Chapter Text

1

“‘Do not seek lust without commitment’ is the exact ridiculous sort of thing a god without balls would say.” 

– Edgard “Breeze” Ladrian on Pathian religious doctrine, 14 P.C.

“Let me go.”

“No.”

“Please? I’ll say I was you. You’d get a free vacation!”

“And my reputation would be destroyed. No.”

“I mean, if I had your reputation I’d probably want it destroyed! Hell, I’d be doing me– you? well, one of us a favor.”

“I,” Denel said, slamming his binder shut and standing up in a single aggressive motion, “am going to go to work now, Wayne.”

Wayne did his best to look sad at Denel, nearly overcoming the fact that Denel deeply loathed him through sheer facial muscular control. Denel was tempted to burn his Bronze and see if someone was messing with his emotions– instead, he just adjusted his glasses and pulled on his jacket.

“You, Wayne, are a stellar example of everything I want to get away from in this office.”

“Mockery? Gettin’ laughed at? Well-timed insults you invite yourself?”

“No, Wayne. Just you.”

Denel stood up and walked briskly towards the Constable-General’s office, knowing full well Wayne would not wish to be seen by him again following last week’s disaster. Constable Celaux nodded as he entered, already in the middle of reading some report. 

“Your assignment is on the table,” he said.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Indeed. You should thank the Survivor. Lot of men would kill for this job.”

Denel blushed. “Really?”

He nodded. “Especially if they heard you were the one getting it.”

Denel’s pride sunk into shame. It was funny, just how often people knew just what to say to hurt him without seeming to give it any effort. “Right, sir. I’ll get on it right away.” 

“See that you see it through. It wouldn’t do to have you turn tail and run, or get… distracted.”

Denel once again forced out what he hoped was a small ‘yes sir’, though he doubted it was at all comprehensible as he left the office. The Constable-General didn’t even look at him. That was nice, at least, normally it felt like everyone was looking at him.

As he made his way out of the office and onto the streets, he couldn’t help but sigh with relief. Behind him was a building that represented everything he believed in and aspired to– Law. Order. Compassion, when for thousands of years those things were accompanied by bloodshed. And beneath that was… him, a man who was more often described as “pretty” than imposing, who couldn’t even project confidence while he was struggling through piles of paperwork.

Denel was a rookie constable, having only been on the job for around six months now. In that time he’d discovered a lot of things. For example, if you were a skinny, nebbish sort of man whose hobbies were translating high imperial and writing letters to broadsheet publishers, you had a lot of trouble making friends in the police department. He’d also learned that sometimes the mayor was a Faceless Immortal, a shapeshifter born when the skies were wrought with ash with unknowable powers who slaughtered tons of your coworkers and then got beaten up by Waxillium Ladrian. Most critically, though, he’d learned that fleeing– not wetting yourself as some had claimed, just fleeing– from such a scene was a way to make your already pathetic social life even worse among the hardworking people of Elendel’s finest. Even with his Allomantic abilities, he was the last person anyone needed or wanted for anything.

It wasn’t that he was insecure. He was fairly insecure but he liked to think himself capable of dealing with that. But all of his coworkers looking down on him, while he struggled with even the most basic assignments, didn’t give him a lot of confidence in his career prospects. The fact that he’d spent years in school just to be made an Allomantic Labor Inspector, the least impressive kind of inspector, was disappointing to him and everyone he cared about. 

So he was going to be the best one. There was simply no other option. He was going to be the rusting greatest labor inspector Elendel could even imagine, combining the sheer bureaucratic might of the Obligators of old with the determination of a modern Roughs lawman. When he studied Coinshot delivery services, he did it so thoroughly that by the end of his work he knew more than their owners. When he was in charge of monitoring soothing parlors, he could find any leak of allomantic brass, no matter how small, and would single-handedly interrogate every employee to determine if it was put there deliberately. He was there to hunt down any Inappropriate Use of Allomancy, to protect the powerless from nonconsensual mental domination and Mistings and Ferrings from overbearing employers. In this he could be proud, a real constable of Elendel, fighting battles that still mattered without battling monsters of myth. 

Perhaps that was why, as he sat in his carriage, he found himself paying extra attention to his appearance– polishing the buttons on his uniform surreptitiously, willing his oft unruly blond hair to stay in place where it belonged. Maybe if I pretend I’m an important official, he thought, other people will believe it.

~~~

Madame Feltri exploded into the Sherwyn’s Nobles’ Club, black cowboy boots carefully avoiding creaky boards that the owner hadn’t fixed in years. Rusty blonde locks swayed behind her as she marched her way to the table in front of the left side of the bar where Ms. Vantressa Sherwyn was lounging on a pink couch reading a broadsheet. This startled several of the non regular customers and they looked up, paranoid and nervous. Each was in the company of at least one beautiful brass misting, each delicately sipping from an Allomantically laced drink. 

Feltri made sure to walk into the center of the room, where all of Van’s clients could see her and get a taste of what they were missing. She was rioting their curiosity, although in her tightly laced black corset, see-through lilac skirt, fishnet tights over long legs, and noisy boot heels, she was already plenty interesting. 

“You’re stealing my customers,” she said to Vantressa, reaching up to push her waist length hair behind her ears and shoulders. She loved how doing that emphasized her breasts and butt, and by the looks of things so did everyone else.

Vantressa raised a single, meticulously manicured eyebrow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“There’s metal missing from your walls. Your stupid ‘door’ is half a curtain and swinging wooden flaps. There’s not enough aluminum in your shielding to line a fuckin’ hat.”

“What an interesting theory.”

“I see lots of folks I’ve seen buck-naked walk in here. And it’s certainly not your girls’ bodies doing it.”

Feltri thrust a hip to the side while resting a hand on her thigh, back arched and chest out, and rioted the attraction of everyone in the room. Some of the soothers blushed. Feltri was pretty sure the pianist blushed. 

Vantressa didn’t flinch.

Instead, the Soother motioned to her people, and her girls shared looks– It wasn’t the first time Feltri had seen them do this, and it brought her a little satisfaction to know Vantressa had drilled them on how to deal with her. The girls here wore nigh transparent flowing dresses in pastel colors that came right off as soon as they could confirm you brought them money, and that made it easy enough to convince the men that it might be time to move things upstairs, Soothing away the fear and nervousness with a practiced flirty touch and voices so sweet and nice that any of the people in that lobby would swear that the Soothing wasn’t the main thing making them want to just do what she wanted and follow along. 

Feltri took another step forward, skirt swishing aggressively over her tights as she angrily shifted her weight to her right hip, shouting to be heard over the piano and despite Vantressa’s best attempts to hide her customers away.

 “These people would love to be rolling with my girls but for ‘some reason’ felt like it would be better to RELAX IN HERE!”

Vantressa exhaled softly without looking away from whatever she was reading. “I can’t imagine why they’d have trouble relaxing there.”

Vantressa put down her broadsheets and picked up her drink, taking a calm sip. She did not get up. She did not flinch or shift uncomfortably. The woman barely even lifted her eyes from the table. Harmony! She was always so fucking calm! Vantressa’s entire arguing style– hell, her whole communication style was based on the idea that it was almost completely impossible to fight with someone who didn’t really fight back. The trick is to get her to disagree with you and then you can make her look like the bad guy…

Vantressa’s eyes were filled with cold disdain, but Feltri couldn’t help but let hers wander. Her gaze was drawn straight down to Van’s short white skirt and how it pretended to hide her soft, warm thighs. There was a time when she loved this woman more than anything. Loved the way she dressed her curvy body, loved the way their allomantic talents perfectly complemented each other. Today the Terriswoman was wearing an underbust corset in a soft yellow that matched her light brown braid and dramatic curly bangs. It pushed her breasts up almost out of the white dress under it. Hovering over her, Feltri had a perfect view of all the cleavage and her generous ass spilling all over the wide lounge chaise. Her iconic red heels shone in the light of the room. 

It is not fair, she observed, that I, a Survivor-damned champion of professional sex, can be angry about fucking being horny. 

Vantressa slowly raised her eyes, giving her that lazy, unbothered look which completely contrasted with the profanity that came out between her perfect pink lips in a bare whisper.

“You bitch, get out of my lobby. You’re scaring my customers.”

“Good,” Feltri said. “If I can’t run a shop, it seems fair that you can’t either. With how much your girls charge you can survive a month or two out of work. I bet you’re still making more off ‘tips’ than you are off the actual sex, huh.”

“I don’t know what you’re implying.”

“Scummy business practices and that you’re as manipulative as you are undeservedly pretty.”

“Thanks,” Vantressa replied, smiling. “It means a lot.”

And there it was again. Like trying to Riot a stone. 

Vantressa sighed, then smoothed her skirt. “It’s been three years since the divorce and you still get all riled up to yell at me like it’s the best part of your afternoon, complete with the tightest corset I’ve ever seen. Are you even really mad at me? Or is this just how you say hello now?”

Feltri hesitated. It was true that she’d pushed her chest up even higher than usual before walking in here, smirked at the customers when she didn’t think anyone was looking– 

“You’re Soothing me.”

Vantressa blinked. “What?”

“I never get self-conscious unless you make me think that way! I get upset with you and you use your tits or your brass and you just… Ugh. How dare you. Harmony’s balls, can you stop manipulating me for two seconds!?”

“I’m not the one who decided to come here.” Vantressa motioned to the door. But then she stretched, arching her back in a way that brought back far too many memories of how certain things felt and tasted. She hated that that was why she stayed here, and that Vantressa clearly knew it.

“I’m getting tired of this,” Vantressa said. “Stop trying to punish me for not being who you wanted me to be. You broke up with me.”

“You made me. We could have talked about our issues, sorted our crap out.”

“I could have talked, maybe. I’m capable of it. You though...” Vantressa just gestured at Feltri, the same dismissive wave of the hand as before. Her manicured nails reflected the light and she noticed they were a shade of light purple that Van knew was Feltri’s favorite. It actually matched her own skirt. 

“I know this can be hard for you,” Feltri said, “but you’ve got to be the bigger person for once in your terrible life. I need to make a fucking living, pun intended!”

“I’m so sorry that’s been a challenge for you lately. I could let you borrow one of my makeup girls.”

“Ugh. You– You’re–”

“I what? I’m stealing clients?” Vantressa chuckled softly, covering her mouth, sharing a knowing look with a girl who seemed more awkward than in on the joke. “That’s interesting, I recall you practically gloating that you had girls waiting outside your doorstep to ‘flag down’ customers on this street. You seriously mean to tell me you haven’t been ‘convincing’ them to visit your little strip club?”

“IF I had been doing that, it would just be a counterattack. Fair’s fair. If you could just stop we’d both be better off. The fuck do you need to waste my energy for!?”

“Oh, please, I live rent free in your head. You’ve been staring at my chest and thighs this entire time without me even trying. How anyone who has sex for a living could be this desperate for one person’s affections is beyond me, but I–”

“Oh, this is not about me being attracted to you! I can think you’re hot and want you all the way out of my life! You’re the one who weasels back into it with literal mind control!”

Vantressa smirked, then leaned forwards, giving Feltri an excellent view of her chest but intimidating her all the same. “You’re just mad that I’m better at it than you.”

Feltri was furious, and she could feel Van doing her best to soothe that away, leaving behind shame and forgiveness and maybe a touch of affection. Feltri could see the ice in the blue drink melting as Van subconsciously heated it up, and as her  long slender fingers and manicured nails curled minutely as she gripped the cup ever so slightly harder. 

It wasn’t much, but for Vantressa it might as well have been a tantrum, and it was more than Feltri had seen in years. She wanted to escalate, reach out and grab her, Riot her own fury back up to the proper level, debate points she’d been tricked into ignoring (her place was NOT a strip club! It was a proper Establishment!), when the creak sounded from the old floorboards.

Aandre stopped playing the piano in shock, foot heavy on the sustain pedal, causing the dregs of the music to ring out into the parlor, almost physically washing over everyone present. About half the customers had been taken upstairs by now, to avoid the increasingly heated argument. But the couple remaining working girls struggled to hide their panic, desperately soothing away their customers’ panic as well at the sight of the Inspector in the doorway, casting a long shadow into the middle of the room.

~~~

Denel looked upon the inside of what was certainly not a club for Nobles and then died. Not literally, of course. Ironeyes wasn’t that kind. He stared, too shocked and turned on to remember he shouldn’t. The women, all of whom were dressed in ways he thought only happened in broadsheet serials (or his more embarrassing fantasies) stared back at him. Were they staring? Did they know what he was thinking? They were looking at his badge, surely, not his crotch or any other part of him that was betraying immense arousal and panic or–

And then it hit him. The Soothing. The workers had been distracted, but it was that sort of establishment. His panic fell back, existent but just out of his reach, like it belonged to someone else. These women were gorgeous, displaying themselves in a way that was extremely deliberate and high effort and admirable, not to mention very rusting hot. He was lucky to be sharing a room with them, even if he was mortified that his job today was…

…inspecting them.

And then he flushed. The soothing couldn’t get all the panic. Not when he was such an expert at it. A very short Terriswoman in very high red heels looked over and smiled at him, and he wasn’t sure if it was because she wanted to be on a constable’s good side, or if she was amused, or if she pitied him. She got up off the plush couch and carefully walked over to him. The taller one she had been talking to followed behind her, seeming as shocked as he was. That was nice, at least. It was good to have friends in misery. He noticed how she stepped carefully onto the carpeted areas so that her shoes barely made a sound as she made her way over. She took very deliberate steps, hips swaying, and her skirt kept riding up just enough to almost but not quite show him her-

He cleared his throat, pretending to be someone better and exponentially more dignified than he really was. 

“I’m Junior Constable Denel Luxend,” he said. “Allomantic Labor Inspector of the Seventh Octant. I’m here to review this establishment, as well as another in this neighborhood. I’d like to see the owner?”

“Alright,” the blonde said. “That’s acceptable and in no way an unexpected catastrop–”

The short brunette smiled up at the woman beside her. This smile contained no pity, or any mercy of any sort. Her soft and warm face seemed like it would be so inviting, but that smile terrified him. What was wrong with those two? 

She turned her attention back to him, and the smile lost a bit of its edge. “Of course. Welcome. I’m Vantressa Sherwyn, and this is Madame Feltri. We’re the owners you were looking for.”