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beauleifu · 2 years

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Hello! I like your writing and I would like to ask a request if your taking them at this time. It would be Mayor x reader (gender neutral). (I'm pretty sure it could count as fluff?? I'm not really sure😅)

The prompt is this: the Mayor and the reader have known each other for a while now, and he comes to visit them often. However the reader has a pretty risky job, being a sort of mercenary/freelance sort of work. While the Mayor isn't aware of how dangerous their job is, he does know it sometimes keeps them away from home for days at a time. One day the Mayor is at their house waiting for them, they had texted him saying that they'd be home by that night and they could hang out once they got there. So he's waiting for the reader, until he hears a noise coming from their bathroom. Thinking it's a home intruder, he goes into the bathroom only to see the reader; bloodied up and injured from a bad day at work. They were rummaging through their drawers looking for medical supplies they had on hand. So the Mayor helps to treat their wounds.

Apologies if this is written confusingly, feel free to ignore this if so.

First off, thanks so much! I love writing and this prompt is SO GOOD, I've kinda twisted it a tad so reader is like a freelance assassin of a sort, not specified, but i hope it meets your expectations

Roughly 2k oneshot, enjoy!! <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

MAYOR X READER

Lego Monkie Kid

Context: Working as a freelancer does come with its perks, but tonight has sadly betrayed you. After offering to have the Mayor over and failing to welcome him properly, you're now sitting in your bathroom, trying to make the most of your decidedly horrible day. Job is job. (The ask also provides some context <3)

TW: Blood, language, panic attack, assassin topics

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

Damnit!

With a frustrated sort of grunt, you yank off a strip of bandages from the roll, your hands shaking with effort. Unfortunately, your client had failed to inform you about the bodyguards surrounding your target. Funny how such an important detail could be missed.

The consequence has left you with more injuries than you care to count.

Just your luck.

Plus, you'd invited the Mayor - one of your good friends - over to hang out, and he's no doubt already at your door. He's the type to either be early or exactly on time.

It couldn't be any more misfortunate. Time is the bane of your existence. You'd stumbled back home with a wounded shoulder (gunshot, probably), and had barely won a knife fight as you tried to escape (resulting in a few cuts). The operation had failed; your client will indeed be unsatisfied with the still-alive target, but you value your own life over other's desires.

"F-Fuck-" You bite your lip and hiss with pain as you try to apply some rubbing alcohol to the wounds.

There's a large slash to your side that needs immediate attention, but the pain is proving to be almost too great. Sure, wounds come with the mercenary package, and you're used to that.

But your clients normally tell you everything.

The new one is a rookie and all together a disappointment.

People hire you to kill their enemies; those who have wronged them or prove to be too much of a nuisance to their plans. Those unlucky few are reported to you, and a contract is sealed in favor of the target's elimination. Basically, you do the higher-up's dirty work for them.

The Mayor doesn't know this.

And hopefully, if you wear a bunch of layers tonight, he'll never find out.

So your in your bathroom, trying to stop the flow of blood seeping from your wounds. Cuts to your arms, side, and oh hell that bullet to your left shoulder is killing you.

Why are people so stupid!?

Why couldn't the stupid client tell you the target had bodyguards?!

You grit your teeth hard enough to crack a tooth.

It's too much.

You can't-

Suddenly, something reaches your ears. You pause everything, hands frozen at your side and soaked in your own blood. Footsteps are approaching the bathroom door - footsteps you recognize. Oh, fuck.

Three, gentle raps sound on your door. "(Y/N)? Are you in there?"

It's the Mayor.

Of course it's the fucking Mayor. The demon practically breathes bad timing. You suck in a deep, shuddering breath, eyes blurry with pain as you collapse against the wall furthest from the door. There's no way to conceal your presence now; he's well aware and won't leave you alone. "G-Give me a second-"

A hiss of pain slips through your teeth; the cost of speaking is doing numbers to your side injury.

Silence.

Only the soft dripping of your blood hitting the floor can be heard.

"Is the faucet leaking?"

So the Mayor can obviously hear it, then. You close your eyes, fighting for a sliver of strength. "N-No, I . . . n-no . . . I'm gonna have to . . . cancel . . ."

Meaningless words escape you, the intentions being to ask the Mayor to come another day. The prospect of entertaining him in the state your in simply isn't feasible.

Click!

The bathroom door is suddenly enveloped in an icy blue hue. It steals your breath away; you watch with wide eyes as it twists, magically unlocking, and swinging open. How that happened is unimportant.

What's important is the demon standing in the doorway.

The Mayor's blank, white eyes slide onto your broken and bloodied figure, his own neat and tidy in his signature pinstripe suit.

You swallow dryly.

"I-It's not what it looks like-"

His smile suddenly sharpens at the sight of you, becoming twisted and deranged, his eyes flashing with blue. A gust of blue wind blows past you, making you wince and close your eyes.

It's fine.

He's merely clearing the perimeter of any threats. You're used to this.

However, what makes it so anxiety inducing is that it means your injuries are serious. Especially if it seems to alarm the bone demon himself.

You fight the panic, heart hammering in your chest.

He found you.

He'll find out how dangerous your job is, the reason you'd be absent for days on end.

"OUT!" You yelp, clutching the gash on your side with your uninjured arm, the other hanging limp at your side. "G-Get out, I'm fine!"

This is bad. The way your heart's beating is just making the blood flow faster from your words. Eyes wide and riddled with pain and anxiety, you stumble upright. The room sways with your erratic movements.

A hand snatches your wrist. The Mayor's eyes are firm. "That's enough."

"Wha-"

"Sit down," he instructs, taking action so fast it renders you shell-shocked. You hardly resist when the Mayor settles you gently on the bathroom floor.

"I-I'm fine-" You gasp, thoughts foggy and disorganized.

The Mayor's smile is absent as he gathers what little medical supplies you've managed to supply, and perhaps it's that small detail which gives you pause. For now, you sit on the ground without another word, trying to focus on calming down. Gazing dully at the demon, you watch as he unrolls a bit of bandages and brings whatever else down with him as he kneels beside you.

Eyes wide and serious, he takes your chin and tilts your head towards him. "Look at me."

You do so.

The fight is all but lost, anyways.

There's no point in resisting the assistance you obviously require - not like you could, anyways. How helpless you feel, limp on the floor like a ragdoll.

The Mayor searches your eyes for a second, assessing things unknown to you.

Something flickers in his gaze; he gently presses his hand to the bullet wound on your shoulder, eyes hardened and focused.

Pain.

It flares through your body like a fucking wildfire.

"Stop!" You scream, twisting away from the awful, white-hot agony pulsing from the Mayor's hand. Tears blur your vision, your head feels light, your heart seeming to stop. It's too much. "Stop it-!"

A hand to your chin drags you back to reality. The Mayor forces your head back to him.

"Look at me," he growls.

You swallow, positively shaking with pain and panic.

Eyes never leaving yours, the Mayor presses his hand to your shoulder once again. You wince, gasping out, but the demon shushes you gently. "Enough. Just breathe, (Y/N). I'm simply extracting the bullet from the wound."

You have to squint to stay focused. The Mayor's hand is cold against your skin, pulsing with an icy blue magic.

After a moment of gritting your teeth against the pain, the feeling recedes slightly. A dull throbbing is all that's left, and you blink wearily up at Lady Bone Demon's henchman.

He merely holds up a bloody bullet between two fingers.

The smile is back.

You're going to be just fine.

"F-Fuck you," you gasp, unaware of how your fingers have slid through his (the one previously holding your chin), and gripping tightly.

He hums, clearly unbothered by your tactless insult. Instead, he takes up a damp rag and begins washing the blood off.

"May I ask what resulted in all these injuries?"

You close your eyes.

He's a demon. An incredibly powerful demon, who no doubt has ended countless lives over reasons we shall never disclose. The news that you work as a freelancer probably won't stun him as bad as you'd previously feared. In the end, you decide to scrap your anxiety.

"Work," you mumble, and it's silent except for the few noises of discomfort on your end.

The Mayor blinks slowly, eyeing you carefully. But the rag never recedes from your wounds. "I see. . . . Does this happen often?"

"No . . . it was just - just a mix-up."

A long, thoughtful hum meets your words, but your eyes are closing. Your heart is slowing down. It seems as though the bullet in your shoulder was the cause of all your pain, and now it's gone.

Or perhaps you've gone numb, your body deciding to spare you.

Either way, you don't care.

You're tired.

"I think I'll stay a little longer tonight," the Mayor says suddenly, smile somewhat forced. "I'm afraid I can't leave you like this."

"I don't care," you huff, then take another breath. "I've had worse."

"Oh, I can imagine," he returns dryly.

So he's not taking shit from you. Well, that's just fine and dandy. You try to resist his help a few more times, but the demon is quick to shut you down. And, after you've showered to wash the blood off and he's mopped up the crimson remains of your little adventure off the bathroom floor, you're both sitting on the couch in the living room. You; a disheveled, battered mess of a human being with baggy clothes to accommodate for your wounds, and the Mayor.

As always, your companion is dressed to perfection with a smile to complete the look. This time around, however, his smile is forced and strained.

You know why.

What should he think after discovering you so close to death in the bathroom? Covered in blood (most of it your own)?

So you glance apologetically at the demon sitting next to you. The TV is forgotten for the moment. "Hey. I, uh . . . I'm sorry. For coming home all banged up."

"I wasn't worried," he replies simply.

Something tells you that's a lie. Your frown deepens, and you stare at your hands in shame. "Sorry I scared you."

"I was more confident in my ability to heal you than fretting over your survival."

"I'm sorry for lying?"

At this, the Mayor offers a more gentle smile. "My dear, everyone has their secrets! There's no harm in keeping the few that pose a threat to others to ourselves," he ads mysteriously, white eyes twinkling with amusement.

You return the smile faintly, hugging yourself in your pajamas. The pain is almost gone, now; the bone demon had used his magic to heal the biggest wounds, and now you're partly mummified.

"Okay. Thanks for helping me."

"You would've died had I not," the Mayor says casually.

"Yeah." You glance sideways, gently feeling the areas in which your injuries are located. Everything will heal in time.

The TV becomes the sole noise for a bit.

Then, the Mayor directs his attention to you once more. You'd think he has an offer for sleep, considering the time, but his next words confirm your suspicions incorrect. "I assume your injuries will render you fatefully unavailable for any future freelancing for awhile, correct?"

You falter. "But . . . I need work."

"I'm afraid you need to heal, my dear!" The Mayor says, grinning widely. It's a grin that warns you not to object.

"Ah . . . And I suppose you'll want to be my caretaker?"

The threat in his expression softens, and the Mayor's eyes fix on the TV, satisfied with your question. "Indeed. I have nothing better to do, anyways."

"Lucky me," you snort.

He hums in agreement. "Yes, you would've-"

"Died without you, I'm aware," you interrupt, suddenly grinning. For the next few weeps at least, you'll be under the care of your good friend. It's not a bad feeling that fills you up; in fact, you're excited to spend more time with the Mayor. "You must love repeating yourself., dude."

"Mock me, won't you? Freelancing isn't the only activity that results in injury."

"Ooh, I'm scared."

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