✦ PLEONEXIA ✦ PANTALONE X FEM!READER ✦
• SUMMARY. What does it mean to be a good wife? To be a good wife is to offer yourself completely, down to every last mora of your worth, body and mind, so that your husband can decide your future and fix your value. Yet when you quietly despise the man who controls your life, you are brimming with loathing on the verge of spilling over… Until that feeling finally brings you closer to Pantalone — not to give affection, but to thaw out and release what festers inside you. MDNI
• CONTAINS. DUBCON SMUT with (some) plot, coerced/forced marriage, power imbalance, yandere tendencies, controlling relationship, objectification, angst, possessiveness and obsession, reader has some social standing but became indebted after her parents’ death, oral fem receiving, rough/hate sex, gagging on fingers, yearning and masochistic pantalone if you squint, breathplay, orgasm denial, slapping, creampie. WORD COUNT: 10,8k.
• NOTE. Divider by @/cafekitsune. I wrote Pantalone here as a man a bit irritable and impatient, based on every information I could gather about him. My characterization of him generally is a hit or miss, considering he's never made his appearance, so sorry in advance if in the future he ends up being OOC.
Your routine as Pantalone’s wife is pretty simple, and runs like clockwork.
In the morning, you rise when he does, regardless of how early it is.
“Good morning, my dear. Let us catch another productive day,” he says smoothly from above your face. Leaning down for a deserved kiss, his loose hair tickles your face and hides you from the world for him.
Your lips always move drowsily at this hour, so he guides you, rather eager to be that help; with the sleepiness still in power of you, you’re not coherent enough to register the kiss increasingly becoming selfish.
Then you watch him dress, each layer donned meticulously — a slovenly appearance is another weakness to admit to your opponents, such as a brewing chaos in your life. There’s never time for breakfast at home, save for the special occasions, so you linger in bed, trying to not sink back into sleep before you could tell him goodbye.
“They say a happy spouse makes life more prosperous. Therefore, I hope you can wish me a safe journey.”
As you fulfill his wish, you watch him go, then close your eyes the second you hear the door close. The lavish room feels empty without him, as it is peaceful.
While he’s away, you have time to focus on yourself. The only time you do. Although, you’re still expected to oversee the staff in his absence.
They themselves like it that way, finding you quite patient in comparison to your husband. You form them an opinion dissent from what they think of him — that he’s just a man keen on perfection, with a lot to lose — and apologize, promising loyalty to be rewarding in the longer run. You’re like his addendum, translating his actions for them. Still, you try to not become too comfortable with the servants— you doubt your husband would like that much.
When dinner time comes around the corner, Pantalone usually is not home yet. Which doesn't entail you get to eat alone — there’s already been an agent sent after you. Thankfully, it’s not cold within the capital itself — thanks to the heating system Kresnik’s Torch provides for Snezhnograd. So you arrive at one of the Northland Banks he stations in during specific days easily, while something good is wafting through the door of his office.
You're typically all dolled up by this hour. Choices such as a navy dress made out of a thick velvet enveloping you tight at the chest but swirling at the bottom, black heeled boots with silver embellishments, heavy blue rocks for jewelry. Your husband greatly appreciates the sight upon your arrival, eying you from head to toe.
“You look endearingly beautiful, my dear,” he praises right before he leans to kiss your cheek. “I hope you will enjoy this meal with me. Have you tried Fontainian cuisine before?”
Your harbinger husband has you trying all kinds of food. It’s in opposition to the way that Snezhnayans pride themselves in their native cuisine. Your late mother told you to eat only local dishes as long as you live here, unless you are traveling abroad, and he has you breaking that standard.
“I believe I have not,” you reply honestly, not even because you want to preserve his well-hidden excitement.
“Excellent.” He claps his hands together and ushers you to the table set in the corner of his gold-shining office, pulling out the chair for you.
He even ties your hair for you so it doesn’t fall into a soup you’re about to eat. Something to be grateful about. The hair, you see, he also invests into, accruing from it when he notices its condition elevate itself over the time maids spend on caring for it.
Sitting down across from you, his hand occasionally grabs yours, playing with the wedding band and fat diamond of the engagement ring you still wear. They weigh heavy on your fingers, speaking of both their value and your belonging to him.
You hear his dissolute hums, but you suspect your presence here is more satisfying than the dish.
Done with the meal, he encourages you to stay for dessert too — even if nothing could be as sweet as his wife is. You laugh at that remark, a bit too loudly.
Pantalone lives up to his moniker Regrator. When you leave, he invites a client in, apologizing for the delay as he must have seen his precious wife — she gets so lonely on her own… Transactions run pretty smoothly, as the client signs a contract he doesn’t comprehend well, any profoundness overshadowed by the excitement. The prospect of gaining attention of such an influential man is a great honor.
This is why he likes to go after clients with nascent businesses. Dimming their light until a power vacuum exists works out well in the end — and they shall not worry, they still earned their money. The only people he doesn’t go after are those who already have nothing, as they can’t commit to the art of trade; maybe there’s some reminiscences of pity involved.
Eat, or be eaten is what he likes to tell you, unequivocally. He’s not doing more than his colleagues do, and you nod at that, thinking everyone fights for their survival in the capital of Snezhnaya.
On rarer occasions, your husband makes some extra time for you, ensuring he returns home early — just for you.
You walk across the shopping street when it’s not him monopolizing your presence for himself. It’s a more exorbitant type of area, no window shopping allowed. Only people capable of profligacy are allowed into this place, roofed with glass, laid out with light-painted buildings more expensive than an average house and checkered tiles. With beguiling smiles of sellers and wealthy laughs of families everywhere, it’s as though you step into another world.
Your hand rests in the gloved one, as Pantalone parades you around proudly. Your rings shine under the light of lanterns — your own signage among other advertisements.
You occasionally step on the tattered mora coin someone dropped and didn't bother to lift up because it's dirty money anyway.
Unfortunately, nothing offered here picks up your interest most of the time. It’s not parsimony.
“What’s wrong?” he asks gently, his hand now on your back. “Does nothing to be sold here appeal to you?”
You frown, wondering if he’d consider you spoiled should you come out clean about your dissatisfaction.
The problem is — you could obtain many of luxurious items here, but they are useless to you and the pile of such similarities back home.
Unless you were ever have to run away and need money. Just a funny thought to entertain.
“These are trinkets to me-” you finally admit.
Yes, all of the items around are very lovely to look at. Bags. Jewelry. Figures. Clothes. Imported goods Snezhnaya can’t harvest. Pets even. Majority of them are something many would love to receive and most could only dream of. But in your stage of life, their value lies in their looks only… and when you’re on your own all day, you need something to keep you busy, not something to put on a shelf and stare as it gathers dust.
“-I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but I would like to be gifted something practical… Since you’re willing to spend your money on me anyway.”
“Something practical…” he muses, and for a second you worry he’ll say no. “Wise choice. I’ll approve, especially that I can’t have you trying to bite my head off from boredom,” he chuckles even if you don’t find it funny. “Painting, reading, creating of any kind?”
He orders himself an extra suit — the one you help him envision — and then you go back to that lavish mansion of upper echelon.
In the evening, unless you’re dragged to another banquet with him, where you flash a smile for the pictures, and his hand rested at your waist serves as a reminder that you ought to conduct yourself well, you have to listen to his rants. You suppose that’s better than being sycophantic and dancing with others of Fatui.
All about how inundated he is. Failed projects, failures of subordinates. Or his gloating.
Lending an ear is something a good wife does, regardless of how mundane it becomes.
He’s quite a verbose man, with an inability to refrain from forming endless monologues. That ineptitude easily gives you headache.
You even picked up some of his banker jargon, enough to could run a business yourself. If anything, you suspects he’s ready to empower you with some position at his bank, as nepotistic as it sounds — he certainly doesn’t want a housewife or trophy wife (not entirely, at least), if someone to represent him as his partner in crime.
It’s not as if you find staring at the wall or shopping all day much fulfilling either, cabin-fevered. There’s other activities to participate in, but even those become boring when there’s an excess repetition of them, or people accompanying you lick your boots far too easily.
Sometimes, he squeezes you too hard when the memory of the day becomes too vivid. “So many fools in my arsenal… how difficult it is to follow a simple order?”
“That screeching Rooster…”
“I really hope that Dottore’s plan is worth my investment. I worry even my friend isn't immune to making mistakes.”
“Should you really be telling me those things?” you butt in during one of the confessions, not sure if you exactly want to hear everything Pantalone has to say. Some things sound… savage, and it’s harder to bolster his confidence about those. You even hear something as insane as curating his own currency one day. Is he trying to earn your approval, or is he bad at keeping secrets?
“Well, are you thinking of letting the cat out of the bag?” he jests, digging his nails into your waist at the thought.
“Of course not,” you say immediately, full of innocence. As if to console him, you brush his hair aside, noticing how he leans into your touch.
“Enough about them,” he quickly decides, coming to conclusion that your givings are much more interesting.
“Alright.”
Pantalone draws you even closer on the bed. “Many thanks. You’re such a good listener… I couldn’t have asked for a better wife…” he smiles in that roguish way of his. He then kisses you, fondling your hips until your heart races in something different than excitement.
This is what dreams are made of.
This is not a dream you once had.
You were never meant to be his wife.
You have always despised him, the Lord Harbinger, who you met through your father many months ago. At the time, your papa was indulging himself in risky investments, unable to cope after an illness took your mother's life.
Pantalone wouldn't have entertained him so much if it wasn't for you he was interested in, using the man as an extension to reach you. While you were mourning too, you still had no choice but to go where your father does, making sure he doesn’t compromise your family name entirely.
Your dislike for the banker wasn’t unfounded; getting acquainted with a harbinger, a man in power much bigger than your old money family ever was, a man seemingly deceiving. While you were busy hating him, he loved you for the way you could come up with various schemes just to avoid crossing your paths with him, unimpressed as if he’s just another bigshot around you.
Until he decided that he wants you… and the opportunity soon bred itself.
When your father died, prematurely even for his older age, from a heart attack fastened by alcohol overtake and grief, you inherited his enormous debts, have been unable to stop every bad decision in the past — he took you down with him.
Debts that unfortunately rested in the hands of Fatui — The Northland Bank.
Therefore, Pantalone made a deal with you.
Marry him. You’ll be free of your debts and even lead a life much better than you did before, especially ameliorated after you nearly became a bankrupt — and your fall was bad enough to have very hard time forgiving your father. And when you have no one left, and soon nowhere else to go as well, what do you do?
He was quite exuberant at your lavish wedding. So were the people anticipating for someone like him to settle down.
But the marriage certificate is not enough on its own to solidify the exchange you had no choice but to agree to. You actually have to pull your weight and behave like a wife should — showing affection, attention, patience, and care towards your husband. Which means being an actress, giving your best performance in hiding your dislike towards your husband. Giving yourself wholly too; it is only a part of a fair trade. Money is power, and it’s a power enough to buy another person’s life; to elevate or crush it.
Forcing yourself, storing all these feelings until they gather a storm strong enough to erupt one day… knowing breaking his contract comes with consequences… you are just some weeks into the marriage and already at your last straw.
And your husband's greed for your so called love is unfathomable. He can be blatantly fussy too, if not emotional once he catches a sniff of anger in himself. You had to learn how to manage his volatile moods, even if at the cost of being overwhelmed by them daily.
What you had no time to learn is how to manage your own needs. Needs amplified by stress and the way you inadvertently always have to think about him.
Ever since you married him, you didn’t sleep with him — not even once.
You expected him to put his hands on you the very same night of your wedding, claiming what he's been watching with adoration for months. Surprisingly, he has shown leniency you that night — telling you all about how you need to acclimate first, especially when noticing your tension.
Till this day, you doubt it’s kindness; getting to know him, you can imagine he’d find it much more satisfying if you come to him and beg for his cock. And you thought you can last, playing the game of chastity, for stretching ages even — letting your husband touch you in a session bigger than marriage-representative kissing sounds revolting.
But life (and Pantalone) have funny ways of proving you wrong; or rather, taunting you on purpose. Hate and love are both sides of the same mora coin; all these “accidental” touches Pantalone has been giving you during your spent time together still can goad desire. So can affection and attention, as long they’re played out well — especially when there’s not that many people around you for the majority of time.
Today is yet another difficult in those terms day for you. Your body is uncontrollably warm, devoted to the way you feel pent up.
Just a moment ago, you were indulging yourself in a novel, but the way things progressed in it somewhat reminded you of your own unfortunate and sultry situation. A loving wife whose husband works too much and she who finds herself a younger lover who satisfies her desire in his place — a bit tawdry read, nonetheless intriguing. In result, you became lost in thought.
You watch the black marble fireplace smolder, too comfortable in the nook of your purple seat to call the butler to reignite it, even if the cold aquamarine floral wallpapers add little warmth to the spacious common room. You redirect your gaze at the high, white ceiling, carved into all kinds of intricate figures, heavy under the golden chandelier.
Your tea on the heavy coffee table has gone cold as the snow outside. The lilac tea set is a gift from your husband, so you use it a lot, appealing to him with gratitude.
“My wife favors reflection over proper welcome, it would seem again. I was expecting you running to the door.”
The familiar deep voice, spoken with an equilibrium of irony and eloquence, shakes you awake from your thoughts. Pantalone’s lacquered shoes against the varnished oak floor were in your earshot, yet you must have been that lost in your head. In result, you have failed to intercept him at the main door.
“My husband,” you greet curtly as you put aside your book, standing up to welcome him. It comes naturally to you these days. “Welcome home.”
His smile widens. Him simply standing there already feels as if he’s dominating the space, opulent with quiet demand.
You are ready to kiss his cheek, but today, he makes things a bit more difficult for you — cupping your face and making you look at him.
“It’s been a rather stressful day for me. I would like to receive a proper kiss to sweeten it,” he poses his wish with courtesy.
Of course. All days of his work are hard, and you can easily pay the price for that aspect.
Sighing, you close your eyes — at least he’s not scolding you for your slip. Awaiting the kiss, there’s stalling for a few seconds, that you wonder if he’s okay — he must be staring at you… or the conundrum written all over your body language.
But he at once kisses you, rather intensely. His glasses’ heavy chain tickles your face, giving you shivers from how icy it is. You lean into his lips with an odd feeling in your stomach, realizing that it’s been quite many hours between this and the morning kiss.
“Much better. I hope you’ve been faring well during my absence… or not?” he inquires with a subtle tilt of his head, noticing unusual fluster about you — your hands trembling on his shoulders, your gaze secretive. Every kiss of his is capable of stealing your breath, yet it’s not so often that a pleasant chemistry that twirls between you two (for you, at least), therefore you behaving like a maiden is unheard of.
He notices the title on his coffee table, rising his eyebrow.
“Everything is alright,” you reply as coherently as you can, blinking off your stupor.
He only hums at that, no indignation yet. Odd.
He sits you down to be on the fancy sofa again, not joining you as he would have gladly done so already — he walks to stand behind you instead.
“What are you doing…?” you ask hesitantly, not a fan of him towering over you.
“Just trust me.”
His hands go onto your shoulders, massaging the tension and knots — there is so much buildup you weren’t aware of. It’s a rather frustrating realization — body aches are easy to take care with a right professional, and if you didn’t forget to take a better care of yourself, you wouldn’t be here with him, vulnerable.
“I… I should be the one doing it for you…” you protest quietly.
“Nonsense. I can take a bit of exhaustion. Moreover, I’m used to it. You, on the other hand, seem to be awfully tense these days,” he points out with an exaggerated sigh. “What’s gotten you on tenterhooks?”
As he works on unwinding you, you hate to admit his hands are doing wonders on all the knots. Staying steady, pushing through your aches that grind your teeth until you feel relief in the tender spot, chiding you whenever you try to act humble.
For once, you don’t ask him how was his work, not wanting to burst the pleasant bubble — hoping it’s not some calm before the storm for him to be so kind.
To your relief, Pantalone doesn’t initiate anything squawking himself, enjoying the way your body accepts what it’s being given. Your groans of pain, with something discordant that managed to expose you by slipping into them, they slowly turn into those of gratification.
The pleasure starts fizzing out when you arch your body towards him too willingly. Deciding it’s a moment enough about you, he brings you down onto his lap as he takes a seat on a velvet upholstery. You wrap your arms around him — an automatic motion — like a clingy wife would.
So all that incessant chatter begins again.
Listening to him vent about his day, you accidentally zone out. It’s not a difficult feat when his soliloquy generally is daunting; however, it’s those weird aches that mostly get in your mind’s way again, coming and leaving in waves. They get particularly bad when you're near him and your pores soak up his warmth.
“Wife.”
You blink rapidly, gawking at him as you come back to him. “I’m sorry. I wasn't listening…” you reply apologetically.
Instead of anger, there’s curiosity brewing in his narrowed eyes.
“What’s been on your mind lately, hm? Head up in the clouds. I would have thought you would be a bit more elated seeing me home.” Pantalone runs his hands at your red dress’s sides, and you squirm.
It's a demand from his side. A proper wife shouldn’t hide her feelings from her husband. You tell him what’s gnawing at you or he’ll be really disappointed, accusing you of a case of a cold shoulder.
And you’ve been doing your best, forcing yourself to be integrated with him and this marriage by speaking your truths, every nagging thought, small or big. This ongoing dilemma, however… you refuse to reveal openly.
“I’m… still adjusting,” you arrange your answer carefully, while you play with the rings on his fingers in an attempt to not appear distant. Your words, while not a lie, they’re not the entire truth either. “We got married rather quickly after my father’s passing…”
“I know that you are, yet, you also have been making a progress, not regressing. So why would there be a sudden fluctuation, hm?” Pantalone asks intently, brushing your hair to the side, exposing one of the necklaces he’s gotten you for your birthday. “It’s been many weeks since our engagement came into fruition.”
That darn banker. Nothing gets past the shrewd him. You detest being cross-examined by him.
You try to not be impudent and scowl, bothered by the invasion of privacy. “I… I was merely overconfident. Pushing myself. No process is so linear,” you reply almost evenly, even looking back at him with something brave.
“No. Nothing is ever that simple. However, I think I’ve had enough time to learn what makes you tick. Thereby hangs a tale…” he muses, tightening his grip on your waist.
“If it was that important, I would have told you—”
He grabs your face and points your eyes at himself. Somehow, that motion gets your body to confuse anxiety with excitement, as your pulse races in a way different to what you’ve experienced around him.
“Don't you lie to me. Not when I'm still feeling patient with you,” he says sternly.
Your heart goes for your throat — you are yet to see real anger on Pantalone. Your husband can be a short fuse, snap at his subordinates, and you are not willing to become the next subject to his displeasure, even if he’s been remaining mostly patient for your sake.
But how do you admit something so intimate, different from what you’ve ever discussed with him? Perhaps you’d prefer punishment over forced candor, but Pantalone would most likely dig for the truth afterward — just with an obstacle to bypass first.
Seeing your eyes gather some fear, suddenly, he lowers his voice and speaks to you calmly, as if you didn't see anything, confusing you this way. Not much to comfort, as it is done to make you more open. “Whatever it is, I’m sure we can tackle this problem together,” he probs gently.
You have a premonition he knows what’s your issue already, and that he certainly plans to do something about it. He’s entitled to even those parts of you.
“I… I’ve been stressed out lately,” you say quietly. It’s not a lie; again, it’s not the whole truth.
“That much, I know myself,” he sighs as if you’re being purposely difficult, contemplating your stiffness. “But what exactly is the cause of your restlessness?”
You feel your cheeks heat up. It feels as if handing him an ace to play against you. Still, you say it now, or you say it later in circumstances much less pleasant.
It’s hard to brace yourself and you take a deep inhale.
“It’s… a matter of a… carnal nature,” you stammer over your words.
“Oh,” he acknowledges, although there is no surprise — more so satisfaction at his success. It makes you narrow your eyes in question. “What about it?” he plays with your hair, instilling shivers when his fingers touch your nape.
You think apprehensively, in a way that doesn’t imply an invitation of any kind. “I feel frustrated. Pent up. That’s all. I'm sure it’ll pass soon. You know, like a female cycle,” you speak as clinically as you can.
“Hmm… it’s rather normal. All kinds of emotions brewing in you… or hormones for that matter.”
You nod rapidly, happy he understands, ready to change the topic. “Yes, so don’t fret over me—”
“…But I wouldn't dare to leave my wife struggling and in discomfort,” he adds with a sly smirk. “Unsatisfied, thinking I lack something. We’ve had enough time to become accustomed to each other, no?”
Your stomach drops.
He can’t. He has no right to.
His proposal would be like a poisoned chalice — what happens to you once you give him an access to your body? Nothing ever is altruistic with him; everything is an (un)fair trade.
“You don't have to,” you say breathlessly, as if you don't know he’d love to. You even plea with your eyes for him to not to make more offers. You suppose sex is only a normal part of marriage, something you thought is inescapable eventually; but you wish to bide your time in your immunity.
Nonetheless, your harbinger husband is relentless. “You ought to learn how to be more selfish with me,” he chides playfully, stroking your face, “Or others too, in fact. Don’t allow any piranhas to eat you alive.”
But you think you don’t want him to touch you that way, the most invasive and intimate. No matter what your body might try to tell you, desperate for some stress plunging and the relief to the tension he forced to build up between you.
He’s the only person you have left, too. Your friends grown sparse when they heard who you’re marrying, and people not scared of him themselves are not the best companion material. It’s only human you’d seek out your husband eventually.
“That’s not necessary. I like things as they are,” you protest more intensely, daring to glare at him with something nearly condemning.
He grabs your face, holding it tight, as he speaks with a taunt, “Now, now… Do you assume I don't notice the way you gaze at me sometimes?”
Your mouth pops open, both affronted and ashamed. “I have no idea what you’re referencing here,” you say defensively.
“Oh, you don’t? Do you believe I cannot feel the pattern of your heart against mine, so erratic? Or when you lean into the kiss you’ve told yourself is only obligatory?”
“I rebuke such possibility when my husband is a man like you,” the words leave your mouth on their own.
He meets your defiant gaze with a steel on his own, jaw set tight, making you gulp; still, you hold yourself steadily, unwilling to relent.
“I treat you well. You lack nothing,” he snarls, “I repaid your debts and now your only role is to be spoiled and by my side — that’s hardly any sacrifice. Just how much more ignorant can you be?”
You don’t know why he cares so much. He has you in his grasp, so why would it matter if you are happy about your marriage or not? He annoys you greatly. Especially if his words are to be taken with a grain of salt as well.
Because if you were to ignore the part where your marital union is characterized by him taking advantage of your difficult situation, you really have nothing to complain about. You could even simplify things and say you agreed to this sort of deal, using your own pen.
It's just Pantalone’s ways that are reprehensible. Him being impious is the least of your concerns; there is even something impressive about a mortal treading his own path, even if at the end of his days the need for revenge slowly drips poison through him.
There is nothing for you to worry about — that’s how it seems at the first glance. But then there’s his subtle control in your relationship with him. Possessiveness. Greed. Everything proposed to you like it’s your choice, when in reality, all of your options lead to him, and you’re standing in the middle of ice field on your own.
If you told him you have no friends left, he’d probably congratulate you on getting rid of a dead weight. You suspect he increased the interest rates right before your father died too, so your debt would only be manageable only by him, no matter what heirloom you could sell. A sum of your inherited debt was hard to quantify, even without the manipulation with it.
Or there were all these men suddenly withdrawing their marriage proposals — you were ready to marry someone else after your father died, holding onto any opportunity. Now you share his last name instead, and barely managed to keep your own next to his.
Your old staff manages your inherent home, but each day is stressful with the thought of your husband owning that for himself too.
With Pantalone in your life, things never go however you deem fit.
“That’s not fair,” you say in opposition, but your voice crumbles, accentuated by tears appearing in your eyes. “You know well.”
“I’m afraid nothing is in this world,” your husband croons, stroking your cheek again. “That is why you have me. To ensure no harm befalls you.”
You know he likes when you depend on him. When you ask for something instead of stubbornly chasing independence every waking moment.
“…” you sniffle and he likes your fragility, catching one drop of it with his thumb.
“Aren’t you tired of fighting me? Don’t you wish for at least one night where we can set aside our differences?”
Of course such proposal is enticing. There’s only little you can take in this one-sided war with him. However? Overlooking your pride is difficult. Even if you’re dragging the inevitable.
“I can make it worth your while. I can care of you,” he whispers into your ear until you’re more animated, shameful feeling endorsed between your legs. Before you could push yourself off his lap, he rivets you to his legs with his hand. “Like a good husband should…
and you can honor it, like a good wife should.”
Him letting you wait this long with intimacy was mercy.
“So?” draping his head over the back of the sofa, he eyes you with challenge.
The worst thing is that you’re actually considering it. Showing him what you’re made of, fucking him before he could claim he has fucked you. You’re spiteful like that, the same way he’s spiteful towards Celestia.
“Don’t think this makes us even. I’m only after your body,” you say harshly, poking his chest with a judging finger.
He laughs, unruffled by your sudden unkindness, much inclined to enjoy this side of you — he’ll love to see you try.
“Perfect. Wear something nice. Or wear nothing at all. It’s your choice.”
Going through your wardrobe came with an unpleasant discovery that it was already filled with all kinds of lingerie. Pantalone is a man who’s prepared for every possibility that he can, yet being circumspect in that sense left a bitter taste in your mouth. Still, you decided on something that’ll cover your body enough, but won’t allow him to drag on your moments together with many layers to remove off your body. Blow off some steam and forget you did is how you wish for things to go.
You wear a see-through and loose mesh dress, ruffled and hanging on thin straps, in a light blue color; with matching lacy panties underneath. Your makeup from the day still stays on, the only barrier to keep him away.
Who are you kidding. Even that feels incredibly revealing. You try to tell yourself you’re making a statement — be too demure and your husband might believe you’re too much of a coward to show your figure.
With you sprawled on the navy sheets of your shared black-wood bed, you observe the painting hanging on the blue paneling with distaste. It’s a portrait of you, with Pantalone standing behind you, a constant reminder of your marriage that’s there when you open your eyes in the morning. A similar one is hanging in the corridor for everyone to see, but the one in your bedroom is a bit different — nestled in a silver frame are the jewels from the jewelry you wore for your wedding. A memento.
As he finally enters the room, you avert your gaze from the scrutiny that immediately falls onto your chest — a bit hungry. Suddenly, the moon outside the big window is much more inspiring.
“Don’t you look just beautiful. Unparalleled to anything else I've seen,” Pantalone gives this compliment as if it’s innate to him.
He locks the door. He always does; now the feeling of being trapped with him is prominent. Your eyes flick towards him.
With how much time he’s given you, you thought he’d have gotten himself ready meanwhile. Instead, he’s still dressed in his black pants and turtleneck. You can’t tell if this is an attempt at power or if he was busy with something else around the mansion — maybe both.
“It’s a shame you couldn't afford the same courtesy for me,” you can't resist making a biting remark.
“I was busy ensuring no one thinks of attempting to bother us,” his unflappable voice tells you he might be lying. Putting on a mask is natural to him, yet there is a certain line to be crossed that makes the act a try-hard. Negligible details you would notice.
There’s an odd flush on his cheeks and he flexes his hand back and forth. You’ve had enough time to learn more about him; not to mention, he’s never hidden the fact that he wants you… or to own you… since it’s all exchange.
“You’re so tense as if you believe I’ll eat you alive,” he deflects, seating himself on the bed you share. It’s enormous, yet you often manage to feel claustrophobic in it.
As for his words, you think he just might. His open lust is a dissonance to his usual cunning expression.
“That’s just your supposition,” you say bitterly.
He frowns a bit, then regains his composure, still remembering what’s being offered to him. He’s the winner, in the end. “You should smile instead of being so pedestrian. It’s a very special moment for us…” Pantalone teases, leaning over you to “adjust” your short dress. The fabric of his gloves gives you shivers on your thigh.
He’s not letting you lie down fully yet. He’s not pouncing himself on you like you imagined either. No, Pantalone plans to dismantle you, step by step, ensuring nothing goes unnoticed.
“Come here.”
He pulls you onto his lap — he likes to flaunt you a lot — and you are unfortunately facing him when seated like that, your thighs at his and your clutch flush with his. He cups your chin, turning your head from side to side as if to asses his goods. Then his hand moves down, cupping your throat gently.
“You’re being excessive,” you mutter. He ignores that.
As his finger wipes across your pulse, it speeds up. He’s holding your entire essence in his palm, he clothed and you bare for him, all the more when you squirm on his lap. He holds words you wished to say but restrained yourself from, too.
“Have I been on your mind more often lately?” he asks as if the answer wasn’t announced that evening already.
You’re a bit smarter than that. Words with equivocation do you much more justice. “Nothing more than what a wife would devote herself to,” you say dryly, basking in the way his grip tightens on your neck.
Your brusque answer, he acknowledges with an irritated smirk. “Hm, I’m not interested in allusive talk…”
Therefore, maybe your body will be more alluding.
His lips go to your neck, kissing it softly at first.
You gulp, unused to this sort of touch from his side, and grab onto his biceps for some stability. His lips are warm and insistent, pushing your nerve endings to work, covering you in goosebumps. Even his pepper perfume pervades your nose until you’re dizzy.
“So sensitive… It really makes me wonder, how did I go without your body for so long…” he purrs into your skin.
You can feel his hardness spring to life, not helping your own arousal you can’t deny. So once again, you think about how much he doesn’t deserve you.
“Is that what you were pondering over while I was getting ready? Jerking your cock at the thought of me?”
You both realize what you just said — he blinking twice in surprise, freezing at your collarbone, you having your breath hitching with almost an instant regret. The silence is imbued with your panic.
Pantalone is well aware you’ve been harboring ill-mannered feelings towards him, yet he didn’t anticipate you to be this bold.
Maybe it's for the better.
You’re finally being honest with him. No act of a loving wife in sight.
Still, he finds it shameful at the way your words stir his hardness the way they do.
When you look at him with something mortified, he laughs it off.
“I see your imagination can run quite wild, but I appreciate the fact that our desire is mutual.”
His words turn your cheeks into furnace, “That’s not what I meant—”
Alas, he moves on.
He slides off his rings and places them on his nightstand. You fight the urge to bite when he places his fingers at your lips, giving him a questioning look. “Remove the gloves for me, would you, my dear?”
“Are you that incompetent? Must everyone do everything for you?” you mock again, unable to deny yourself that pleasure once you started your disrespect. To insinuate he’s spoiled is quite liberating, especially after all the expectations he’s been placing on your shoulders.
His eyelid twitches, and yet, he meets you with that smile of prevarication and condescending cadence, “No. But it is a nice gesture, my wife assisting me when I'm oh so tired and yet I still remember to indulge her.” It’s him telling you to better get moving if you want anything at all.
It’s not most optimal for you, the fact he's making a big show out of this entire situation, but you have to count your blessings — it’s one time where you’re properly allowed to express yourself… since he finds so delightful.
Grasping the loose tip of the glove with your teeth, you move your jaw down to slide it off his pale hand— still scarred from the arduous labor in his childhood. Your own hand pulls on his shirt, stretching the fabric with venom.
“That’s better, and it wasn’t so hard to listen, was it?” he says teasingly, “Now, suck on them a little. Let me see how much you have missed me, since you clearly forgot to do so upon my return home.”
Your husband sighs when your lips wrap around his long fingers, feeling his cock pulse at the sight of the defiance building up in your eyes. Will you glare at him the same when he’s inside of you, if not more, pretending this is nothing but an ordeal to settle a score?
As much as you hate to admit, you feel yourself getting aroused too. The subtle grinding as the consequence of your agitated body, his boner digging right into your panties, all the touch he sneaks around your body… the effect is beyond your control.
You continue soaking his digits while staring at him, until you’re suddenly provoked by the lodging of his fingertips into your throat, forcing you to gag. He's surely getting back at you for your prior foul commentary.
“Oh, my apologies. My impression of you was more than so delicate,” he jibes and withdraws his hand.
With tears that formed in the corner of your eyes, you grab onto his hair resting on his left shoulder, tugging his face closer to yours until he can feel your breath. “Do that again and I’ll choke you too.”
He knows you mean your threat, raising his brow with interest. Your aggression sends horses into his chest, to his dismay. “If you can get through me first… I would perhaps even encourage you to.”
He quickly finds out you’re honest down there too.
He removes his other glove. As his fingers omit the edge of your panties, they slip underneath, feeling the wetness that has gathered here.
You bite on your lips, eradicating the moan you were about to leave. You look down where his touch goes between your two bodies, and you imagine how happy he must be to finally lay his hand on you.
“Did you touch yourself here when you were so heated?” he inquires with curiosity, sighing perversely.
You could say no to preserve your privacy. But you like the idea of driving him mad, utilizing the fact you chose to keep your desire to yourself over asking him for help. That’s one thing he couldn’t have contributed to, busy with work while you were busy with fingering yourself.
“I did,” you confirm with a straight face, “Many times.”
He digs harder into your clit, scoffing as his tone sharpens. “I suppose your pride is bigger than the respect for your husband.”
“Is touching myself a sin now?” you say through your teeth, trying to push his hand away. He doesn't let you and you whine when his finger sets pleasure aflame.
“No. But hiding your problems from me is,” he says, matching your rudeness, and pushes his finger inside your tight hole. The same finger that signed the contract with you is now ruling you from inside as well.
Your grip on his hair falters, you struggling as the touch around your entrance renders you even more sensitive.
“I still would like to maintain some privacy. I’m sure there’s many things you yourself don’t tell anyone,” you hiss out, decided to be selfish and grind yourself onto his palm. You detest his hypocrisy.
“If there are any, they are kept unspoken for your safety.”
As if you’d ever trust him based on his ambiguous words alone.
“Right. I forgot that you love to blabber,” you say, all zealous about criticizing that part of him.
“That’s enough of your input.”
Tugging on your hair from behind and burning your scalp with sting, The Regrator pushes his lips on yours. He has no decorum in the way he kisses you, for once uncaring about propriety.
Neither do you, nearly hitting your forehead against his as you try to take control. You dig your nails into his arms, enough to chip away your nail polish.
The pain you give his lips with a bite is as exquisite. Real. Raw. Honest. No games, just you two showing what you truly feel for each other. He returns the gesture, biting you until he can push his tongue inside. Then you grind on him, driving yourself and him mad with heat, groaning into each other’s mouths. His grubby hands slip underneath your gown, squeezing your breasts with no mercy, memorizing their shape.
Your husband pulls away your head when he finally decides he can’t wait any longer.
“I’ll change each of your convictions about me,” he says confidently. Letting you move for you both, he throws his turtleneck over his head. His body, while not overly muscular, is still toned enough to draw your attention — his waist especially.
“As if you are capable,” you mock.
“You always disagree with me on something, only to change your mind last minute,” as you’re about to tell him what a lie it is, since it’s typically he who changes your plans, he adds, “Make of that what you will.”
He finally pushes you onto the mattress, parting your legs with his knee. For a mere moment, you consider pushing him away, feeling more like a prey than his wife underneath him.
“Look at you. Biting more than you can chew. I hope you’re not giving up on me yet,” he smiles knowingly.
“Of course not,” you reply decisively.
“That’s what I like to hear.” As if to measure the value of your conviction, he grabs the hem of your panties to slowly push down your legs.
Your chest breaths with irregular uplift, but you don’t stop him, meeting his lustful expression with your own.
He lowers himself until he’s there between your thighs, trailing up them with kisses while looking upwards at you. All the tiny tremors in your muscles no massage, other than his touch, could fix. “So delicate…
Can you really take it?” he says softly into your skin.
“I’m not a weakling—”
Capillaries burst when he sucks on your thigh hard — they might as well write his name, knowing well who’s touching you. It’s a sensation almost painful, especially when you’re so sensitive, but it goes straight to your wet pussy and he has to keep your legs pried with his hands.
“Maybe not a weakling; but you certainly are impressionable,” he laughs wryly.
You look at him with disgust.
Then, as he tries to place his mouth way too high for what you know, you tug on his hair. “W-what are you doing?” You’re not clueless; you deny the possibility of him unraveling you in such way.
And he, naturally, doesn’t care, taking what he wants. “Taking care of you, am I not?” he says innocently.
You’re in for a surprise; how insistent and debauched he is, his mouth all over your aching slit. Unable to keep yourself in tact, you moan for him, throwing your head back.
“You taste delicious…” he nearly growls, twirling his tongue around your clit before pressing down on it.
Any proper words have been knocked out of your mouth. It’s been so long since you had any fun… and he is jarringly meticulous. “H-husband…” you cry out when he sucks on your bud.
The heavy chain of his glasses teases your skin as he plunges his tongue into your hole, watching you in your vulnerable glory with hooded eyes.
You tug on his hair and selfishly move your hips, offering more of your pussy to his mouth. You find yourself surprised he doesn’t stop you. Instead, he groans, burying his nose closer to your clit, and bruises your thighs with his crazed grip.
“F-fuck…” you curse shakily when he spits on you and thrusts in a finger next to his rolled tongue. The pleasure is building up too quickly for your liking, yet you still can’t get enough.
“You’re quite selfish, to have denied me of this for so long…” he utters his words between the wet obscene smacks of his lips, deprecatingly.
Another repulsive for you insinuation, and yet, all you can do is let him taste you all he wants. “Shut up…” you grumble, waving your hips with velocity similar to his.
“Make me.”
You feel that inward rage again.
The hair in your hand is a mess by this point, and you keep using it as a handle, ensuring he doesn’t pull away too far away from your cunt. He speeds up his movements in return.
The bliss hits you hard and it’s almost enough to forget what sort of man he is when he’s implementing everything to make you feel good… or have you hooked on him further.
It’s only when you start to notice a certain degradation in the vigor behind his thrusts that you look down on him. He’s getting red and it’s not only his blood rushing from the excitement.
“H-hey…” it’s not that you’re concerned for him — you think — but you don’t want to deal with him passing out in the middle of the act. “Go easy on yourself…”
“I’m not weak,” he barks with all his pride, giving you an inkling he might be enjoying his struggle.
Fine. If he wants to play this way… you don’t care about being gentle anymore — mercy is not what he deserves. Resting your legs over his shoulder, you smother his face with your pussy, until his breathing is coming out in exacerbated huffs.
The world’s existence becomes secondary to you, and you smile with oblivion, pushing your hips at his head with closed eyes. You’re right there—
And of course he rips it from you. Of course he does, resurfacing with heaving but a happy look. You devastation could be edible.
“Why, why did you—” you foam at your mouth.
“The only way you’ll finish is with me inside. This was nothing but a warmup,” he coos, brushing away your tears as he sits up, “Don’t cry now, I’ll give you what you urgently need…”
You watch your husband unbuckling his belt and the sound of it has you moving, hastily throwing your gown over your head. The room’s thankfully heated thanks to the fireplace, though it’s not as though your body is not as hot.
You can see the outline of his boner poking through his pants he starts removing, gulping nervously. In return, Pantalone eyes your naked body with great appetite.
“You’re shaking,” he states, pushing his bottoms down, throwing it onto the growing pile of clothes on the expensive carpet behind your bed. You finally see his length — thicker, though without a threat looming over it, curved nicely enough to reach your best spots. “Be that as it may, I’m sure none of us wants to wait much longer…”
Removing his glasses and neatly placing them on the bedside table, you see the way his own hands tremble a bit. You count your breaths until he'll take you for himself, your heart pounding and you feverish.
“That’s one thing I can agree with you on.”
He simpers at your sarcastic words, placing himself above you right after.
“Open your legs for me, my dear,” Pantalone orders.
You do as he says; not without pushing your hands at his back too.
Your husband rubs himself across your slit, gathering the wetness onto his tip, and hisses at the sensitivity it brings. “You need to stop pretending, considering how wet you are. Your own body is betraying you.”
“You—”
When his cockhead slips inside and you gasp, he grabs you underneath your knees.
“No running from now on.”
His grip on your limbs tightens as he thrusts into you fully, not having much patience left.
You cry out, the stretch stinging at your walls. “You bastard…!” you glare at him, scratching his back already. The motion was so sudden you can’t breathe, your walls struggling with accommodating his girth despite your wetness.
He’s feeling too good to care — and didn’t you say you’re not weak a few moments ago? “Finally inside…” he mutters, appraising your struggle visible in your legs, “As things always should have been rectified.”
Your husband wastes no time with something as insignificant as giving you time to adjust. He starts fucking you slow, but deep already, making sure your juices coat him entirely. You need it yourself and he can tell.
You scowl at him even as he fucks you so good, filling you fully.
“What is it again?” he acknowledges your gall, although more in a way that suggest he’s endeared by your attitude than offended.
“You are enjoying yourself too much,” you almost whine out. You hate that he makes you feel good. You hate that you’re letting him touch you. You hate that the osmosis process has begun for you.
He laughs, earnestly and richly. “My wife’s cunt is just that good,” he blows air at the strand of the hair sticking to his forehead, groaning as you tighten around him from the pleasure building up for you.
It’s always “my wife”. It’s nothing abnormal to say about your wife on its own, that’s how spouses refer to each other all the time, but it’s as if Pantalone takes “my” part to another level on purpose. Akin to hoarding his resources in a bank deposit. Even your hole is his to claim. Which is not to say he’d take with nothing in return— he certainly plans to spoil you with pleasure and anything else you might desire… as long as you remember your own share of duty.
“And judging by your moans, it’s as if you’re trying to ingrate me yourself.”
Your breath hitches at his words, you full of shame, then irritation. You weren’t aware of how vocal you are until he pointed it out.
Not that he’s any better, sighing and gasping whenever you tighten too much.
“At least it’s one thing you're good at?”
Your disobedient words are punished with a slap to your clit. Your legs wriggle and you stab his back with your nails, overwhelmed by the sudden pain.
He pushes his knees closer to your chest, using leg strength to drive into you. “Nothing to be embarrassed about, between a husband and wife,” with that irony said, he picks up the pace. Letting go of your legs you wrap around him anyway, he places his hands under your shoulder blades, drawing you closer for a tasteless kiss.
He’s sublime, no matter how much you despise him; especially with his velveteen hair like a waterfall around his face after his hair tie eluded itself somewhere through the process. Light eyes he likes to narrow condescendingly or mysteriously opening wider for you. Fucking you hard in all his splendor and materialism.
You dig the heels of your feet into his ass, forcing him to keep thrusting into you so deep, feeling something worth your time and attention for once. His skin on yours is disgusting, yet so full of life.
He’s unfaltering in his fervor, grabbing your body all over, especially places he’s neglected before, while keeping his hips moving on their own. You thought your husband is little brawn but what would you know now — at least, you serve as an excellent catalyst. His fastness goes up and up and up, as he is getting close and has no plan to deny himself.
But no matter how good he may be making you feel, you hate the idea of him dominating you, especially when you near your orgasm worsened by him constantly grinding into your mound with his thrusts. Your abdomen tightens dangerously close to something real.
You push him onto his back, using all the strength you could muster, before straddling his lap.
“Oh?” he hums with approval, as if your value has appreciated.
“You’re becoming too conceited,” you clarify with anger, pushing your body down onto his cock with a whine.
“Then you better me show all you have in you.”
He knows how to make your blood boil, even when he’s meeker tonight, gasping and making sounds for you as well.
“I really hate you,” you snarl, even if you raise your hips with all the impetus, desperate to chase what you missed for so long. You rake your nails against his chest, watching the red marks rise and encourage him to be even meaner with his hips from below you.
“And yet, you’re coming on my cock,” he pushes you down by your hips.
“I-it’s not because of you. I’d enjoy any man’s co—”
He grabs you by your throat and yanks you down to impose yet another kiss, interrupting you in spilling any more blasphemy — and he’s not religious. Pantalone would have to kill that theoretical man and lock you up to fuck you for a whole week, until your body remembers only his carvings. He’s never been a gentle or lenient man, and you and his possessiveness make him indisputably worse.
You’re about to slap him when he finally retracts from your lips; instead, you find yourself on your back again, your wrists seized above your head.
“Affection can be fabricated. But not this,” he laughs through his moan. He pushes his length impossibly deeper into your pussy until you choke on your breath, stuffed full. The sound of his thrusts reverberates against the walls, “Never the way I make you feel.”
Your eyes widen.
“So go on. Try to reject this pleasure. Try to reject me.”
He knows you can't.
And you don’t, when he starts rubbing your clit. You tighten and flutter around his cock, unable to stop the waves of pleasure suddenly rippling down your legs. You sing beautifully for him when you’re at your lowest.
“Fuck, stop, I—” you plead frantically as you hyperventilate, unable to move your hands to push him away. Your sweat sticks to the bedsheets below you, your body strained by how hard the peak is approaching you.
“Come on my cock,” he orders sternly, although it lands breathlessly.
He doesn’t stop, sending you over the edge. You cry out his name, his real name you saw when signing the papers, that you never used before until now, and that takes even him aback.
Your spasms sends shocks of pleasure down his cock too, and so he’s not far behind, fastening his movements with something jubilant etched on his face.
He fills your hole, the rightful place for his seed, grunting in a sequence that turns into a moan at the last ribbon of his cum entering you. Pushing his hips close to yours so nothing dares to escape.
His body falls on top of yours, heaving. You stare at each other, his eyes already aching without his glasses, and you ready to say something uncouth from the sheer realization of what you’ve done.
Pantalone strokes your face, glorifying your rare post-sex softness and afterglow, stunning any pretense about you only resenting him. You must be that tired, for you to see something similar reflected on his own cheeks.
“Alright, that’s enough—” you feel some kind of embarrassment, becoming acutely aware of the fact he’s inside of you still, not growing soft. Everything is too intimate, too close, and too victorious.
“Not yet.”
“Huh?” your stomach drops.
“I said not yet.” Now that he has you, it’ll be hard to one up the feeling, therefore, he refuses to take it for granted.
You're about to push him off but he's actually not done. He flips you over on your stomach, sinking into you still so sensitive and full of his cum turning viscous with your arousal.
“Wait, I’m still—”
“You can take it,” he says harshly, gripping your hips at their sides. It’s not as if he’d be able to stop now either. If you’re going to be difficult after this, he’ll take what he can for now.
You sob, your nerves constantly rubbed numb yet so sensitive, clutching sheets of the bed he pushes you into with his weight. He never shied away from pushing you beyond your comfort zone, yet now it's not a quirk, but a simple madness to you.
He covers you with his entire body, his legs tangled with yours. Slamming his hips against your ass, his balls slapping against your clit from behind. It’s shameful how another orgasm is building up quickly for you.
The harbinger sucks on your nape, pushing your face into the pillows.
“Ah… it’s too much…” But your body gives in easily, needing every nagging thought gone from your mind. Him fucking you is the only catharsis you’ve received since marrying him.
“In spite of that, your body accepts me easily,” he taunts with this clincher, moving his hands under your body to play with your nipples. A good decision, as you thrash underneath him, ecstatic. Your mascara ruins spotless fabric and he barely stops himself from licking off your tears, watching your eyes turn hazy.
His hair falls over your shoulders, tangling with yours, like a bind you’ll never be able to untwist. You are forced to hear his signs of pleasure right next to your ear.
The coil in your belly untwists as well, and you feel him filling you enough to overflow. Everything is sticky, yet he forces you to ride out with rapid thrusts.
With another orgasm, you’re so spent, pleading with him to give you a break, for it’s been ages since you had a man. “P-please… I can’t… have mercy on me…” Craning your neck to look at him with smallness, as if it’s an exchange for his benevolence.
“How precious you are like that,” he chuckles, rather exhausted on his own.
He does waive, pulling out of your dug out hole, you shuddering as his seed spills over your thighs like thorns of vines. Drawing you so shaky and incoherent into his arms, he provides soothing words he often serves, as if he didn't steal you for himself again.
“You did well. Rest, for now. I’ll be there, watching over you as always.”
All the more, he expects this to become a routine from now on.
Your husband unfortunately has you taking a bath together, right after your spousal endeavor. Keeping you in his arms, as you’re warmed between his legs.
However, rather sore, especially after a long break in sex, hot water is quite a soothing balm — even if the suds are doing little to cover your body painted in the proof of his passion.
He’s oddly nice. He’s always “nice”, yet this time, it’s as though he allows himself to be vulnerable because you are too, no better than him.
“Are you satisfied?” your words come out as bitter anyway, although with not enough veneer. “You had what you wanted.”
“I would have thought of this as building a middle ground. Extending an olive branch. Not about vainglory,” he chuckles with exasperation, brushing his hand over your stomach from behind. “You paint intimacy between a wife and husband as some sort of misdemeanor.”
Except you're not a normal married couple.
And it scares you, how his influence twines round you. He never bulldozed himself into your life. He build his position here with his own hands, the same he built his own life from the scratch, starting from the position of being a pauper.
The tempest of your heart and mind. Not beloved. Be-loathed. And yet, it’s hard to stay immune to him, not immersed in the way he acts like your husband so well. You’re afraid that one day, your heart will open for him entirely. You suspect he craves your affection in a way different than possession.
“It’s you who often complicates things…” you say with a sigh, staring at the steamed tiles of the bathroom.
“Complicate…” he mutters, massaging your hand that you placed on the golden edge of the bathtub — as gilded as your cage is. “I only worry for you. You must still feel lonely after losing your parents, even if you have me.”
That’s a dirty trick, and for a moment, you want to cry. Both of your parents gave up their ghosts and where did it lead you?
Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me. You wish you could live that way like you once used to. You're tired in those trying times, needing someone.
Discussing anything with him is beating a dead horse anyway. But how do you stop treating him like he’s the bad apple? Collective opinion would agree he’s not a good influence — his peers, clients, allies, enemies, subordinates, and you at the top are wary of the man who doesn't need violence to succeed.
So you do what you do the best. You adapt until you can find your way out.
You swivel your head to look at him with weariness, needing your loving husband to make it better — back in your role of an innamorata.
“Yes. I do…” you sigh, placing your head on his wet chest. “I hope I’m not being overbearing with my sentiments.”
He smiles, content at your cooperation.
“Of course not. After all…” Pantalone grabs your face possessively, “… what’s mine is yours, and vice versa.”
AFTERNOTE. The end! I hope you enjoyed reading the fic!! This was my first Pantalone oneshot and hopefully not last 🫶🫶
(It’s so frustrating to write a smut when you don’t know the character’s real name. We’re not gonna scream Pantalone are we.)
