you stopped swaying along to the music a long time ago. You feel his hands move to your hips, pulling your body closer to his, and you take the opportunity to slide your hands from the back of his neck to his cheeks. He's leaning down, and you’re standing up on your tiptoes to meet him in the middle. Everything's so fucking loud, now. You can hear every word of every conversation around you, your heart thumping in your ears, though you can't hear your own breathing. Are you even breathing? Fuck. You don't know. Fuck. Are you breathing? It's all too much. You feel like you're going insane. You can't think or do anything. It's getting louder and louder, to the point where even quite exchanges seem deafening.

Until your lips meet his, and then the room falls quiet. Well, not really. But it feels like it does. You can't hear anything now, you're so focused on him and his lips and how they mesh perfectly with yours. It feels like the first time. It's not. It's far from the first time you've kissed the prince of the city, actually. But those sparks you felt in your stomach the first time, the ones that sent tingles through your entire body and made your legs feel like jelly are back in full force. You don't want to pull away, to be reminded that you're in a room full of people you don't know and probably don't like, to be reminded that people are watching. You want to stay in this little world that you've created forever, where it's just the two of you alone together.

He pulls away first, and you almost whine in protest as you pull him back in for another. And another. And another. Just one more. One more. His shoulders are shaking in silent laughter as you refuse to let him go, to let your lips part from his just yet. When you eventually pull back, you grin at him. It's lazy and love-drunk, and you're sure he's looking at you in the same way. “I want you.” You tell him again.

He doesn't need to say it back, and he probably won't. At least, not here. It's okay, though. You don't need him to. You know he feels the same way. You can see it in the way he looks at you. He's smiling. Like, actually smiling. In public. And that's enough for you to know that he feels the same way. He wants you too.

“Hey, do you wanna get out of here?” You ask, smiling to yourself because just ten minutes ago you were practically begging him to stay. Now, you just want to be alone with him.

“Yeah. I do.” He breathes out, and within a second he's grabbing your hand gently. He leads the way this time, weaving you through the crowd, ignoring everyone's stares and calls of his name or yours, dead set on making it to and through the wooden doors without interruption. You're giggling the whole time, and from the few glimpses you catch of his face, you think he's smiling.

When you make it outside, still hand in hand, you're not exactly thrilled to see that the press are still there, camera men and journalists focusing all of their attention on the doors, ready to capture any and all swift exits. You notice that the guy from earlier, the one who called Bruce’s father a murderer, has gone, and you thank your lucky stars for that. The attention is on you immediately, from the moment you step foot through the doors. They're shouting his name, snapping pictures, vying for any trickle of attention they can get from him, for anything to talk about in their gossip columns or front pages. He's intent on leaving, but you're more than happy to give them something to talk about.

You stop right in the middle of the marble staircase, and he stops too when you tug his arm back. “What are you doing? What's wrong?” He asks, his brows furrowed.

“Come here.” He doesn't move. “Just come here, Bruce.” You encourage.

Slowly, he makes his way up the few steps between you, and you waste no time in flinging your arms around his neck and planting a kiss on his lips. You can hear the cameras snapping photos, and even with your eyes closed you can still see the faintest flash of white light.

You know he won't be happy when he wakes up the next morning and reads the headlines, when he sees the photos plastered in every newspaper and magazine, but you can't really bring yourself to care. You're his, and he's yours, and you don't care who knows it anymore. It's your world, and you're alone together. People will talk, so let them talk.

[kontextmaschine]

People loved their work once, and it didn’t matter if they worked in the public sector or in the private one. The men who worked in the CCC would take their grandchildren to see the forests they planted, while the men from the auto plants would point out the cars they’d built as they passed them on the new interstate highway system. The women who fastened the engines on the wings would watch the B-17’s fly off to make a liar out of Goering, and the women who taught in the public schools would point with pride when one of their old students got elected mayor. Work was about making money, certainly. It was about feeding the family and keeping the roof where it was, and maybe having a little left over at the end of the day, or at the end of the week, for some amusement. Maybe a trip to Lincoln Park or White City or a hundred other places, where you could take a moment and enjoy the cool of the evening, music riding the nightwind from a dance pavilion down along the lake.

But it was also about Doing A Job, and doing it well, which was different than simply Having A Job. It was about making good cars and strong steel and sturdy furniture. It was about learning a craft, even if what you were doing wasn’t recognized as one. There was a craft in tightening rivets, or feeding the open-hearth furnace, or planing the wood just so. You had your craft, and the person next to you had theirs, and, when all the work was done, and all the craft was practiced, and practiced well, there was something you could look at with pride and say, that is something I have given to the world. Job well done, as they used to say. You could teach seventh grade civics and then, one day, you’re on a podium outside of City Hall. That kid right there, you could say. That kid is something I have helped give to the world. Job well done, as they used to say.

Unions were greatly responsible for the pride that people took in the work they did, especially in the middle of the last century, when unions helped build the most formidable middle class in human history.

There was an autoworker, Ben Hamper, who wrote a column in the Flint (later Michigan) Voice, which was the alt-weekly Michael Moore first made his name by running. A lot of his columns got collected and repackaged in an excellent book, Rivethead, that I read in college.

I read it in a class with Stuart Blumin, who was my favorite professor and de facto advisor. He was an American historian, focused on labor and class and the development of capitalism, you could tell he was heavily influenced by EP Thompson and the Communist Party Historians Group over in the UK.

He was quite open that he had expected Communism to ultimately triumph, and that he had been wrong about that, and in subtext that he had wanted it to ultimately triumph, and didn’t think he had been wrong about that.

Anyway, Rivethead. The story is that Hamper was born in 1956, a fairly clever kid growing up in Flint, Michigan, the chronological and geographic apex of American industrial unionism, where everyone’s dad worked for GM.

And he could have gone to college but he gets some girl pregnant and so he goes to work on the assembly line not even really out of obligation or Catholic guilt or whatever but because that seems as good a life course as any, it’s what every man he’s known does, under the mighty UAW the pay’s on par with the kind of “educated” jobs you could get anyway, why not.

And so he goes to work on the line and eventually he ends up writing a column about it, and he talks about the color of the factory culture, playing soccer with rivets for balls and cardboard boxes for goals, drinking mickeys of malt liquor in your car on lunch break, the absurd fursuited mascot “Howie Makem, The Quality Cat” that GM would feature at rallies and shop-floor tours, being laid off in economic downturns and put into the “job bank” where you get paid waiting to be rehired in the next upswing, developing a perfect rhythm with your partner, training into a rhythm so perfect you can each trade off doing the two-person job yourself for 4 hours while the other one goes out to a bar on the clock, the dignity and solidarity of the American worker.

And time goes on and eventually his marriage fails but he takes it in stride, and his column gets recognized and he takes pride in that and then eventually he has an epiphany, and a complete breakdown, which are basically the same thing. And the inciting incident is when an older line worker, some guy he’d looked up to as a model of quiet, philosophical stolidity, just shits himself and is barely coherent enough to even notice this and he realizes the guy hadn’t been a Zen master, he’d just been checked-out mindless drunk on the line every day.

And he realizes that the rivethead life is destroying him, that the only thing holding it together was a budding alcoholism, and that it’s doing the same to all his co-workers, and looks back and realizes it had done the same to every grown-up man he knew, his father and uncles that growing up he had looked up to as models of masculine strength and fortitude really had just had their spark snuffed out and the life beaten out of them long before, and whatever pride they took in the cars out on the road was a defensive attempt to locate in an external form the sense of self-value that had been exterminated within them.

When Marx talked about “alienation”, well.

And he went crazy, and couldn’t bear to work on the line anymore, and there’s no redemption, that’s where the book ends.

And that was a theme that cropped up again in Professor Blumin’s class, that there were two great working class traditions that echoed through the ages, and they were

avoiding work

and

drinking

Back in the premechanized age of small-group workshop manufacturing, workers would celebrate “Saint Monday”, which was to say just not showing up for work, hung over after the weekend.

(This was riffing off of Catholic feast days, or holy days, from which we take the word “holiday”, and as time went on counted an increasing share of the days of the year. There was a reason that poor workers were aligned with the Church, and nobility, in “Altar and Throne” coalitions resisting the development of industrial capitalist liberal democracy.)

In the ‘80s, the crap time of American auto manufacturing, one trick that was passed around (pre-internet, so by word of mouth largely) was to look at the codes stamped on car bodies, which would tell you what day of the week they were manufactured, and to avoid Mondays and Fridays. Because those days had the highest defect rates, because the workers tended to be drunk, or hungover, or absent.

And back in the workshop days, you’d drink at work. Apprentices would be sent out for growlers or buckets of beer, there were elaborate rules of who in the hierarchy of workers was expected to buy rounds for who and when. And there was hellacious resistance to attempts to get them to knock this off, as the industrial era kicked into swing.

Those great satanic mills, where women and children worked in shifts at great water- or steam-driven sewing and spinning machines, stories of little kids getting their hands mangled by the machinery? One of the major reasons women and children were preferred was because they would actually show up on time every day, and stay sober around all those hand-manglers.

And I mean, this maybe sounds like an argument for socialism. Though not of any actually-existing- variety, as capitalist propaganda will be glad to tell you, Soviet work culture, at least when the morale thrills of the Revolution and Great Patriotic War faded from personal to institutional memory, was all about shirking and vodka.

So those complaints about how America celebrates Labor Day instead of May Day, ignoring the true meaning of labor - solidarity - in favor of mindless distraction? Psssh. Labor Day is a celebration of the truest, most ancient, most fundamental traditions of labor: not working (especially on Mondays), and getting drunk.

Happy Labor Day!

[casadefreewill]

Daily Fics

(Fics I read throughout the day yesterday and enjoyed)

Maintaining a Professional Distance by buggachat ( @buggachat )

“I mean, how dumb does the mayor think we are? Offering us a permanent hotel room as a ‘gesture of gratitude for all our work for Paris’, like it isn’t clearly just some half-baked political ploy to place him more in the public’s favor after the whole school funding scandal, like we’ll allow ourselves to sleep in a hotel that we were publicly offered, making ourselves sitting ducks for Hawkmo—”

“It’s a pretty big building,” he countered, and at least he seemed amused, because she certainly wasn’t, “Nobody knows which room we were given but us.”

“It doesn’t matter!” she scoffed, “It’s still a security risk that he can narrow our location down at all! Also,” she jutted her arms out towards the bed a second time, “May I remind you? ONE. BED. ONE!”

———

Or, Ladybug and Chat Noir receive a hotel room from the city, which they most certainly will not use. After all, that wouldn't be very professional, would it?

Yes, it's a Ladynoir bed sharing fic.

They can really do it all huh, anyways, another great fic from buggachat. Identity shenanigans galore! Also dangerous levels of clownbug present in this. Post gang of secrets future fic.

At least half of this is Marinette dealing with her denial and avoidance tendencies when it comes to emotional venerability, and Adrien in the background figuring out how to begin to take care of himself emotionally. And of course tons of Ladynoir goodness with a generous side of Adrinette. So if that sounds interesting and you somehow haven’t read this already give it a shot.

★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆

metamorphosis by peachcitt ( @peachcitt )

“Wait!” Marinette had called, and he’d immediately frozen in the doorframe, turning back to look at her. She was brimming with confusion, with questions, but the only thing that came out of her mouth was: “what do you want?”

He’d stared at her, and Marinette had itched under his gaze, so knowing and uncanny. “To see you at the Eiffel Tower in fifteen minutes."

and

“The man who gave me the power asked me if I wanted the ability to have my voice heard. And I said yes.”

“But Hawkmoth-”

“It was different,” the professor says, shaking her head. “You know Hawkmoth never asked.”

or

three years after hawkmoth's defeat, marinette is still trying to figure out her version of normal. there's also sleepovers.

(Yay I have time to read fic again!) so I was able to read chapters 5 and 6 today.

Not a clue what wish he could POSSIBLY consider worth all this. Anyways, sick new costume and powers for the butterfly.

Also bonus Ladybug trying to hold it together:

[sleepless-in-southlands]

I’m Calling Your Bluff (And Calling You Mine)

Ao3

Summary: It was a bit hypocritical to have rules in regards to a business that existed almost entirely on the wrong side of the law, but even in a place as depraved as Heremita, common sense could be found. Don't get too attached to your business rivals, for example. Too bad Scar had never been one for too much sense. Content: AU- Mob bosses, pining (kinda), s7 mayor race but make it gay mob bosses basically; blood, violence, threats, gunshot wound, scars, codependency, homoromanticism, kissing, obligatory characters not CCs Ships: Whatever the Fuck mumscarian has going on (def romo mumbo/scar, everything else is Very fruity and up to interpretation), platonic Scar and Bdubs Notes: Part one of the Bloody Fruits au

~

    The casino was as well-lit as ever, chandeliers of gold spilling aureate light down upon the finely dressed gamblers that filled its halls as they traded away dirty-money riches and purloined treasures for a moment of thrill. Flashing greens and blues were exchanged for cheap chips and lavish liquors, a night of expense that most of the players could afford to lose.

    Scar took in the sight indifferently, leaning on his deceptively delicate cane as he loitered just past the building’s foyer. Most looking for an audience with the opulent casino’s owner need to schedule far in advance, the man both busy and unsociable. Scar was not most people.

    He gave a small wave to the eyes in the sky that had been tracking his movements since the moment he had appeared on the street before the establishment. They blended into the ceiling like a charm, glazed purple domes tricking most into believing they were little more than colourful decor, but Scar made a habit of knowing when he was being watched.

    Soon enough, Scar was being approached by a man no one else would notice, dressed to be little more than an extension of his surroundings. In a pressed red suit with amethyst cufflinks and tie-clip, he looked rich enough to belong but not dazzling enough to stick-out.

    “Mr. Chronos.” His voice was smooth and refined, paired with a smile that was just a smidge too sharp to be genial. “You’re not expected.”

    “Mr. Penemue.” Scar replied in a matching tone. “I’m not, no! I was just strolling by and thought I should pop in for a chat along the way.”

    Grian’s smile didn’t falter. “Mr. Eris is a busy man, he doesn’t typically see those without an appointment.”

    “Oh, but he’ll see me, won’t he?”

    For that, Scar was rewarded with the edge of the other man’s lips quirking up by the smallest fraction in genuine amusement. “I suppose he can fit you in. Follow me.”

    Scar allowed himself to be led through the main room of the casino, sparing glances of idle curiosity to the tables they passed. Every dealer’s move was practiced and precise, every card that moved through their hands shining as they hit the table. Scar’s shops were doing fine, and the casino business had never been his scene, but in the halls of the End Crystal Scar had to admit he could see the appeal.

    A drab door marked ‘employees only’ near the back brought the two of them to a well-furnished waiting room. The late hours left it empty as they crossed the room, halting before a set of solid dark oak doors.

    Scar turned as they stopped, unsurprised to find he was being offered a plain- and mostly certainly unarmed- cane. “You know the rules, Mr. Chronos.”

    “Don’t trust me?”

    Grian’s smile had reverted back to the fixed and never-changing one he had greeted Scar with, though the look in his eyes had become hard. “When it comes to Mr. Eris’s safety, I trust no one.”

    “Oh, Grian, relax! It’s just me.” Scar handed over his cane, accepting the replacement as his was carefully placed in the ‘umbrella’ stand that did its named job poorly. “You can call him by his first name.”

    Grian pulled open one of the doors without response, allowing Scar to enter before him. Scar rolled his eyes in amusement, though he appreciated Grian’s vigilance. People like Scar didn’t make it very long without people like Grian, after all.

    The End Crystal’s office was as elegantly put together as the rest of the casino, but it lacked the gaudy comforts that convinced its patrons to empty their pockets. The crimson curtains were drawn on the window behind its owner, the streetlights streaming through casting him in a bloody hue. He looked up from the papers he had been marking as the door opened, one eyebrow raising. “A bit late for an appointment, isn’t it?”

    “Apologies, Mumbo,” The door clicked shut before Grian walked past Scar, taking his proper place at the right of Mumbo. Though his stance remained guarded, as though ready to strike at any moment, his shoulders relaxed and his faux smile fell, “but you know how he is.”

    Mumbo chuckled as he sat back, letting his pen fall against his desk. His outfit, a black suit and red tie, was a perfect mirror of Grian’s- or, more accurately, Grian’s outfit was a perfect mirror of Mumbo’s. In place of Grian’s amethysts, Mumbo’s cuffs sported moustache silhouettes outlined in red, a simpler representation of the man’s own facial hair. The design was not all that threatening if you asked Scar; which, in all fairness, made its notoriety all the more impressive.

    “I do indeed.” Mumbo replied to Grian, gesturing at Scar. “Well then? What has brought us the pleasure of your company today, Mr. Chronos?”

    “You South territory folks are much too formal.” Scar complained, dropping into one of the plush chairs that sat before Mumbo’s desk. “Please, it’s Scar. And I just wanted to see how your campaign efforts were coming along. Decided to drop-out yet?”

    “Hardly.” Mumbo said with a self-assured smile. “For every fortune won on my floor, another dozen are lost. There are a good number of people who would trade their vote for their debt.”

    Scar settled his borrowed cane across his lap. “Bought loyalties aren’t really long-term, you know. At the Glass Empire, we actually secure lasting alliances.”

    “Mine need only last til the election.” Mumbo responded easily, glancing at Grian. “The South only needs each other.”

    “A dangerous philosophy.” Scar’s grip tightened imperceptibly on the cane’s handle. “Isolated nations always fall in the end.”

    “Everything falls in the end.” Grian replied. Scar’s eyes flicked over to his, Grian returning his gaze unflinchingly as Mumbo chuckled once more.

    “Well put, Grian.” Mumbo tilted his head to the side. “But you sound as though you have a purpose to your words, do you not? If you are looking to secure another partnership for your Empire… well, the South would be willing to review the compatibility of our organizations.”

    Scar’s grip loosened. Tightened again. He flashed his hosts his most winning smile as he pushed himself back to his feet. “You move so fast, Mumbo! My visit today is solely personal, not for business.” 

    Mumbo leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk and creating a bridge out of his hands for his chin to rest on. “We could make this personal as well.”

    Scar looked directly at Mumbo, finding him looking back with an expectant curiosity. As the moment stretched, Mumbo’s smile returned, the sharp edges of his teeth just barely showing. He was waiting for something, and the longer Scar waited with him, the more sure he became he was getting it. Like a game.

    Out of the corner of his eye, Scar just barely caught Grian’s shoulders once again tensing. Always on his guard. Like a trap.

    “Delightful as ever to see you, Mumbo.” Scar said finally, forcing the moment to an end, bowing his head once to both Mumbo and Grian. “The same to you, Grian.”

    Pleasantries addressed, Scar made his departure, resisting the urge to turn back for one last look at the two as he left. Even as he retrieved his own cane and made his way to the casino’s exit, he kept his eyes forward, this time registering none of the risk and reward and ruin that was taking place in never ending cycles about him. Only right at the entrance did he stall, unable to help himself as he spared a single glance, finding-

    It was earlier than Scar usually popped in for an unplanned visit, but it was a necessary precaution in this sort of life to never let your schedule be too predictable. Had to keep people on their toes, especially with those like the South, who treated trust like little more than a commodity with those not within their inner circles.

    The lights were dim, servicing the meager handful of early-bird players adequately and adequately only. The true grandeur of full lights was reserved for the busy hours, when real profit could be raked in. Even so, Scar could still make out the back door opening from across the End Crystal’s polished floors, Mumbo and Grian entering from stage left.

    Mumbo had ditched his suit jacket, dress shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows yet still not spared from the mess of the business he had been attending to. Along with the red stains in the cotton white, his hands were practically painted in the blood of whatever poor soul had crossed the South and gotten caught. He was doing his best to clean his skin with a washcloth in hand, but his efforts were only so effective.

    While it was typically Grian in Mumbo’s current position, he was nearly stain-free, his role today likely just to guard and watch. There was a splash of blood across his cheek, however, arterial spray that had only just missed his suit. Grian swiped his thumb across his chin, catching a drop that had threatened to make him get dry cleaning, catching Mumbo’s attention.

    Shifting the cloth to one hand, Mumbo held Grian’s chin with one hand and set to cleaning his face with the cloth. He paused after a moment, cupping Grian’s cheek with the rag as Grian tilted his head up at him, a cheeky sort of smirk slipping onto his face, and somewhere in between a blink they were kissing, Mumbo’s hands remaining on Grian’s face while Grian tangled his in Mumbo’s hair. 

    Scar knew he should’ve looked away. He really should’ve. When the two of them stumbled backwards, Mumbo’s back hitting the wall not stopping them. When Grian started to draw away for a breath, Mumbo only giving him a moment to get it before tugging him back in. When they broke apart again, resting their foreheads together instead like they were content to do nothing else.

    He should have looked away.

    But he didn’t.

    -everything just as it was when he passed through, nothing and no one of note having come to occupy the space. Really, why would anything have changed? Same casino, same owner.

    With a nod to himself and his inner monologue, Scar pushed through the glistening revolving doors, replacing the perfume and champagne incense of the casino with brisk night air.

    The streets were dark, the End Crystal being the only business that pressed into the night with such fervor. Mixed shades of pink and purple lit up the sidewalk directly before the business, glitter gold words glowing in the coloured light and serving further to draw in the late-night wanderers with too much in their pockets. 

    Scar forced himself not to linger in its allure, aware that even out here Grian still had eyes on him. If Grian had returned to his regular station during the casino’s busy hours, that was; if Grian had actually left Mumbo’s office after Scar had, if Grian hadn’t instead stayed, if Grian hadn’t instead-

    With a particular purposeful tap of his cane, Scar was off, setting a quick pace in a familiar direction.

    It didn’t take long to reach his destination, escaping the lands of harshly edged moustaches and entering the one of paint splatter crystals. All his businesses were closed for the night, the empty streets once again making Scar consider getting into the night-life industry, though there was a good reason he never actually would.

    The after-hours were a dangerous time in Heremita, part of what had given Mumbo’s organization such a fast ascent to infamy in the area. When it first popped up, the End Crystal was predicted to fail in spades. But the South evidently knew their cards, and the casino’s success rose on the backs of those who tried to stop it.

    Scar still remembered the first day Mumbo had come around- with Grian right behind him, an inseparable pair from the very start- introducing themselves to every big name in town, like they already knew they were going to be something. Shame they’re not going to last, he had thought. We could be something.

    But they had lasted. And yet…

    Scar pulled himself from his thoughts as he realized he had come upon his destination. The jeweler's shop that served as his own base of operations was as closed down as every building around it, but the light over the back entrance was still flickering. Scar was careful to double-triple-double knock before entering, not really in the mood to get shot that particular night.

    As expected, he opened the door to find his right-hand man putting away his gun, replacing it in his hand with a pen as he returned to working the books. “Welcome back, Scar.”

    “You know, Bdubs, you don’t have to stay late.” Scar replied by way of greeting, shrugging off his suit jacket and hooking it on the hanger by the door. “There’s no rush, the work can wait.”

    “The election can’t.” Bdubs tapped the glass of his pocket watch, proudly displayed at the front of his desk. “I’m okay working some overtime.”

    “I still think you work too much.” Scar commented as he took a seat at the desk of one of his employees who had actually listened when he told them to head home, laying his head back. “But I appreciate your efforts.”

    Bdubs nodded at him in recognition, pausing his work for a moment to look Scar over. “Enjoy your walk?”

    “I did, thank you.”

    “Visit the South territory?”

    Scar lifted his head enough to shoot Bdubs an annoyed stare. “How do you do that?”

    Bdubs chuckled. “I know you, Scar. You always visit the South territory, especially in these last few weeks.”

    Scar let his head flop down again. “Still rude to point it out, isn’t it?”

    No response to that, the conversation being replaced with quiet pen scratches and paper shuffling for a minute. “Do any business?”

    “...They offered a partnership.”

    “Again?”

    “Again.”

    “And you said?”

    Scar sighed as he sat fully up, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know what I said.”

    Bdubs sighed as well. He put the pen down, rotating his chair to fully face Scar. He had replaced his work clothes with casual wear, a blue hoodie and jeans, but the distinctively-shaped emerald-green crystal hanging around his neck remained, a mark of his loyalties to friends and foes alike. “Scar.”

    “I don’t want to talk about it.”

    “We can’t keep dancing around the subject.” Bdubs pressed. “The South is big, as potential allies and current mayoral opponents. We can’t miss this opportunity all because you’ve decided to be weird about the heads.”

    Scar shook his head. “It’s just not that simple.”

    “This line of work is brutal, and you know that better than most.” Scar winced, one hand coming up reflexively to cover the side of his neck and the rough reminder Bdubs was referencing. “If you let schoolyard antics affect your decision making, you’re not going to make it back ‘round for a third try.”

    “You are talking back an awful lot today.”

    Bdubs didn’t dignify that with a response.

    Scar let his hand drop back to his lap. “Sorry.”

    The apology was accepted with a wave of Bdubs’s hand as he went back crunching illicit numbers. “It’s fine, just… maybe stop taking so many walks. Nowhere in this city is safe, but strolling through enemy territory every other night is asking for trouble.”

    “...Yeah, yeah, alright.” Scar agreed after a moment. “I won’t visit the South anymore.”

    “Unless you’re going to accept the partnership?”

    Scar turned away from Bdubs, looking out one of the small and reinforced back windows instead. “Sure thing.”

~

    Nights like these were ones Scar most deeply regretted having a bed in the spare office. It was always good to have a place to rest and recover close by, especially in this line of work, especially for him, but it made it much too easy to avoid going home when he should. Not that Scar was really the workaholic type- at least, not with paperwork- but too often he fell victim to the 'just one more’ mentality that had accidentally trapped him at work more times than he cared to admit.

    Granted, he could technically go home at any hour. But Scar wasn't an idiot.

    If Bdubs was still there, Scar might have bullied him into doing his job and escorting him home. But the man had worked a few too many long nights recently and it was finally starting to catch up with him- Scar had sent him home hours ago.

    “Are you sure?” Bdubs had argued, even as he was rubbing at his eyes in a desperate attempt to not fall asleep right there. “No one else is here, Scar. You should at least go home now too, while there's still light.”

    "This store is better fortified than area seventy-seven.” Scar had replied, gesturing with his pen. “I'll be fine. Go home, Bdubs, you need the rest.”

    There had been more grumbling, but Bdubs ended up going as requested, leaving Scar to his work in an empty store. In hindsight, Scar should have taken his advice to head home as well, while there was still light, but he had only been planning to finish filing one or two tax forms that were as accurate as anyone else's in Heremita.

    Scar glanced out the window, where the faintest sliver of a moon was beginning to reach its peak in the sky. Yeah, that plan had worked out well.

    Deciding to finally call it good for the night, Scar began putting away his papers, just about to stand up when he heard the unmistakable bang of a gunshot.

    Before Scar had even finished processing the sound, he had his own gun in hand, crouching beside his desk and aiming at his office's door, ready and waiting for a breach. Outside, more sounds followed the shot- something hitting the ground, running footsteps fleeing the scene, a string of curses. No more gunshots. No one trying to break down the door. No one after him.

    Scar remained in position despite his conclusion, listening for any sign it was a trap. But there was nothing, the only sounds left coming from the one who had been cursing. He had dropped the potty mouth, but he was muttering to himself, too low for Scar to hear through the store's walls. The voice was familiar, Scar realized, trying to identify which of his enemies it might be. 

    Except, it didn't necessarily sound like an enemy. In fact, it almost sounded like…

    Gun still drawn, Scar moved from his desk to his office door. After checking the main office was clear, Scar repositioned by the back door, peering out the slits in the window next to it.

    Scar could only spot the victim's legs, the rest of his body likely pressed against the shop's wall. Black suit pants only narrowed down the possibilities so much, but it counted more in favour of Scar's hunch than the other way around. 

    Steeling himself for the possibility of someone much less friendly than who he was expecting to find, Scar pushed the back door open a half inch.

    As suspected, the man was leaned up against the jewelry store's wall, immediately looking up when he heard the squeak of the door. Despite the awkward way he was holding his shoulder that immediately gave away the location of the gunshot's target, he managed to turn a corner of his lips up at spotting Scar. “Mr. Chronos.”

    “Bleeding out on enemy territory and you’re still as formal as ever, Mr. Eris.” Scar responded, checking each side of the alleyway before he fully stepped out of his building, gun still drawn. No sign of people lying in wait to attack, and Scar doubted that ambush was really Mumbo’s style, but you could never be too safe.

    “I didn’t realize we were enemies.” 

    “Well we’re not allies.” Scar came to stand in front of Mumbo, finally lowering his gun, though his finger remained on the trigger. “At least, not technically.”

    “That’s hardly my fault.”

    Scar shook his head. Why Mumbo had decided this was more important than the hole in his shoulder was beyond him, but it did signal risk of shock or more extreme injury than was immediately visible. Or a ploy. “What happened?”

    Mumbo nodded his head upwards, gesturing at something above him. Scar’s eyes followed the motion, finding a blue poster reading, “False for mayor!” plastered on the wall right over Mumbo’s head.

    With a grumble that bordered on a growl, Scar tore the paper down, crumpling it up and tossing it to the side. “She doesn’t normally make the mistake of tagging bases.”

    “Crime of opportunity.” Mumbo offered as explanation. “I’ve been edging into her territory recently, I’ve had her target on my back for a bit. Spotted Tango scoping out the Crystal earlier, hoped she’d be put off by me dipping through your territory. Sorry about that.”

    “The alley could always do with another clean, anyways.” Scar said with a shrug. He glanced around. “Where’s Grian? Did Tango get him?”

    “Grian’s safe, he didn’t see Tango. I told him to stay in the casino for the night, run some numbers on how many votes we can trade.” Mumbo answered, grunting as he got his feet underneath him. Dark blood sluggishly spilled out from beneath Mumbo’s hand at the motion, staining his suit darker than it already was as he stood up. Scar resisted the urge to offer him a hand up, instead trying his best to not look at him like he had suddenly grown an extra moustache.

    “You knew someone was coming after you and you told your head of security to stay home and crunch numbers?” A nod. “What the hell, Mumbo?! What were you thinking?”

    Mumbo rested his back against the wall once more. “It was safer.”

    “Safer? Safer?! False could have killed you! Tango could have killed you!” Scar gestured with his gun. “Damnit, I could kill you! You have security people for a reason, and if your life’s in direct threat, they should be on you!”

    Distantly, Scar was aware he was getting much too worked up by this for someone who, following the lack of allyship between their organizations, was a neutral party in the matter at best. Something in Mumbo’s expression as he watched Scar talk suggested he was thinking the same thing, but he didn’t comment on it.

    “If Grian has the opportunity to sacrifice his life for mine, he will.” Mumbo said slowly, as if there was something more to his words. “It is my job to ensure such a situation never arises.”

    “You’d sooner get yourself killed than let Grian do his job?”

    Mumbo met Scar’s eyes dead-on, stare unflinching as he answered, “Every time.”

    Silence in a blood-stained alley in the dead of night was always tense, Scar’s grip tightening on his gun (once more pointed towards the ground) as Mumbo refused to back down from his gaze. Finally, Scar let out a sigh.

    “Let’s get you inside before someone comes back to ‘check’ on you.” Scar flicked the safety on his gun back on, offering his other arm out for Mumbo to lean on.

    “I thought you said you could kill me.” Mumbo snarked even as he accepted Scar’s arm, using it as balance as he stumbled away from the wall. “That I was an enemy in unfriendly territory.”

    “I never called it unfriendly territory.” Scar corrected as he began walking back to his door, doing his best not to out-pace Mumbo. “The South is welcome in the Glass Empire.”

    “And so is the Glass Empire welcome in the South.”

    This time, Scar could identify the odd tone of Mumbo’s voice; the partial confirmation of some sort of agreement between their organizations, and the confusion of why Scar would do this, but still refuse an outright partnership. Scar let the unspoken question go unanswered, helping Mumbo take a seat at one of his employees’ desks before closing and securing the door.

    “Can you take your jacket off?” Scar asked him, pausing on his path to the first aid kit in case the answer was no. When Mumbo nodded, he left the room, gun still in hand as he fetched the kit. The chances of Mumbo attacking him were close to nothing, but even now they weren’t zero, and Scar knew there was no such thing as being too careful.

    Scar then proceeded to nearly shoot himself in the foot when he returned to the main office area to find that Mumbo had not only stripped off his jacket, but his shirt and tie as well. He had folded them up and deposited them on the floor by his feet, the small puddles of blood that were beginning to pool around them giving Scar an excuse to think about the different cleaners he’d have to call rather than anything else.

    “I could have just cut off the sleeve, you know.” Scar commented with feigned indifference, moving to the front of Mumbo and placing down the first aid kit and some towels on the desk beside him. “Didn’t need to take everything off.”

    Mumbo half-shrugged in response, careful to not jostle his injured shoulder any more than he already had. Despite his attempts to staunch the flow, blood had already begun trickling down his chest, and his hand was as bloody as it was the day Scar had come early for his typical impromptu meeting. Yet another thing Scar was going to do his best to not think about.

    The blood wasn’t the only thing of note on Mumbo’s chest, however. It was littered with scars as well. Most were small and faded, but one large one stretched over his heart, and another curved around his side in line with his ribs. The sight wasn’t too surprising, all things considered- this was their line of business, after all. But Mumbo was young for a boss, and new, and even now he was adding to the list of reminders that would follow him around for whatever amount of life he had left to live.

    It felt wrong.

    “Painkillers?”

    “It only hit my shoulder.” Mumbo replied flippantly. “I’ll be alright.”

    Scar placed the bottle out on the desk beside the kit regardless, just in case. He grabbed a second seat to use as his own as he started going through the first aid kit, pulling out gauze and sutures. “I won’t be able to tell exactly until we clean it up a bit, but I’m guessing you’re going to need a stitch or two.”

    “All I need is a bandage, Grian can stitch me up when I’m back at the Crystal.”

    “It’s funny how you think you’re leaving this building again tonight.”

    For all the ease their interactions had held so far, Mumbo immediately went on the defensive, sitting up tall in his seat and looking ready to fight Scar right then. Scar admired the fact Mumbo still might manage to win on sheer determination alone. “Excuse me?”

    “The last time you were outside at night you got shot.” Scar helpfully reminded, poking his own shoulder in mirror of Mumbo’s. “You’re safer here for the time being.”

    “I can take care of myself.”

    “Alright, let me put this a different way.” Scar moved one of the towels into his lap. “Grian’s already going to kill you for this stunt, that’s a given. So either you go out in the night, again, and get him committing double homicide against you for being stupid, and homicide against me for letting you be stupid, or you stay here for one single night, and save both of us at least one murder.”

    Mumbo didn’t make his choice immediately, choosing instead to glare at Scar as if that would change what he had said. Scar busied himself with laying out the rest of what he would need, briefly leaving once more to get a bowl of water. He returned to find Mumbo had once more slumped in his chair, privately grimacing.

    Scar took a moment to look away and loudly fiddle with a doorknob before taking his seat once more. Mumbo’s expression was once more masked, showing no signs of pain, but he hadn’t bothered to re-straighten his posture.

    “So, what’ll be, Mr. Eris?” Scar asked lightly, dipping a towel in the water bowl. “Need more blood on your hands tonight?” 

    “I suppose not.” Mumbo relented. “But I can still take care of myself. You don’t need to play nurse on my behalf.”

    Scar’s gaze fell briefly back to the patchwork of scars across Mumbo’s chest. “I have no doubt of that.” He said, the words coming out much gentler than he had meant them. “But you are my guest, and the Glass Empire insists upon its hospitality.” 

    "...You are an odd man, Scar Chronos.” Scar looked up again, finding Mumbo's gaze had softened somewhat. He still didn't seem too happy with the situation, unsurprisingly, but he seemed to have accepted it. "You can't seem to decide if we are enemies or allies.”

    “Why not a bit of both?” Scar said meaninglessly, scooting his chair closer to Mumbo and changing the topic. “Hand off.”

    Mumbo hesitated before complying, letting the hand that had been pressing against the wound fall to his lap. Scar gave him one of the towels, letting him wash his hands and wipe down his chest while Scar focused on the bullethole.

    "Did it go all the way through?”

    "No, it's still in there.”

    Scar nodded, grabbing his tweezers. "You're certain you don't want any painkillers?”

    Mumbo twisted the towel in his hands harder than he needed to. "Positively.”

    With another nod, Scar did his best to work delicately, trying not to add to the damage already done as he attempted to retrieve the bullet. Mumbo leaned his head against his uninjured shoulder, using his towel to bite on when Scar finally found his target and began to pull it out.

    Scar let the bullet drop to the desk beside them when it was finally out, mentally adding the piece of furniture to the list of things that would need to be cleaned. Mumbo dropped the towel to his lap once more, letting out a long breath before looking at Scar again.

    "Can I do my own stitches at least?”

    "Nope.” Scar answered with somewhat put-on cheerfulness. "But if it's really important to you, I'll let you bandage it afterwards.”

    Mumbo huffed a laugh before leaning back, resigned to Scar's cordiality. “No you won't.”

    "Correct, I won't.” Scar confirmed, picking up the wet towel and bringing it to Mumbo's shoulder. He was careful with his motions, not wanting to aggravate the wound more as he cleaned. Mumbo watched silently as he worked.

    "You remind me of Grian.” Scar did his best not to react too strongly to the sudden comment, instead raising a single eyebrow in curiosity. “So attentive. Usually I just stitch it up and call it good.”

    Scar hummed as he put the towel down, replacing it in his hand with the thread and needle he would need for the coincidentally mentioned next step. “Would you do that to Grian if he was the one that needed help?”

    “I wouldn’t.” Mumbo acknowledged, smirking. “But Grian is my right-hand man.”

    “And you are my guest.” Scar dodged, threading his needle. “Hold still.”

    Scar put in the stitches in silence, Mumbo not seeming as pained by the needlework as he had been by the removal of the bullet but hardly enjoying it either. His hand on his uninjured side patted his pocket as Scar worked, likely the location of whatever weapon he had on him. A knife, if Scar had to guess. If Mumbo had a gun it would either have been over his chest or in a leg holster. Scar would have been insulted if he didn’t understand the feeling so well himself. Scar’s work stayed steady with the knowledge that if Mumbo wanted to hurt him, he would have struck already. That, and the fact he could draw his gun faster than Mumbo could at current.

    As he finished off the stitches, Scar tied off the last one and cut it off from the spool. Mumbo inspected Scar’s work while Scar once again changed the objects in his hand. He made no complaints against the stitches or the fact Scar was picking up the gauze.

    Scar shifted his seat even closer to Mumbo’s, pulling more to his side so that he could wrap the gauze around his shoulder. Mumbo’s arm came to rest against Scar’s leg to give Scar better access to the injury, more small scars scratched across it. Scar couldn’t help but wonder how many of those Grian had helped with- how many of all the scars on Mumbo’s chest he had helped with, had cleaned and stitched and bandaged just like Scar was doing now.

    “Why doesn’t Grian wear your symbol?” Scar asked after a moment, well aware he had no right to, well aware there was no need to ask, well aware Mumbo likely wouldn’t answer at all. But it was a question that had always been on the back of his mind, ever since the first time he had seen Grian sporting amethyst instead of moustaches, and he doubted there would ever be another time where it was even close to appropriate to ask it.

    Mumbo closed his eyes, appearing to deliberate the question, deciding whether or not he would answer. Scar continued wrapping, nearly done when Mumbo finally spoke.

    “I don’t want to link him to me- to the South- like that.”

    “Everyone already knows Grian is your right-hand. Symbol or no.”

    “It gives him deniability.” Mumbo replied, looking down at the hand still resting over his weapon. “And it means if he ever wants to leave, he can. He doesn’t have to stay.”

    “You don’t want Grian in the South? Heremita?”

    “I don’t want him in this business.”

    Scar held the gauze in place as he reached for a piece of tape, securing the cloth. “He’s a strong member in your organization.”

    “Do you think that’s all I see him as?”

    “No.” Scar said quietly, moving Mumbo’s arm back into his own lap and pulling away to focus on repacking the kit. “I think you see him as much more.”

    Scar could feel Mumbo’s eyes on his back as he worked. He did his best to ignore the sensation, closing the kit with a bit of a louder snap than necessary. “Do you need any help getting your shirt back on?”

    “I’ve got it.” Scar nodded without looking back, taking the kit and spare towels back to where he had fetched them from. By the time he returned, Mumbo was pulling his jacket loosely over his shoulders, shirt on and tie shoved in a pocket. He looked more put together than a man who still had his own blood dripping off him should.

    “There’s a bed in the spare office.” Scar informed him, pointing out the office in question.

    Mumbo gave it a glance before turning back towards Scar, not looking enthralled. “Why would I sleep here?”

    “The door locks from the inside, and there’s a chair you can put under the knob as well, if it makes you feel more secure.” Scar explained, flashing a small smile. “And for whatever it’s worth to you, I promise you I won’t try to break in on you. I mean what I say about hospitality.” 

    It took a few minutes for Mumbo to respond to that, and even then it didn’t feel like nearly enough time for him to have made such a decision in. “Alright. But only if you wake me as soon as the sun’s risen. The sooner Grian hears about this, the less I have to be chewed out over it.”

    “I will.” Scar promised, watching as Mumbo made his way to the spare office. He hesitated in the doorway for a moment, turning to look at Scar again.

    “Grian’s not the only person I value past their position.” Mumbo said cryptically, smiling at Scar as if he should know exactly what he meant. “The South really would be chuffed if the Glass Empire pursued a partnership. Come by the Crystal again. Our doors are always open to you, even without an appointment.”

    Of the million things that sprang to Scar’s mind to say, to ask about, his only response came out as a nod. Mumbo seemed to accept it as more than enough, however, nodding back and wishing Scar a good night. The office door’s lock clicked behind him as he disappeared into the room, leaving Scar’s late reply of the same sentiments to echo in the empty main office.

    Scar found himself sliding back into the seat he had been helping Mumbo in, rotating around so that Mumbo’s room was behind him and the jewelry store’s side entrance in front of him. He pulled his gun into his lap, trying not to think too hard on whether or not he was just protecting himself right in that moment.

~

    “I'm heading out for a walk.”

    "Scar.”

    "Fine, fine! It's a business meeting! We don't need to be so formal about it, you know.”

    Bdubs spared Scar a glance as he worked on emptying display cases, packing things up for the night. “I'm being formal about it because I want something formal to happen. Casual walks into enemy territory still aren't safe.”

    “An ‘enemy’ I personally helped patch up! It'll be alright.” Scar argued, picking up his cane. “Besides, I think you're just upset over the blood.”

    "We haven't had any blood in the main offices in a year, Scar, it was very rude of them to break that streak.”

    “It wasn't entirely the South's fault for that.”

    “Well I can't do much about you. At least we're going after False for it.” Bdubs replied. “Speaking of, our efforts at cutting into her territory have been successful, we've gained some edge buildings. Got some votes out of the business owners there as well in trade for our protection from their old protection.”

    "Good. Teach her to leave her litter on my buildings.” Scar said, ignoring the look Bdubs shot him, as though there were other reasons the Glass Empire would suddenly pursue a much less neutral stance against False's organization. “I'll be off now. Don't wait up on me!”

    Bdubs wished him well as he stepped out the door, heading right off for the End Crystal. The sun was already setting, nighttime fast approaching, and with Scar's expansion into False's territory he knew the late hours were going to be even less safe for him now. 

    As he expected, Scar found the End Crystal nearly empty when he arrived, too early in the evening for the crowds to really be flowing in. Consequently, he wasn't surprised when Grian appeared sooner than he normally might. He was dressed as finely as ever, but his posture seemed a smidge more relaxed than usual, a minor detail Scar blamed on the lack of patrons.

    "Mr. Chronos.” Ah, but still as formal as ever. “We've been expecting you for a few days now.”

    "Well, Mr. Penemue, you know how work can be.” Scar gave as an excuse. “I do hope I'm not so late as to have missed my appointment.”

    “You miss none of the appointments you never make.” Grian joked even as he turned, guiding Scar towards Mumbo's office as he had done a dozen times before. The waiting room was again empty as they entered as they had weeks ago, the last time Scar had been in the End Crystal. This time, however, Grian brought the two of them to a halt in the center of the room.

    “Is there a problem, Grian?”

    Grian turned to face Scar, crossing his arms. “The opposite, actually. I wanted to thank you. You did Mumbo, me, and the South a great service in helping him that night, despite having no obligation to do so.”

    “I could hardly just leave him there to die.” Scar responded, clearing his throat before adding, “You alone would have seen to the end of my organization and myself had I not helped.”

    "Perhaps.” Grian admitted, before smiling knowingly and continuing, “But with False's poster, I very easily could have blamed her instead. Had you not assisted him, you would have brought about both the ruin of the South and the destruction of the Armory.”

    Scar laughed. “You sound almost as if you wished I had let him die.”

    “Not in the slightest. But it would have been much more beneficial to you, and because of that, I greatly appreciate that you helped him instead.” Grian paused, considering something before he said, “You know, me and Mumbo aren’t dating.”

    Of all the things Grian could have decided needed to be discussed, not in several years would Scar have seen that particular one coming. “Wha-”

    “You’ve been acting distant, professionally and personally, ever since you caught us kissing- Mr. Chronos, I am capable of back-watching footage my eyes saw while I was elsewhere- and so I presume the two things are related. I hoped to ease any… qualms you might have.” 

    “I- wait- you- okay, let’s just. Let’s back-up.” It was never a good thing to be so visibly caught off-guard in front of an opponent, much less so when it was in a manner that could be considered ‘flustered’, and much much less so when said opponent was smirking at you like it was funny. The sooner Scar would be able to recover from this, the better. “Why were you and Mumbo kissing if you two aren’t together?”

    “I owe my life to him, and despite my dedication to his safety, he would much too willingly throw himself in front of a gun for me.” Grian said with a shrug, as if it weren’t as important to him as it clearly was. “We’re closer than most couples are, we don’t need to be together to kiss.”

    “...None of the way you phrased that made it sound any less like you are together.”

    Scar was glad to note there was some level of amusement in the exasperated expression Grian took on. “If it’s easier for you, you can think of us as non-exclusive, then. It’s not that important to my main point.”

    “Your main point being?”

    “I know you’re not an idiot, Mr. Chronos.” Was all Grian offered as an explanation. “You’re welcome to head in now.” 

    Scar lifted his cane, catching Grian’s attention with it. “Don’t you want this?”

    Grian looked at the dangerous mobility aid, clenching his jaw for a moment as he seemed to make a decision. He looked Scar dead in the eye. “Hurt him in the slightest and I will take apart your Empire with my bare hands, Scar.”

    He took his leave of Scar then, before Scar had a chance to fully process the threat and use of his first name. He was fairly certain it counted as a good sign, at least. Grian's form of a blessing.

    His guide having left, Scar allowed himself into Mumbo’s office. The curtains weren’t completely drawn, letting in the fading daylight rays and illuminating part of Mumbo’s face as he worked. His jacket was only pulled over one arm, hanging loose around the one now in a sling.

    “We were beginning to worry you weren’t coming.” Mumbo said as Scar closed the door, looking up from his papers with a smile. “I expected you sooner.”

    “I wanted to give you some recovery time first.” Scar took a seat in the same chair before Mumbo’s desk, resting his cane against its side. “You and Grian, as I’m sure he wasn’t exactly thrilled at discovering your gunshot condition.”

    “He has been a lovely mix of overbearing mother hen and someone who must be restrained from starting territorial warfare, so, no, I wouldn’t say he took it the best.” Mumbo joked, rolling his pen between his fingers as he looked at Scar. “But he has been looking forward to your visit as well. This partnership is long overdue, wouldn’t you agree?”

    “That depends.” Scar returned Mumbo’s gaze evenly. “Are we talking professionally or personally?”

    Mumbo’s smile grew into a smirk as he stood, making his way around his desk to lean against the front of it, right in front of Scar. “I don’t see why we can’t work out something for both.”

    “That would be amicable.” Scar said as he leaned forward, reaching out to grab the end of Mumbo’s tie and tug him closer. Mumbo didn’t resist the motion, bending until his face was mere inches from Scar’s.

    “Is it a deal then?”

    Scar sat up taller in his seat, shortening the gap between him and Mumbo even more, tilting his head by a fraction. “Is Grian watching?” He asked in a low voice, as if there was anyone else who could hear.

    “He always is.” Mumbo replied, equally quiet and still wearing that knowing smirk, as if he thought Scar was being cute in a manner that wasn’t quite the typical definition of cute. Scar couldn’t help but return it even as he leaned in, sealing their deal like the charming gentleman he was.

[vaughn-markus]

 but I don't wanna fall down the rabbit hole — cross my heart, I won't do it again ; @coraxclark

A fun fair hosted by a mayoral candidate for his little, hometown of Providence Peak amused Markus. When did politics get so competitive here? He wondered. It was a mystery to a man who hadn't properly lived in the city for more than a decade, but he certainly took advantage of the festivities.

A kid at heart, Markus rode rides and played games with old friends. Locals he'd grown up knowing and missed more than he knew. They were split up in a fun house maze when a someone he missed more than most came into view. Sort of. He saw her reflection, distorted by a mirror and the flashing lights. It was like a fever dream. Seeing Cora after all this time. Whether he was purposely going towards her or away from her was as disorienting as the maze itself, and when they physically collided he was left speechless. Despite the novels he'd written her in his head. The countless, unreplied to texts he'd sent. Markus couldn't find a single fucking thing to say.

[emospritelet]

Heatstroke - chapter 24/24

Last time, Gold confronted Zelena over trying to frame Regina, and Lacey caught the whole show on tape. This is the final chapter! Happy endings FTW!

[AO3]

x

Lacey set down the camera on the shop counter, and raised an eyebrow at Gold.

“So,” she said. “What do you want to do?”

He inclined his head, lifting a hand and letting it fall.

“It appears you have a story to tell about Miss West,” he remarked. “I feel the choice is very much yours. Perhaps Mr Glass can be persuaded that running an exposé is in the public interest.”

Lacey hesitated.

“Yeah, I think he would,” she acknowledged. “It’s just - Mayor Mills doesn’t know, does she? About Zelena.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I think maybe we should tell her,” said Lacey. “Before it all comes out, I mean. That would be the decent thing to do, wouldn’t it?”

“It would,” he agreed, and let out a heavy sigh, his head rolling back. “Well, that’s unfortunate.”

“What is?”

He raised his head again, sending her a stern look.

“It appears I’ve discovered a conscience,” he said. “The rumour was I didn’t have one. I blame you for this outrage.”

Lacey giggled, and leaned in to kiss him.

“Does that mean you’ll come with me to break the news?” she asked, and he offered his arm.

“To the Mayor’s office,” he said. “I’m sure Regina will be just delighted to see us.”

-

“This can’t be true.” Regina was staring at Lacey’s phone, having watched the recording twice. “This - this is impossible!”

“This must be a hell of a shock,” said Lacey, and Regina shook her head.

“I always thought she disliked me, but Mal told me I was being paranoid,” she said. “All this time she was plotting to ruin my life because my mother abandoned her? The nerve of the woman!”

“I guess sibling rivalry’s tough to deal with,” said Lacey. “Makes me glad I’m an only child.”

“Well, she certainly has my mother’s ambition and vindictiveness,” said Regina, with a sigh. “I don’t suppose you know anything about the father?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Gold. “Did your mother ever hint that you had a half-sister?”

Regina shook her head.

“She never spoke about her youth,” she said. “Other than to tell me she had to fight for anything she could get and I should do the same.”

She handed the phone back to Lacey and frowned at Gold.

“Exactly how long have you known about this?” she demanded, and he smiled.

“I heard what you did,” he said.

“That wasn’t what I asked,” she said coldly. “I know you, Gold. Were you holding onto this information until it was of use to you?”

“You think I’m working against you?” he asked, in a mild tone.

“I think you never do anything that doesn’t benefit you.”

“Well, perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think,” he said. “Or perhaps we assess risks and benefits differently. Either way, you have Miss French to thank for the investigation of her past and this recording. I merely - encouraged a confession.”

“Quite the sleuthing team,” said Regina, in a dry tone. “Can we expect a new office in town? French Gold, Private Investigators?”

“I don’t mind investigating his privates,” said Lacey, and Gold shot her a very level look as Regina curled her lip.

“Thanks, I’m going to spend the rest of the evening trying and failing to get that image out of my head.”

“You’re welcome,” said Lacey cheerfully.

“The question for you,” said Gold, “is how are you going to handle this? Miss French has quite a scoop on her hands, but she wanted to bring it to you first before raising it with Mr Glass.”

Regina shot Lacey a grateful look before sitting back in her chair with a sigh.

“There’s supposed to be a debate,” she said. “The two of us up on stage. You think it’s her intention to reveal the whole sordid story in front of the whole town?”

“I don’t believe she wants the rest of the town to know,” said Gold. “If they did, then her whole campaign reeks of sour grapes. She’ll want to play on the image she’s created while she’s been here. However inaccurate it is.”

Regina growled under her breath.

“I can’t believe I’m having to go through this charade!” she snapped. “I’m supposed to stand there and - and debate her when she’s trying to frame me for corruption and destroy my life!”

“We don’t have any actual evidence that she’s tried to frame you,” said Lacey, and Regina nodded impatiently.

“I know, I know. Nothing court worthy on that tape, however much she hinted at it,” she said. “If it’s okay with you, I’d like to hand it over to the Sheriff, get him to look into it.”

“If you agree to an exclusive interview with me after the debate, sure,” said Lacey quickly, and almost blushed as Gold shot her an approving look. Regina drummed her fingers on the desk.

“She’s far too good for you, Gold,” she said abruptly. “I hope you know that.”

He smirked at that, winking at Lacey.

“Oh, I’m well aware.”

-

Gold was finding it hard to stop grinning like an idiot now that he and Lacey were dating, and even found himself unexpectedly granting rent extensions, much to the surprise of nervous tenants. He made dinner for her again later in the week, and she stayed the night, Darcy curled at their feet as they drifted into sleep. It was pleasant being nuzzled awake by a purring cat and finding Lacey in his arms. It was a feeling he could get used to.

They had eventually managed to finish the interview, most of which was carried out in bed, and he had found himself telling her things he had previously had no intention of revealing. He blamed that on Lacey; it was difficult to maintain his usual cool distance when she was wearing his discarded shirt and looking at him as though he was a particularly delicious snack. She kept her word about giving him the final say on the article, however, and upon reading her draft, he noted that she had kept some of the more personal details to herself. He only felt the need to redact a couple of minor points about his early life, but was happy to let the remainder stand as it was. If the rest of Storybrooke was surprised at the intimacy of the piece and his sudden desire to be open about his life - well, they could all go and fuck themselves, as far as he was concerned.

The only opinions he cared about were those of his family, and it wasn’t too long before Neal called. Gold sighed as he looked at the number flashing on his phone. They’re gonna tease me relentlessly about this. Emma especially.

Shaking his head and smirking to himself, he picked up.

“Dad, hi,” said Neal. “Thought you might have called to let us know how your big social occasion went. You’re not avoiding the issue, right?”

“Of course not,” said Gold. “Been a busy week, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh. Emma thought you’d say that.” Neal sounded amused. “She’s been dying to find out about the dance, so I said I’d call for an update.”

“Tell her she needs a better hobby than worrying about my social life,” said Gold dryly. “How’s Henry? I was wondering what to get for his birthday.”

“Nice attempt at deflection, but I’m not done with you,” said Neal. “Come on, how did it go?”

“Uh - it was fine,” said Gold.

“Did you ask Lacey to dance, like I said?”

“Yes.” Gold hesitated. “We’re - uh - sort of dating now.”

Neal whooped, making him grin.

“Way to go! See, I knew you could do it!”

“Yes, well.” Gold scratched the back of his neck, feeling awkward. “It’s early days, I suppose. Very early days, but it’s going well.”

“I am so happy for you, really. Wait until I tell Emma.”

“She’s gonna tease me, isn’t she?” said Gold dryly.

“No more than usual.”

“A lot, then.”

“Hey, her teasing comes from a place of love.”

“Hmm.” Gold was amused. “Well, you can tell her I love her too.”

“And you can tell Lacey we can’t wait to meet her,” said Neal, and Gold’s grin widened.

“I believe the feeling’s mutual,” he said.

“Good. How about in two weeks’ time?”

Gold smirked to himself.

“Excellent timing,” he said. “It’s the Mayoral debate and election.”

“I’m almost certain we can find something better to do than listen to some crusty old politicians.”

“I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised,” said Gold. “It could be an interesting night.”

-

The evening of the debate arrived more quickly than Lacey thought possible, and she was nervous about more than just reporting the evening’s events. Gold’s son and daughter-in-law were due any minute, and there was a tiny part of her that kept whispering that they wouldn’t approve, that they would wonder why the hell Gold, with his money and power and class, was dating the likes of her. Stressing over her coverage of the election was a welcome distraction from the unwelcome internal monologue, and she concentrated on getting her things together for the debate, checking the recording equipment on Gold’s kitchen table and fretting about the sound quality.

“You’ve already checked it three times,” he said. “It’s fine.”

“I’m supposed to be writing the front page article!” she snapped. “What happens if I fuck up and don’t get anything recorded? I’m gonna look like a total idiot and Sidney won’t trust me with anything more complex than the hot dog eating contest!”

“I can record everything on my phone, if you’re worried,” he said. “Besides, don’t you do shorthand?”

“Yeah, but—”

“You’ll be fine,” he said gently, and kissed her head. “I promise.”

The doorbell rang, and Lacey started, heart thumping.

“Relax, that’ll be Neal and Emma,” said Gold, heading for the door. Lacey frowned at his back.

“Relax, my arse,” she muttered, shoving the recording equipment into its bag.

There were voices from the hall, and a sudden burst of laughter, and she closed her eyes, willing herself to calm the hell down. Footsteps from the doorway made her look up, and she was greeted by a warm smile and an outstretched hand. Gold’s son had his eyes, and curling dark hair above a ready grin.

“I’m Neal,” he said. “Really pleased to meet you.”

“Lacey,” she said, shaking his hand. “Uh - likewise.”

She was reminded vividly of the fact that she had flashed him on their first encounter, and felt a blush start to rise in her cheeks. If Neal was thinking of it too, he was better at hiding it than she was. His wife was a pretty blonde, with a kind look in her eyes and a plump baby in her arms, who was glancing around curiously at everything.

“This is Emma,” added Neal, “and that’s Henry.”

“We’ve heard a lot about you,” said Emma, shooting Gold a teasing look.

“Well, I won’t ask if it was all good, because I’m willing to bet it wasn’t,” said Lacey, and they chuckled.

“Maybe not at first,” admitted Emma. “Don’t hold it against the old bastard, though.”

“Oh, believe me, the feeling was mutual,” said Lacey.

“I’m standing right here,” said Gold evenly.

Lacey caught Emma’s eye and returned her grin. She felt herself relax a little, and leaned over to kiss Gold’s cheek.

“We got there in the end,” she said. “Uh - how hungry are you guys? I didn’t even think about dinner.”

She shot Gold a look, hoping that he would suggest something, and he nodded.

“We’ll head to Granny’s after the debate,” said Gold. “I have no doubt that Lacey will be demonstrating her excellent skill as a journalist, and I’d hate for you to miss it.”

“No pressure then,” said Lacey, and he smiled.

“You’re writing the article for the Mirror front page,” he said. “You have an exclusive with the Mayor herself after the debate. Sidney Glass clearly believes you to be as capable as I do.”

“Yeah, because I got that interview with you,” she said. “I didn’t tell him we were naked when I got most of that info.”

Neal closed his eyes with a pained expression.

“Shows ingenuity if you ask me,” said Emma abruptly. “I can usually get a ton of stuff out of Neal when we’re naked. Must run in the family.”

It was Gold’s turn to look pained. Neal put his hands over his face with a heavy sigh, and Lacey and Emma chuckled. Lacey decided that she liked both Emma and Neal very much. She zipped her bag and nodded to Gold.

“Okay,” she said. “Wish me luck.”

-

The town hall was filled with residents, chatting amongst themselves and casting curious glances at the empty stage. Ruby was seated next to Leroy on the third row back, and she winked at Lacey as she and Gold took their own seats. Ruby had been delighted to hear that the two of them had started seeing one another, and had only made a salacious comment to Gold on one occasion. Maybe two.

“Big turnout,” said Neal, glancing around. “I had no idea the people in this town were so into politics.”

“Usually they don’t bother,” said Gold. “The Mayor getting some competition appears to have piqued their interest.”

As though his voice had summoned her, Regina walked onto the stage, chin held high, looking calm and competent in a sharp black suit. Zelena followed, in a green dress with a soft silk scarf around her neck and gold hoops in her ears. A green folder was tucked under her arm, her hair tied up, and Lacey thought she was going for the image of a respectable school teacher. A gleam in her eye spoiled the look.

Dr Hopper was moderating the debate, and Lacey quickly checked her recording equipment and opened her laptop, rattling off a few sentences about the tense atmosphere of the hall and the opening statements from each of the candidates. Zelena gave a speech about decency and traditional values, at which Regina seemed to be stopping herself from rolling her eyes with some difficulty. Regina spoke of her record on town planning, law and order—she shot Zelena a look at that point—and prosperity.

“Thank you, ladies,” said Dr Hopper, when she was done. “Now, perhaps we’ll go to some questions from the press before we deal with those the townsfolk have submitted.”

“I have a question for Miss West,” said Lacey, in a loud, clear voice, shoving her laptop at Gold as she got to her feet.

Zelena’s mouth twisted, her smile more of a grimace.

“Of course,” she said lightly. “It’s - uh - I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”

She waved a languid hand, and Lacey felt her mouth flatten.

“Lacey French, Storybrooke Mirror,” she said evenly, and Zelena let out a tinkling laugh.

“Of course, silly me,” she trilled. “How could I forget Storybrooke’s eager young reporter? Lending the local newspaper such an air of class in that - lovely - outfit.”

There was a muttering amongst the townsfolk, and Lacey distinctly heard Ruby say ‘What a bitch!’, but she smiled sweetly as though she hadn’t understood the insult.

“Yeah, I have a question about your motivation for running for Mayor,” she said. “You said yourself you’ve never been involved in politics, so what inspired you to make this move now?”

Zelena smiled widely.

“Well, as I said, I thought about where I could do the most good,” she said. “Storybrooke is a wonderful town, with many excellent qualities, but talking to its residents has made me realise that there’s a feeling that it may be lacking direction. I sense a need for a return to the basics of community. Neighbourliness. Family values. The traditions of small-town America that we all grew up with.”

“But you grew up in England,” said Lacey. “Wasn’t your father a diplomat? How do you know this view of America is either accurate or desirable?”

Zelena’s nostrils flared as she continued to smile brightly.

“Well,” she said. “Who’s been doing her homework?”

“Yeah, it’s just that people hear politicians mention tradition and family values, and all too often it’s a smoke-screen to hide racism and homophobia,” went on Lacey. “How would you address those concerns?”

Zelena spread her hands.

“I’d say look at my record,” she said. “Since I moved here I’ve made it clear that I’m happy to work with people of all backgrounds. It’s important that no one feels left out, and my initial conversations have led me to believe that there are concerns, and that some residents feel that their interests are not - fully appreciated - by the Mayor.”

“What kind of interests?” asked Lacey quickly, before Zelena could turn away, and her mouth twisted again as she tried to keep smiling.

“As I said, some feel that traditional family values are being lost in the push for modernity,” she said. “I’d like to reassure them that I stand for everything that Storybrooke represents. Decency. Morality.”

“Does that mean you think the Mayor is immoral?” asked Lacey, and Zelena pulled a face.

“I think there have been some questionable decisions at city hall under her watch, yes,” she said. “Does anyone really think that a seedy bar called Queens of Darkness is fitting for this town?”

“It’s a jazz club,” said Regina. “And there’ll be dance lessons each week. A perfectly respectable establishment, run by three accomplished businesswomen.”

Zelena let out that insincere laugh again, and Lacey sat down, retrieving her laptop from Gold and opening it up as Zelena addressed the room.

“Well, it’s not only the company the Mayor keeps,” she said. “We’ve all heard the rumours. Missing money, accounts not holding quite as much as people thought…”

“That’s an outrageous lie,” said Regina coldly. “Where’s your evidence, Miss West?”

Zelena smirked, as though she had been waiting for that very question. She held up the green folder, showing it to the room.

“I have the evidence right here,” she announced. “A brave employee of city hall managed to smuggle this out to me. Evidence that the Mayor has been embezzling town funds!”

There was a shocked intake of breath around the room. Lacey typed furiously.

“How dare you!” snapped Regina. “That’s a lie and you know it!”

“I believe this is my allotted time to speak!” Zelena snapped back. “I think the people of Storybrooke deserve to know exactly who you really are, don’t you? They should understand the choice before them!”

The doors at the end of the hall opened, and there was the sound of heavy boots on the floor. Zelena looked surprised, and then somewhat nervous, and a low-level muttering started up in the audience. Lacey glanced over her shoulder, watching as Sheriff Graham Humbert walked towards the stage with his deputy Dorothy Gale by his side. Regina appeared to be drumming her fingers on the lectern, and Lacey couldn’t work out whether it was anxiety or impatience.

“Miss West,” said Graham. “We’d like you to come with us, please.”

“Why?” demanded Zelena. “I’m a little busy winning this election, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“It’s a matter of obstruction of justice,” said Graham. “If you could come to the station, please.”

Zelena opened and closed her mouth, a sudden flicker of fear in her eyes.

“What if I say no?”

“I’d prefer not to have to handcuff you,” said Graham.

“But we will if we have to,” added Dorothy, folding her arms.

“This is a conspiracy!” blurted Zelena, waving a finger at Regina. “Did the Mayor put you up to this? This is exactly the kind of corruption I’m talking about! The Sheriff being used as the Mayor’s enforcer!”

“Miss West…”

“Mayor Mills will do whatever it takes to silence me!” she went on. “She’s scared I’ve exposed her for what she is!”

“Miss West, I didn’t want to have to arrest you, but…”

“One hint of competition and she calls in her - her goon squad to crush it!”

“Oh, for God’s sake, I know you’re my sister!” said Regina loudly.

Silence fell, and Lacey hurriedly typed a few sentences, describing the shocked atmosphere of the town hall. Zelena was staring at Regina, eyes wide and nostrils flaring.

“I wasn’t going to mention it,” said Regina, curling her lip. “I wanted to give you a chance to be a decent person and deal with this in an honourable way. But since you’re determined to try to ruin my life for no good reason, then yes. I’m well aware we share the same mother, and frankly she’d be disappointed at this pathetic bid for attention.”

“How dare you—”

“I believe it’s my turn to speak,” interrupted Regina. “We’ve listened to enough of your rambling this evening. Since you’d been dropping hints about corruption in my office, I had Sheriff Humbert investigate. He told me earlier this evening that someone had been planting evidence to try to frame me. No doubt that’s what he wants to speak to you about.”

“This is—”

“The residents of Storybrooke know how seriously I take my duties as Mayor,” Regina went on, addressing the room as a whole now. “They know that I value their support and their trust. Of course I’d want any threat to that to be investigated. I’m just - I’m beyond disappointed that the threat comes from my half-sister.”

Her voice echoed around the silent room. Lacey was watching the townsfolk avidly, their eyes fixed on Regina as she spoke.

“I had no idea that my mother had had a daughter before me, no idea that I had another family member out there in the world,” she went on. “Her coming to Storybrooke should have been a time of joy and reunion. But instead of her reaching out to me, she tries to undermine me, to take away the most important job I have in this town.”

She looked down, shaking her head, and Gold leaned in close.

“I wonder how much of this is for the benefit of the voters and how much is genuine,” he murmured.

“Maybe fifty-fifty,” Lacey whispered back, and he nodded in agreement.

Regina raised her head, taking a deep breath, as though steeling herself for something unpleasant. Graham and Dorothy had edged towards the stage, Dorothy removing the cuffs from her belt.

“All I can do now,” said Regina, “is trust that justice will take its course.”

“You know nothing about justice!” shouted Zelena, as the Sheriff started reading her her rights. “You’ll pay for this! All of you!”

She was still yelling when Dorothy handcuffed her and marched her from the room. The sound of the doors closing was very loud in the silence that remained.

“Well,” said Regina, placing her hands on the lectern and looking around the room. “I think we can all agree that this was one of the more - eventful - political debates this town has seen.”

There was a ripple of nervous laughter, and she smiled.

“I truly hope that Miss West gets the help she so desperately needs,” she went on. “And when she has, I want her to know that she’s welcome to visit with Mallory and I. After all, we may not be able to choose our family, but that makes it all the more important to nurture the bonds we share with those around us.”

There were noises of agreement from the audience, and Gold leaned in close again.

“Ever the politician,” he murmured, and Lacey nodded.

“Storybrooke is like an extended family to me,” went on Regina, “and all families have their moments of conflict and frustration, but underneath that there is respect for one another, and a common set of values. I believe I have lived by those values for every year that I’ve served as your Mayor. I will always reach out to those in need and I will always act in the best interests of this town. Under my leadership, Storybrooke will continue to prosper. I guarantee it.”

There was applause, and a couple of cheers, and Regina nodded, looking extremely self-satisfied. She started taking questions, and Gold kissed Lacey’s cheek and whispered that he would see her in the diner when she was done. She watched him leave with his family, Emma balancing the baby on her hip and Neal pushing the stroller after them. Lacey turned back to listen to Regina field a question about the state of the town’s roads, bent her head to her laptop, and began typing up her article on the Mayoral debate.

She emailed the article over to Sidney before leaving for the diner, and walked back there with Ruby, who was chattering about the drama that had unfolded. Regina had been in her element when answering the remaining questions, and Lacey had felt a surge of satisfaction over her part in exposing a crime. Perhaps small town life offered the chance for rewarding work after all. She could see Gold and his family through the window, and his face lit up as she entered, making her stomach flip. Damn the man. I’m falling in love with him.

“Excellent job this evening,” he said, getting up to pull her chair out and kissing her cheek. “I got you a rum and coke, I hope that’s okay.”

“Perfect,” she said fervently, and took a slurp, relishing the taste on her tongue.

“How’d the Mayor look at the end of all that?” asked Emma, and Lacey pulled a face.

“The whole place gave her a round of applause, and she was looking about as satisfied as she could, I guess,” she said. “I still feel kind of sorry for her. Not every day you find out you have a half sister. Especially one that’s out to get you.”

“Well, it could have been a lot worse,” said Gold. “I very much doubt Miss West will present much of a challenge from a jail cell.”

Lacey nodded, taking another sip of her drink.

“Does this mean you and Regina are friends now?” she asked, and Gold smirked.

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” he said. “What’s that term the kids use these days?”

“Frenemies?”

“That’s the one.”

“Kind of like we were,” she observed, and he laughed.

“Regina would fillet me with a letter opener if I even contemplated looking at her the way I look at you.”

“No, I don’t mean that,” she said. “I just meant - well, we kind of had that thing where we poked at each other to get a reaction, right?”

Gold looked as though he was trying very hard not to laugh, and she swatted his arm.

“Stop thinking about dirty stuff! You know what I mean!”

“I do,” he acknowledged. “And I, for one, am very glad that we - er - got the reaction we wanted.”

“You’re still thinking about dirty stuff, aren’t you?” said Emma shrewdly, and Gold shrugged.

“Maybe a little.”

-

They ate ribs, sticky with Granny’s special sauce, licking it from their fingers and washing it down with beer and wine and rum. By the time they got out into the cool night air, Lacey felt wonderfully tipsy, and regretted putting on her high heels earlier in the evening. At least there was no one else around to see if she fell on her arse, she supposed. Neal and Emma were walking ahead, pushing the stroller and talking quietly, and Lacey let out a sigh, slipping her arm through Gold’s for support, and resting her head on his shoulder.

“I ate too much,” she said, and Gold chuckled.

“We all ate too much.”

“You didn’t throw half of it over your lap, though.”

“No, I thought I’d leave that to you.”

“Stupid gravity,” muttered Lacey, and he laughed, squeezing her arm with his.

“Tired?” he asked.

“Yeah. Long day.”

“Maybe you should have an early night.”

She glanced up at him, and he was grinning at her, his eyes twinkling.

“How’s that gonna work?” she asked flatly. “Your family’s staying over. No way I’m letting you give me screaming orgasms while they’re in the room next door.”

“In that case I could sneak over to yours,” he suggested. “You could scream to your heart’s content.”

Lacey giggled, barging him affectionately with her shoulder.

“I think I love you, Mr Gold,” she said, and Gold stopped dead, turning to face her with a stunned look on his face.

“Really?”

Lacey turned to face him, taking his hand.

“Really,” she said. “I mean I’m kind of drunk, but that’s not why I’m saying it. I think I’ve sort of been in love with you for a while now. Is that okay?”

He was staring at her, wide-eyed, and a softness seemed to spill over his features, making his eyes gleam as he smiled.

“Well,” he said. “I think I love you, too, Miss French. Is that okay?”

“More than okay.”

He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then raised his chin.

“D’you want to move in?” he asked.

“Can I bring Darcy?”

“Of course.”

“Then you got a deal.”

He was grinning, and she found herself grinning back, her heart swelling with love for him.

“Let’s wait until after Neal and Emma go before I move in, though,” she said. “I think you said something about screaming orgasms?”

Gold’s grin turned wicked, and he bent his head to kiss her.

“I’ll be over later.”

She let his lips pull at hers, leaning in to feel the warmth of his body as his arms went around her, and let out a sigh of contentment. Yes. Life in a small town could be amazing.

[datawyrms]

Happy DannyMay everyone! i say while dropping this. For day one, Memories. sorta kinda sequel to this Half a Decade Late

He said he’d never hate them. Back when he thought it would only be a matter of time until he found a weakness, a flaw and squirmed free. He always had before. He didn’t like being captured, and he certainly didn’t like getting shoved into cages, but it was always temporary. A terrifying inconvenience. Something he’d shrug off eventually and forget. Lately he was starting to realize he’d forget that he ever considered thinking charitably. Just like all the other things he couldn’t quite remember.

They took everything. His freedom, his limbs, his skin, his voice. So many things he had the misfortune of learning he could recover from with enough time. Really broke the idea that anything about you was special. Did it matter that they ripped him open when the green slime he was made of would eventually cover the hole without even a sign of the pain it caused him? He just stopped caring. Ghosts didn’t feel pain. Maybe if he believed that enough, he wouldn’t need to feel it. Hurt was just a matter of perspective.

He was changing, apparently. The spectral copies of his human organs they stole over and over again stopped being perfect copies. Sloppy. Apparently his body was forgetting what the real ones were like. He didn’t remember the last time he’d been human anyway. That was fine. It was the only real way he could bother them now, being ‘less useful’. Obviously he didn’t need them that badly. He envied some of his fellow prisoners. They were just green inside. Nothing the vultures wanted, nothing for them to mutter and prod at while he struggled uselessly.

He didn’t really know why he still bothered to do that. It never worked. Some impulse. Just better than keeping still. He never really was a human, was he? Humans didn’t treat other humans like this. So he wasn’t one. So why did he ever think he was?

Tie was weird. Maybe having a soul made you act all funny. He’d been tempted to change her name, to no-mask or just face, but the words didn’t feel right, sort of caught on his tongue. Even when he didn’t have one sometimes! Tie just slid off easily. Like he’d said it a lot, or something like it.

So the newbie remained Tie. And Tie was weird. A good kind of weird? She didn’t just tell him to shut up, anyway. Most of them were boring like that. Though not getting shocked into unconsciousness did make the days tend to drag a bit more. She did make his head hurt sometimes, with all the weird reactions Tie made. It always passed though.

He kept playing with the lights up there so they would flicker and crackle, just to check if it was a Tie day. Sure, that got a good amount of shocks when it wasn’t Tie, but they were always grumpy after he’d lost a limb or two. It was almost amusing again. That was the word. Maybe?

“You don’t remember Amity at all?”

Frustration and anger that was directed at him, but also not. Tie was super strange like that. “Why would I?” His response just made her eyes narrow more, but she didn’t do anything to take it out on him. It was hilarious. 

“That’s where you’re from.”

“News to me.” Might be a lie, might not. Gun grunts said lots of weird stuff. He shifted position, watching her while upside down didn’t make it easier to tell if humans were lying or not, but did make her scowling funnier. “That’s where you’re from then? Or that other name you keep using.”

“You can’t actually be him. Fuck.” She was rubbing at her forehead, looking away at nothing. “You remember ghost hunters but not Amity Park?”

“Hey! Names are hard, Tie. Isn’t like you know the name of every town you’ve ever been in.”

“No, but I remember the one I lived in most of my life!”

“Good for you! I’d clap but I’m kinda under armed for the task.” Under armed. He snickered as she only rolled her eyes at his joke, but it only made him think of another one. “Isn’t like a ghost lives anywhere.”

“You’re in here for hell knows how long and you can’t get better jokes?!”

Tie’s irritation just made it funnier. “These are gold! Way better than the stuff you guys laugh at.”

“Like what?”

“Oh you know.” The humour of the moment passed as he got back up, wondering if he should give the old ice trick another go. The noises were fun. “Like how the ghost won’t eat, but ghosts don’t breathe either. So the ghost can’t do much to stop ya.” As if Tie didn’t know. She still made the weird pinched expressions though. Why bother? It didn’t really matter if she actually had a soul still. Those ones just quit and then there’d be a new newbie. “Lots of you think that’s reaaaaal funny.” He stuck out his tongue, gagging. “Gross gun grunts.”

“That’s not funny either.”

“Try breaking your funny bone a few times. That’ll fix it. Or was that computers?” He frowned, rubbing his fingers against his chin. Computers. What was it about computers again? Re-re-something? Like with bones when you...did something…

“Phantom!”

That jerked him out of his considerations. “Still not him!” Now that he checked, Tie looked like she’d been trying to get his attention for awhile again. That, or she’d figured out how to teleport closer to his cage. Both were very possible. Probably. 

“You didn’t hear a word I said, did you.”

“You were talking?”

“For someone who says he isn’t Phantom, it sure gets your attention fast.”

He shrugged. What did Tie expect? So what if he noticed it? It didn’t mean anything to him, personally. It was like comp-whatevers. “You could say the coats were coming and I’d do the same thing.”

“Doubt it. You remember Jack and Maddie maybe?” Tie hesitated, as if saying something to him actually mattered. “Your parents?”

“I’m a ghost. And possibly a starfish. Since I do the whole regenerating thing.” He’s pretty sure it’s starfish that do that. “I don’t think they’re big on families.” He thought that was pretty amusing, having like. Little voiceless things that cling to rocks as parents. Actually had a bit in common if you thought of his cage as a rock? Tie didn’t agree, based on how he was biting at her lip and clenching her fists. Still no shooting. Still super weird.

“Be a mercy killing at this point…” Tie wasn’t actually speaking to him, but it was interesting. Killing what? One of the other ghosts maybe. “Sam, Tucker? Any of them ring a bell?”

He certainly didn’t have a bell in here. “Sam...and Tucker are names?” He guessed, shuddering a little. Weird names. Made the gooey mess of ectoplasm he was made of wriggle when he said it. Like when he was struggling to digest something, uncomfortable and heavy and just making him want to move when he couldn’t. Though he could this time. Zipping up to the top of his cage helped shake the feeling off, at least. He wasn’t saying those again, no thank you. “You have weird tricks, Tie”

“They’re just names. I didn’t do anything to make you fly up there. I half thought you couldn’t do that anymore.”

Tie did have a bit of a point. When was the last time he’d flown up here? “Think I forgot I could?” He didn’t really move much in general. Not like he had anywhere to go, his cage didn’t really change.

She just looked tired. “This isn’t fixable.”

He wasn’t really paying attention, poking at the edges of his cage with his feet was pretty entertaining. It tingled a bit when he got pushed back, but flipping over in the air was easy. Why didn’t he float more? “Gun grunts don’t fix things, so Idonno why you care.”

Tie wasn’t paying much attention to him either, muttering to herself. “Manson would kill me for doing it. No way she’d believe you’re like this. Let alone the Fentons...”

Well, that was boring. He busied himself with counting how many seconds it took for the shock to stop coursing through him when he touched the walls. Though it was a bit tricky to keep track between tries.

“Skulker? Ember? You at least remember the ghosts, don’t you?”

“Are you just making names up now Tie?” They just sounded silly. The thought of someone named ‘Skulker’...who was also very tiny. Now that’d be funny. Kinda liked that idea actually.

“Probably don’t even remember the guy who put a million on your head…”

“A million whats? Questions? That’s more a you thing, Tie.”

“No, Vlad. The mayor?”

“The what?” Things weren’t funny anymore. He wasn’t cool and passive. That word, there’d been others but he didn’t even care what they’d been. The V had been enough to set his core to a furious pulsating heat of fury. His ice claws clung to the wall even as the buzzing in his skull grew stronger as the field tried to shove him back. “WHERE” He snared, not caring how his throat burned from the partial wail trying to scrabble out of his throat. Tie didn’t matter, nothing mattered and he actually missed his arm since not having it made it harder to keep his grip and snarl at the one backing away from his prison. “WHERE IS HE?” Oh he’d order anyone, and they’d listen or he’d shred them as soon as he got through- but his claws were cracking- green and red staining and corrupting the fine edge he’d honed so often. Why did he care? He didn’t know, didn’t want to know, he just had to act and now, just in case. The chance might slip away and he wouldn’t, they’d pay they’d pay, they’d PAY.

“Danny! Stop hurting yourself, he’s not here!” Tie was blathering, but at least backed away when he shrieked at her. Stupid Tie. Didn’t know anything. “Hell. You don’t even know why you’re mad, do you.”

He kept slamming the ice back in place, even as his arm weakened and started oozing. He didn’t need his legs, he didn’t need arms, he didn’t need anything. Just OUT. NOW. He snarled and snapped at the metal that grabbed his back and slammed him hard to the ground of his cage. It ignored him and the awful warmth that had consumed everything. He never won against it but now he had to keep trying because-because the anger? Because of something. The metal easily ignored the green surging pulses of electricity, just kept pressing down on him until he wasn’t solid enough to struggle, not strong enough to scream at it. The awful stabbing feeling in his core wanted him to act, but he couldn’t even defiantly flick his tail as he grew colder and slipped out of consciousness.

Everything hurt and it wasn’t even Friday. At least. He didn’t think it was? He’d have to ask Tie about it...if Tie showed up again. Something about her gave him a stab of unease. Might have something to do with all the green stains in here. Didn’t remember getting shot though. Strange. Must have done something. Maybe. Didn’t really matter.

[ao3feed-ladynoir]

Maintaining a Professional Distance

Maintaining a Professional Distance by buggachat

“I mean, how dumb does the mayor think we are? Offering us a permanent hotel room as a ‘gesture of gratitude for all our work for Paris’, like it isn't clearly just some half-baked political ploy to place him more in the public's favor after the whole school funding scandal, like we'll allow ourselves to sleep in a hotel that we were publicly offered, making ourselves sitting ducks for Hawkmo—”

“It's a pretty big building,” he countered, and at least he seemed amused, because she certainly wasn't, “Nobody knows which room we were given but us.”

“It doesn't matter!” she scoffed, “It's still a security risk that he can narrow our location down at all! Also,” she jutted her arms out towards the bed a second time, “May I remind you? ONE. BED. ONE!” ——— Or, Ladybug and Chat Noir receive a hotel room from the city, which they most certainly will not use. After all, that wouldn't be very professional, would it?

Yes, it's a Ladynoir bed sharing fic.

Words: 43417, Chapters: 11/11, Language: English

Fandoms: Miraculous Ladybug

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories: F/M

Characters: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir, Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Alya Césaire

Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir & Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Alya Césaire & Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug

Additional Tags: Ladynoir | Adrien Agreste as Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng as Ladybug, Aged-Up Character(s), Mild Sexual Content, not enough for an M rating I don't think but be warned that it's there, Sharing a Bed, Menstruation, Temporary Character Death, Mild Gore, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Hotels, Bad Parent Gabriel Agreste, some adrienette but really it's a ladynoir fic, Friends With Benefits Without The Benefits, Sexual Humor, theyre in their early twenties, Identity Reveal, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir Needs a Hug, Panic Attacks, marinette is a little bit unhinged

Read Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40286409