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I mostly write for fun in this side-blog.
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//ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀ*.✧
Call me Pins, or Sunshine! (Or whatever you want to call me by hehe,,,,x’3)
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What is it like dating the second Fatui Harbinger?
Synopsis - People pity you the moment they hear you are dating the Il Dottore. How terrible it must be! Little do they know, Dottore treated you like you hung the damn stars
Tags - OOC Dottore/ Golden retriever energy/ lots of praise/ Dottore and his clones are obsessed with you/ Obsessive Dottore/ But not gross obsessive
Eli note! Dottore is SUPER ooc in this, not cannon at all, so don't come for me!! This is because I played the new Archon quest...no spoilers but im sobbing. ENJOY
People feared Il Dottore.
No — fear wasn’t a strong enough word for it.
People dreaded him.
The Second Harbinger carried a reputation soaked in blood and whispered rumors, spoken carefully behind closed doors and only in hushed voices.
Mad scientist. Monster. Inhuman.
A man so brilliant that even fellow scholars regarded him with unease.
The kind of man mothers warned their children about.
The kind of man soldiers straightened for the second his footsteps echoed down a hall.
And somehow—She was dating him.
Not trapped.
Not threatened.
Dating.
The realization alone always earned the same reactions from people unfortunate enough to learn about it.
Wide eyes.
Careful sympathy.
Concern disguised as politeness.
“Oh…”
“That must be difficult.”
“Are you…safe with him?”
As if she were some poor thing being held captive in his laboratory.
If only they knew.
If only they saw the way Dottore looked at her when nobody else was around.
The way his sharp crimson eyes softened the second she entered a room.
The way his gloved fingers immediately sought her waist, her hand, the sleeve of her shirt—anything to establish contact.
The way his voice lost that cold clinical edge and melted into something quieter.
Warmer.
Possessive, yes.
Obsessive, absolutely.
But cruel?
Never.
Not with her.
The first time she’d visited one of his laboratories, she’d expected something intimidating.
Complicated machinery.
Guards.
Security measures she wouldn’t understand.
Instead, Dottore had calmly taken her hand and pressed it against a glowing mechanism near the entrance.
The machine whirred softly.
“Biometric authorization accepted.”
She blinked. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he answered smoothly, “you may enter any of my laboratories whenever you please.”
“…Any?”
“Yes.”
“And everyone else?”
Dottore tilted his head slightly.
“If an unauthorized individual attempts entry, the defense system will eliminate them.”
Silence.
Then—“
You said that *way* too casually.”
“I fail to see the issue.”
“Zandik.”
His lips twitched beneath the edge of his mask at the sound of his real name.
That stupid, tiny reaction nearly always happened when she used it.
A terrifying Harbinger capable of unspeakable things, and his composure still cracked over hearing his name from her mouth.
“It is important that you are protected,” he said simply, as though he hadn’t just informed her his laboratory would kill intruders on sight. “You will never be denied access to anything that belongs to me.”
And that was the problem, really.
Dottore cherished her with the same frightening intensity he applied to everything else in his life.
Every emotion he possessed existed in extremes.
His ambition.
His anger.
His curiosity.
His devotion.
Especially his devotion.
It manifested constantly in little things that left her flustered beyond belief.
A passing comment about cold hands resulted in him redesigning the lining of her gloves himself.
One mention of struggling to sleep earned her an entire absurdly expensive mattress specifically engineered for “optimal spinal support and temperature regulation.”
When she admired a dress in passing, he bought it before she’d even finished the sentence.
And the praise—Archons, the praise.
It never ended.
Sometimes she genuinely suspected he enjoyed embarrassing her.
She’d stepped out wearing a new dress once, smoothing down the fabric nervously.
The silence from Dottore had been immediate.
Intense.
His gaze traveled over her so slowly she could physically feel herself heating up.
“…What?” she’d asked cautiously.
He approached without a word, resting both hands on her waist before turning her gently.
“Again.”
“What?”
“Turn again.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“And you are beautiful. Humor me.”
Her face burned, but she spun once more anyway.
Dottore watched her with undisguised fascination, like she was the most extraordinary thing he’d ever seen.
“There,” he murmured. “Perfect.”
She groaned and covered her face while he leaned down, clearly delighted, pressing kisses against her knuckles despite her complaints.
Another time, she’d made the mistake of criticizing herself aloud after a particularly exhausting day.
“I look awful.”
Dottore had gone still.
Slowly, dangerously still.
“What,” he asked carefully, “did you just say?”
She immediately regretted it.
“It’s not a big deal—”
“You,” he interrupted, stepping closer, “are attempting to call my partner ugly.”
“…Maybe a little?”
His expression turned almost offended.
“Absurd.”
“Zandik—”
“No. Absolutely not.” He cupped her face firmly in both hands, forcing her to look at him. “Do you have any idea how frequently I am distracted by you?”
She stared at him.
He continued without hesitation.
“You are beautiful when you wake up. Beautiful when you are angry. Beautiful when you are speaking. Beautiful when you are silent.” His thumbs brushed warmly over her cheeks. “You are quite possibly the loveliest creature I have ever encountered, and I am growing increasingly irritated by your inability to comprehend this.”
By the end of it, she could barely form coherent thoughts.
Which, unfortunately, seemed to amuse him greatly.
“There,” Dottore murmured, smug satisfaction bleeding into his voice as he watched her turn red. “Much better.”
------
There was one major problem with dating Il Dottore.
Actually, several problems.
But the *main* one?
The segments.
At first, she’d assumed they would ignore her.
Perhaps tolerate her at best.
After all, each segment possessed different objectives, personalities, and levels of patience. They were all Dottore, technically, but fragmented into different versions of himself across various ages and mindsets.
Which meant, unfortunately for her—Every single one of them inherited the obsession.
The moment she stepped into the laboratory halls, it began.
Every.
Single.
Time.
The heavy laboratory doors hissed open, and instantly heads turned.
Conversation stopped.
Pens paused.
Mechanical limbs froze mid-adjustment.
And then—
“There she is.”
“Good afternoon, beautiful.”
“You visited later than usual today.”
“She braided her hair differently.”
“Oh, she did.”
“It suits you.”
“Very pretty.”
Heat flooded her face instantly.
“Oh no,” she muttered under her breath.
One of the younger segments leaned halfway over a worktable just to wave enthusiastically at her.
Another abandoned whatever horrifying experiment he’d been working on entirely.
The eldest among them merely looked up from his notes, eyes narrowing thoughtfully before speaking in that calm, intelligent voice that somehow made everything worse.
“You appear fatigued. Did you sleep poorly again?”
“She definitely slept poorly,” another chimed in immediately. “Look at her eyes.”
“She is still adorable.”
“Agreed.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“Would you all stop—”
But they never did.
That was the problem.
Dottore’s mind, regardless of age or fragmentation, apparently reached the collective conclusion that she was the most fascinating creature alive.
Which meant traversing the laboratory hallways felt less like walking and more like enduring an onslaught of affection from dangerously intelligent men who all shared one consciousness.
“You should stay longer today.”
“You smell nice.”
“That color is pleasing on you.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Your heartbeat increased the second we noticed you.”
“Oh, don’t tell her that. You’re embarrassing her.”
“I believe she’s already embarrassed.”
She kept her head down and walked faster.
Which only made them more entertained.
“There she goes again.”
“She’s hiding her face.”
“Her ears turned red first.”
“Cute.”
“Extremely.”
By the time she finally reached the main laboratory, she was fully flustered beyond recovery.
Dottore himself barely had time to look up before she marched directly toward him and buried her burning face into his chest.
Silence.
Then his hand settled automatically against the back of her head.
“…What did they say this time?” he asked, sounding entirely too unsurprised.
She groaned.
“That does not answer the question.”
“They’re horrible.”
A pause.
“They are technically me.”
“You know what I mean.”
She could feel the faint vibration of amusement in his chest.
Traitor.
“They seem fond of you,” he said smoothly.
“‘Fond’ is not the word I’d use.”
Dottore hummed thoughtfully while stroking a hand slowly through her hair.
“They *are* behaving more tolerably than usual today.”
Her head snapped upward in disbelief.
“More tolerably?!”
“Yes.”
“Zandik, one of them analyzed my heartbeat!”
“That narrows it down very little.”
“Another one told me I smelled nice!”
“That was likely an observational statement rather than flirtation.”
She stared at him.
He stared back.
Then, slowly—The corner of his mouth twitched upward.
“You’re enjoying this.” She huffed.
“A little.”
“Unbelievable.”
Truthfully, though?
She suspected he liked seeing her flustered because he caused it just as often himself.
Especially whenever he made things for her.
Dottore approached care with terrifying thoroughness.
Nothing involving her was ever rushed.
A passing complaint about restless sleep had resulted in nearly three straight weeks of research.
Not because he wanted to sedate her.
Quite the opposite.
He refused to make anything habit-forming or harmful.
“It would be irresponsible,” he’d said flatly when she suggested ordinary sleep medication. “Most solutions merely force unconsciousness rather than improving sleep quality itself. Inefficient.”
So naturally, he made his own.
When she arrived at the lab that evening, he was already waiting near his desk holding a small glass vial filled with pale lavender liquid.
“I have completed it,” he announced.
She immediately reached for it.
Dottore lifted it slightly out of reach.
“Before you drink unidentified substances, perhaps allow me to explain what they are.”
“You wouldn’t poison me.”
“Correct. But your confidence remains concerning.”
She held out her hand expectantly instead.
Without missing a beat, Dottore glanced around the laboratory.
Then, with complete seriousness, opened a drawer and retrieved a glass straw.
He handed it over like this was a perfectly normal interaction.
Which, unfortunately, for them?
It was.
Satisfied, she took the vial back and waited patiently while he adjusted his gloves and picked up a notebook.
“It should encourage natural sleep onset by calming excessive neural activity,” he explained, already slipping into lecture mode. “Non-addictive. Mild herbal base. No dependency formation during trials.”
She took a sip through the straw.
“…Sour.”
Dottore stopped speaking immediately.
“Sour?”
“Mhm.”
He picked up his pen instantly.
“Noted.”
“It’s fine.”
“You dislike sour flavors.”
“I said it’s fine.”
“The formulation can be improved.”
“Zandik.”
He was already writing.
“Reduced acidity. Possible floral sweetener addition—”
She laughed softly, reaching over to push the notebook down slightly.
“You do not have to optimize every single thing for me.”
Dottore looked genuinely confused by that statement.
“Why would I not?”
“Because normal people don’t completely redesign medicine over flavor.”
“I am not normal people.”
“…Fair point.”
He looked oddly pleased by her concession.
Then his gaze flicked toward the vial still in her hands.
“Continue drinking it.”
“Yes, doctor.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“You are mocking me.”
“Maybe a little.”
“Hm.”
Despite the dry response, he stepped closer anyway, one hand settling against her waist while he watched carefully for any sign of discomfort.
Not clinical.
Not detached.
Just attentive.
Careful.Like every tiny reaction she had mattered.
-----
I hope you guys enjoyed!! I made a little book on Ao3 with my upcoming Dottore oneshots! You can commission or request stories there!! https://archiveofourown.org/works/85298991?view_full_work=true
H-hi I just wanted to say your art is really good. *leaves offering of cookie tart mixture and hides behind curtain super shy* I left extra for your TFC friends too if they want any..
🔶Note🔶
-This comic contains personal interpretation
It’s… honestly not even the first time this has happened to him.
There’s been plenty of instances when he overheard someone talking about him, although mostly it wasn’t the kindest words - perhaps because the person usually happened to be his roommate. Then again, a lot of what he happened to hear were also other students fawning over him, whispering their desires like that was the most important thing on their minds. Alhaitham never understood why they couldn’t just focus on their research and studies.
But with you, he lowers his gaze and listens. He doesn’t make his presence known, simply takes in your words without shaking his head, without the familiar feeling of irritation rising through him. In fact, he notices his body getting warmer. A soft, cotton-like sensation in his chest that makes him feel light.
The scholar analyzes that feeling, where it comes from. Is the difference, perhaps, because you are already his? This is you, sharing something precious that feels too vulnerable to admit to him - a feeling he knows very well - not a stranger gushing over him without properly knowing him.
When you meet next time, Alhaitham seems lost in thought. Yet at the same time, you feel his gaze following your every move. Because he is. He notices everything. Between the two of you, you might be the more outspoken one, the one who tends to confess your feelings more directly. Right now, though, he can see you speak his language of love fluently too - more than he gave you credit for, too blinded by how easily you seem to express your emotions aloud and trying to meet you there.
Now he sees it, though. Every little gesture, every lingering touch, every indirect admission that you care. You startle when he slides his hand across the table to catch yours. Maybe this is enough, maybe just as he knows now, you understood his feelings the whole time.
Ayato
It is not his style to be hiding in the shadows but Ayato always keeps his mind open to trying new things. Such as now, biding his time in the cool shade the tree offers while he listens to the voices approaching. There’s something about the hushed excitement with which his sister speaks that already piques his interest, yet it is only when he hears the unmistakable shyness and panic in yours that he considers abandoning his previous plan of making a surprising appearance. He’s a curious man and if you’re not careful enough to make absolutely sure nobody hears what you’re saying, it can’t be that important after all.
And thinking that is his undoing. He has to stifle a laugh. How foolish he was for dismissing what he’s going to hear as a simple ammunition for teasing. His posture shifts, now he leans against the trunk comfortably as he gets lost in your sweet confessions. He stares up at the sky obscured by the leaves. You’ve said those things before, maybe not with the same words, but he’s never doubted your feelings. So why does he feel this way now?
His surprise is postponed. Instead of scaring you by jumping out of the shadows, Ayato surprises you with dinner ready on the table, the servants dismissed for the remainder of the day. Your home is quiet, safe for your husband describing the delicacies on the table and teasing the special dessert he prepared for later - no doubt something he thought of himself. And while it’s not unheard of for him to make romantic gestures such as this, something feels off.Yet when you press him about it, Ayato offers only a mysterious smile and a playful can’t i adore you for no special reason? accompanied by a fleeting kiss to the corner of your lips.
Baizhu
“You have to promise not to tell anyone.”
“Qiqi will forget this conversation soon. Your secret is safe with her.”
Intrigued, Baizhu ducks closer to the wall. Secrets? Secrets between his two favorite people? He’s curious and amused at the same time. Should your voice be strained, he would worry and interrupt whatever was going on, but seeing as you were giggling along with the little girl, he barely expected more than a silly exchange that would warm his heart and provide him with sufficient energy to push through his tasks for the day.
Instead, what he hears makes his heart stop for a moment and his legs weaken. Perhaps he should make his presence known. Perhaps he won’t need to, simply collapsing on the spot should be enough.
Once the dramatics leave his body with a quiet, shaky breath, he carefully peeks into the room. His eyes land on you in a second, on the shy, embarrassed smile and eyes, fortunately, closed while you laugh with Qiqi about the foolishly sweet things you’ve said. Baizhu bites back a smile and finds another route to his destination.
Later, however, while you’re getting ready for bed, he comes up behind you and wraps his arms around you. His lips leave a trail of soft kisses from your shoulder to your jaw, no different than if he was running a feather over your skin. But his arms, they keep you in place without fail.
“The effect you have on me is concerning, my heart,” Baizhu whispers into your ear before you can voice your surprise.
His hand finds yours and guides it to his wrist, allowing you to feel his racing pulse. He feels your confusion growing, but he doesn’t explain - how could he? He will treasure the secrets he heard, although they’ve perhaps never been secret at all. Not when he can see them all now that he looks into your eyes.
Dottore
He bristles when he hears a voice responding to yours, and soon the irritation is doubled. Dottore assigned you a task of utmost importance and time sensitivity. It’s a test of sorts, sure, yet the notion that you’d fail and what’s more - that you’d skirt your duty to mindless chatter makes a confusing mix of irrational feelings well up in his chest.
Yet he’s stopped in his tracks before his steps can get within your earshot. His enhanced senses can perceive what a regular human couldn’t, such as your voice, calm and poised, explaining the inner workings of your heart to the other person.
It makes his face contort like a child’s after drinking a bitter medicine. Then an incredulous laugh bubbles quietly up his throat. The world tilts on its axis, nausea follows. Those words are not unheard; they’re simply usually heard much more quietly, privately, behind locked doors and between the sheets. You whisper them to him, mumbling them against his skin because he won’t meet your gaze or acknowledge them. He never thought he’d hear them aloud - spoken without hesitation, doubt or shame.
You don’t flinch when you find yourself trapped between his body and the desk a minute later, the other bolting away the moment he appears. He doesn’t feel you stiffen or tremble at all when his breath hits the vulnerable skin of your throat, nor when he bites down on the side of your neck. Not hard enough to draw blood and, he realizes belatedly, not hard enough to hurt. Only enough to leave a faint mark. Somehow his fingers find their way between yours, pinning you to the desk. He’s already panting so hard it makes him laugh.
This is not the experiment he had in mind for today, or any other day for as long as he lives, but inspiration is known to strike at the oddest of moments.
Flins
He wakes up to a voice. Which is strange because he also wakes up to a feeling of safety, and Flins has grown so used to safety meaning loneliness. It takes him a moment to fully process all that he can hear and feel, and for the time being he remains still as if he was resting. First is the touch - a hand combing through his hair slowly, which threatens to lull him back to sleep. Then the voice gets clear enough. Your voice, your words. Suddenly, sleep is no longer tempting.
Fortunately, his face is hidden against your stomach enough that he can allow himself a secret smile. He has to express himself somehow without also being discovered. It’s been so long since he’s known intimacy such as this. Compromising this moment is the last thing he wants. He promises to himself he’ll make it up to you somehow, he has to, but for the time being he chooses to stay as he is.
You don’t seem any wiser when Flins pretends to wake up. Very slowly, uncharacteristically affectionate. So much so that you don’t tease him, skipping straight to suspicion and mild concern. But he only reassures you, telling you about a beautiful dream he had while kissing your wrists, your hands, all the way to your fingertips. He doesn’t let you pull away - every attempt is met with a gentle squeeze and a pleading look. And you’re no monster to say a no to that.
Despite his best efforts, he can’t quite figure out how to make you feel as loved as your words spoken while he was supposed to be oblivious to them made him feel. He ends up hovering around you, and it’s so unfair how effortlessly you pile onto that feeling with every touch, every word of concern. He doesn’t think you understand why he holds you so much tighter when he finally breaks and pulls you close.
Neuvillette
He knows it’s wrong. The Iudex of Fontaine, listening in on hushed voices, albeit voices behind his closed doors, inside of his own office. There’s already been a precedent of a secret being kept from him, and he’d rather not think about an event of similar severity being repeated when the voice he recognizes is yours. The gasps of the melusines do nothing to calm his beating heart, he can only press his ear to the wood of the door and close his eyes.
They don’t stay closed for long. It makes little difference as Neuvillette stares blankly at the ground, his sight unfocused and shaky. He holds his breath, he doesn’t mean to, but if he misses a single word of your confessions he feels he’d regret it for eternity.
The moment passes too soon. Steps get closer to the door and he does his best to act as if he witnessed nothing. He thinks he must be doing fine until you stand in front of him - he feels the facade crumble. Neuvillette leads you back into the office despite your playful scolding that you’ve already held up his work enough.
He confesses to listening in before you can decode the expression on his face. The tips of his ears turn red, his voice wavers. Then the silence stretches, before he eventually, softly, admits how hearing you speak that way about him has affected him. Like you couldn’t tell from the uncertainty radiating off of him.
So now it’s your turn to take his hand and pry details from him. With utmost patience despite your racing heart, you delve to the root of the issue - that he feels just as strongly about you too, yet struggles to come up with a way to show you. The realization comes with a self-depreciating chuckle and an apologetic smile that becomes a little more relaxed when you inform the hydro dragon that a simple kiss will suffice.
Pantalone
It’s almost time to leave. The annual ball is about to start and Pantalone means to be fashionable late. He is the main star, so to speak, after all. Your handmaiden should also be aware of the time, and so he sees no point in knocking-
“I’ve wished the marriage wasn’t a matter of convenience for a long time now.”
His hand hovers above the doorknob and retracts. His brows furrow. While your voice is somber, almost desperate, the voice of your handmaiden is excited, albeit concerned. He doesn’t understand.
It’s only when, upon the woman’s insistence, you let the floodgates of your feelings open that he gets the full picture.
Smirk tugs at his lips, one he can barely contain. A man should not feel as he feels hearing such confessions from the one he’s wedded to, yet here Pantalone is. Pride soars through his chest, a sense of victory, the satisfaction of a beneficial deal struck. And all the while - peace. Like a guard dog with no master stumbling upon a lamb, given purpose anew.
There seem to indeed be some things the value of which cannot be expressed or evaluated.
Nobody, of course, dares to comment that your late arrival at the ball borders on rude instead of fashionable. The talk of the town, or rather the content of the hushed whispers that the speakers think cannot be heard over the music, is all about you and your husband.
About the way the regrator’s hand remains possessively on your lower back, both seemingly to guide you and to prevent you from straying too far away. In fact, it seems the closer you remain, the better. They talk about the many instances when his lips brush right against the shell of your ear whenever he’s talking to you privately.
The whole hall wonders - did the ninth harbinger fall in love?
Tighnari
His ears twitch and turn in the direction of the sound that does not belong this deep in the forest. A smile’s already tugging on Tighnari’s lips when he listens for a moment longer and recognizes the voice as yours, accompanied by another’s. It’s impossible to keep you away from the more dangerous parts of the forest, he’s made peace with that, but he’s at least relieved you listened to him and didn’t venture this far alone.
He finishes the task he was devoted to and is about to greet you and join you, should his company be welcomed, when he hears it. The way your voice drops lower, barely heard above the songs of the birds and the hum of the trees, and how it grows softer, fonder. For a moment he hesitates, some part of him worried about what he might hear because a tone like that is supposed to be reserved for him. Only it turns out it is.
He breaks into a wider smile - then he reels himself in. He shouldn’t be listening in on your private conversation, even if he’s the topic of it. A very, very cherished topic it seems. But his body won’t listen. His tail has a life of its own and his feet remain stuck to the ground. His expression grows softer, fonder. He might’ve remained there, staring in the direction of your voice like a fool if it wasn’t for his emotions simply growing too overwhelming.
Tighnari grins sheepishly when you yelp the moment he appears from between the trees, more so when your friend suddenly has a very convenient excuse to flee - though he calls after them that they shouldn’t be by themselves in these parts. Even if he prefers to have you to himself. Suddenly it seems like all your eloquence disappeared. But that’s fine - that’s cute, he chuckles. He can do the talking now, if you only take his hand.
Zhongli
Idle chatter is a rare occurrence without the director around. Any sort of lively energy, really, especially on days like this one. And so with her out on business, Zhongli is intrigued by what made hushed conversation resonate through the empty halls of the parlor. Above all, he picks up your voice, strained by emotions. Hardly a surprise after the display you’ve all bore witness only hours prior.
Meaning to check on you, he approaches slowly. Yet finding himself to be the topic of the conversation, his steps pause, then stop altogether. His brows furrowed. It’s not that he doesn’t understand why the sudden outburst or why you’d feel the need to talk about your feelings with a third party - what he doesn’t understand is the trembling of his own heart. How can it still be so fragile after aeons of heartbreak?
Later, in the quiet privacy of your bedroom, Zhongli comes clean. It remains a mystery to him why his heart flutters again when he watches you get flustered - first by the realization, then by him recounting similar sentiments to you. It only gets strangers, the feeling shifts into an ache first, then into a stable pressure that feels almost crushing.
You’re lying on his chest, at his insistence as much as your desire to remain close to him. It’s been hours since he coaxed you to sleep but he himself can’t bring himself to drift off. He’s watching you, marvelling at the feeling stirring inside of him. Perhaps it is because of the funeral and the young widow you’ve all witnessed earlier, sobbing at her husband’s grave, that you are - that he is - so desperate to make the feelings you harbor for each other known.
Zhongli turns his head, allowing himself to bury his face into your hair. The pressure in his chest doesn’t ease. His fingers itch to bring you closer, to hold you tighter.
Imagine you being in a shitty relationship with your boyfriend, and suddenly the most popular guy in school / campus trying to break you guys up so he could have you
Hey, hey, you, you, I don't like your girlfriend
No way, no way, I think you need a new one
Hey, hey, you, you, I could be your girlfriend
HSR men x reader ( Dan heng, aventurine, Dr ratio, Blade, Jing yuan, Phainon, mydei )
<< May contain implied sexual themes or obsessive behavior with violence, be warned and viewers discretion is advised >>
DAN HENG
Those stereotypical cool and mysterious nerds type, in the back of your class where everyone is secretly fantasizing about. You never actually pay attention to him even tho both of you are neighbors in the same dorm building.
Every time you and your boyfriend argue which always leads him to leave, Dan heng would knock on your door to check if you are okay or not.
Would secretly sebotage your boyfriend and your relationship by messing up his schedule and his scholarship as well as relationship with the school. Wanting to kick him out, hacking his device and gaining important information about him
While also smooth talking and pretending to be the quiet savior you need, why stick with someone as pathetic with your boyfriend when you and him can be together. Hes better at everything than him.
SECRET NOTE : would send threats towards your boyfriend's phone making him fear going outside or be paranoid, while also putting a camera in your room to watch you. Meaning he can see everything that's going on. ;)
AVENTURINE
The heart throb of the school, one of the great looking guys at school and as well being part of the stone hearts, a group of students who are known to be elites, They have everything money, power and social class. Hes pretty approachable but there's always an air of unease everybody has told you because whenever or not aventurine wanna have something from you or he wants to use you, So people are advised to keep distance.
Aventurine is also known amongst the student population to possess immense luck and as well as his tendency to gamble, but recently his attention has been directed to you, making small talks with you and even asking help from you even tho there're better options.
Not to mention with the additional case of him spoiling you, from buying you lunch towards buying you shit that can pay for your dorm yearly, and as well as being physically touchy like swinging his arm around your shoulder when greeting you and making a glance towards your shitty boyfriend.
Even if you tried to reject his Advances since it's not appropriate, most people in your life say just to leave your boyfriend for aventurine, he absolutely found you adorable even if you tried to reject.
SECRET NOTE ; there's always an outline with him and your boyfriend as if your boyfriend fears him, as well as on how aventurine would sometimes send inappropriate gifts to you even if you're in a relationship. Like giving you a limited edition lingerie with a note "can't wait to see you wearing this for me"
VERITAS RATIO
An intimidating and star model student of your campus, literally everyone knows about him and his legendary academic achievement, people would say he even suppresses the professors in your campus in their profession.
Would take any chance he gets to humiliate your boyfriend, making a fool out of him. I mean this is a normal habit and every one will one day experience it if you don't meet his standard.
But when with you, he's gentle and willing to help you understand. I mean people may assume ratio is narcissistic but not in a sense he is, hes just very passionate about teaching people.
Every time you and him have lessons he would be gentle with you, he is soft and would move strands of hair if got into your face and put it behind your ear with the look of love, he would always ask questions about your relationship and when he noticed bruises on your arms you tryna cover up. You literally had to calm him down before he could do anything physical to your boyfriend.
SECRET NOTE : would sometimes be physically closed to you, like leading your hand with his body press up against you in the black board of the empty lecture hall And would whisper praised at your ears when you get something right.
BLADE
A literal walking red flag, everyone from students, close friends, professors and even locals warns you of him. Plus hes always not to be seen at campus and still manages to get passing grades. Even Dan heng warns you personally with seriousness and asks you to swear on it not to interact with him.
He's part of a group of well known students who get in trouble or have criminal connections in the underworld, some might say he's suicidal and work as an assassin during at night but it's just rumors ... Right?
Anyway the first interaction you had with him was when, your boyfriend had abandoned you in a mall front gate because he wants to go to a party while you don't so he ditched you, when you were waiting. A black car pulls up and the window rolls down revealing the tadaa... Blade.
He offers himself your ride home, during the car ride it was so awkward so you tried to start a conversation with him and why is he awake at this late when you look at your phone it was 3:12 am at night, he just simply replied with coming home from work. Even tho the silence was deafening you don't know whether or not you are seeing things but there's a small crack with blood at the far corner of the windshield
SECRET NOTE : after he drops you off at your dorm, you receive a message from the hospital saying that your boyfriend has gotten into an accident where a car slam into him and is now in critical condition, the police investigation saying that your boyfriend with a car that fits with blades car description
JING YUAN
The most beautiful and charming student council president that your campus has ever had in their hundred year old history, even tho he may seem lazy, he is diligent and beautiful in anyway. Some of your friends would say hes like a real life prince charming, Absolutely beautiful.
He seems to care a lot about you, always checking-in on your studies and is there when your boyfriend starts to act up in public.
Hes very touchy, he seems to always know where you are at anytime playing the prince charming role. At first it was romantic but the more you think of it, it starts to get suspicious. One time you were crying at the library at the far back your legs tuck in, suddenly a warm embrace engulfs your body it was Jing yuan.
He's pretty chill and as well has this habit of using your body as a pillow, basically when he gets sleepy and lay on your lap without your permission or concern on others watching. Every time you wanna say something he chuckled it off by not taking it seriously.
SECRET NOTE : you could tell that he's a pervert in some way, like how he's eyes would hide satisfaction every time when you cried as if he enjoyed seeing you relying on him. And one time when he's dozing off your lap and you were complaining about your recent fight, he said out of the blue "why don't you just drop that piece crap for me, I'm sure I can satisfy you unlike that waste of good exhaustion" and go back to sleep leaving you stunned from the comment
PHAINON
The Golden boy of your college, everyone seems to love and wants to be friends with him. I mean he comes from a wealthy family, great physics ( I mean look at that bod ), amazing personality and good grades.
People would say that his invisible tail would wag every time he found you, spinning you around like how a puppy is so happy finally finding its favorite toy.
Literally despise your boyfriend, he did not even try to hide it offering suggestions to just break up with him. This leads towards many public fights with him and your boyfriend.
As well as leaving flirty comments 24/7 on you saying how beautiful you are and as well how he's eyes always on you no matter what you are doing like as if your the most beautiful creature in the planet. Same as Jing yuan he's very touchy to the point being physically and emotionally upset when he gets to split up from you
SECRET NOTE : during lunch you hear there's a fight happening in the courtyard and when you arrive you see your boyfriend being literally beat up to a pulp by phainon blood everywhere and as well as a broken nose, he seems to not even be conscious during this time and many students tried to hold back phainon but once a teacher arrive and escorted him, he saw your figure amongst the crowd and send you an intoxicating smile saying that he has no regrets beating the shit out of your boyfriend.
MYDEI
Club president of the cooking club and as well as being the heir of a big shot company at Castum Kremnos there's a rumor of him being the exiled crown prince due to misbehaving but it's just a rumor, every girl in your campus seems to agree that he would make a great house husband.
I mean who wouldn't agree he cooks, he's respectful, Good with kids, great family background and beautiful plus perfect facial features and a body as if being shaped by the Gods.
He may seem intimidating but people swear that he has a good heart, even phainon seems to be fond of him always talking about how mydei is so great and a worthy rival.
Originally it was so awkward between you and him but once you get through that phase he seems to be so kind and caring for you, and as well as inviting you towards the cooking club and comforting people when you usually walk in on you and him who was having a discussion would assume it was a date. Literally hates your boyfriend he seems to have more restraint then phainon when it comes to violence.
SECRET NOTE : He and phainon seem to always be around you literally, they move into your friend group just to spend more time with you. People and friends would joke around about how you have two Big hound dogs watching over you. Plus they are attentive taking care of you 24/7 to the point people would assume you broke up with your boyfriend and entered into a poly relationship
a/n: Small Aventurine drabble to celebrate Zoie's birthday <3
Aventurine checks his phone multiple times a day. Not due to his constantly busy schedule as one of the Ten Stonehearts but because he likes looking at his lockscreen. It's set to a picture from your birthday last year of the two of you out on his apartment balcony, stars setting the backdrop.
You're looking at the camera. He's looking at you.
Do you even know how to take a picture right? He remembers the tone of your voice as if the image was taken yesterday; how the beat of his heart suddenly seemed more pronounced as he reveled in hearing the tiniest shift in its pitch when his lips brushed against your cheek.
He obliged eventually and let you capture a picture with both of you smiling at the camera, but this is the one he prefers. His eyes trace the way you pout and how your eyes are shifted ever so slightly away from him, unable to completely face the kiss he presses to your cheek. And over time, he's learned to see the ever so subtle curve of a smile just at the edge of your lips and the light hidden in your eyes; unnoticeable to most but now making the stars seem dimmer the more he gazes at the photo.
And he takes any opportunity to sneak a glimpse of it. To see you, if even for a split second. His IPC duties slip from his mind momentarily, replaced by something soft and gentle. Something that puts his heart at ease. Something that he sometimes wonders how it is even real; it feels too good to be true compared to everything he's known.
You are a Dreamweaver indeed.
"Come on, we have a meeting in five minutes!" Topaz chastises whenever she catches him staring too long. With a sigh, Aventurine takes one last look at the photo and the brief reprieve that is you before getting back to work.
aether is telling you about his newest expedition in nod krai, mentioning things like columbina, and how much paimon loved their food. his new friends, new enemies, and a clue to his next journey... it was both breathtaking and hitching all at once and-
"and... oh, well you know how they are i- mmh!" it was already too late when your lips were on his, aether's eyes widen before easing into you.
he hadn't even realized it but he already had cupped your face and was already trying to lean into you for more. "huh? why'd you stop?"
kaveh is ranting to you about his most recent client, i mean, his infastructure was astounding, and certainly nothing went wrong with the prototype, who the hell just cancels out of nowhere?! what was this jerk even thinking??
"it's just- aarrgghh! infuriating!" you could see the steam coming out from his ears, his eyebrows quirking in his usual way. a small pout forming, and when his mouth finally was about to move- "an- mmm..."
he already had his hand tilting your chin upwards, letting out a pleased groan. "ah, leaving way too soon. you trying to tell me to shut up, or something?"
dottore and you were just walking in silence, silence that didn't include him. because for.. you stopped counting, but probably around fifteen minutes of just talking about his newest plan. something about... well probably snezhnaya and the gods again. you didn't really know.
"hah, can't you believe it. could mortals really be as... stupid?" - "what about me?" - "i know you aren't stupid enough to think you're includ-"
placing your lips on his briefly was enough for him to stop, and let you take the lead for a few steps. "you coming, zan'?" - "you... are interesting."
pantalone loves the time off he gets because god, he barely gets time off anymore. especially with the new currency plan he has in mind, and now he had the time to tell you all about it! so, what happens when that's not all you wanna hear from him?
"you see the pinnacle of my plan, yes? it's something i've been working on for a wh- mmm," he already closed his eyes, he was taken a bit aback yet he found himself already wanting more.
trying to lean in for one more before you pull away toooo far... "hmm? you started this, do you really wanna run off?"
itto being itto was him talking about his newest beetle, checking out how how its size would make any other challengers cower, you couldn't really find yourself wanting to listen. not when you hadn't seen him in a week and this is what he was doing?
"can you believe it, babe?! i beat him before ten second even hit the clock, i'm just amaz- mmhmmm! mmmh..." before he knew it he already (and very nervously) placed his arms around your waist.
"good... lord, you taste... nice, baby, is that the chapstick i got you last week? ack! okay, sorry!"
cyno is haha very tediously telling you a joke. and you just couldn't take it anymore so you just leaned in and made sure it was a gesture he wouldn't forget about and would stop telling you about how a shoe made out of a banana its called a slipper.
"wasn't that funny? why... babe, why aren't you laughing, beautiful? did i- mmmh." for how 'funny' his jokes are, he finds his hands caressing the sensitive skin of your lower back. pulling your closer by your waist.
"mmm, you... you are something." - "better than your jokes?" - "ill have to consider, you're a good kisser."
tighnari was just talking and talking and talking about the mushrooms he had been recently using for the dishes he had been so insistent on cooking. in which he did but realized pretty late that you had left that dish untouched, thinking of touching something else instead.
"and, you know how often these appear? how lucky are we that we have them growing our garden? baby? are you li- mmh!" you could already visualize his ears pointing upwards in the shock, only to feel him lean into your lips a little more.
"you... you are so... you are gonna be the death of me."
durin has you leaning on his shoulder while the rest of your friends danced in the middle of angel's share. sharing apple juice with each other that felt even more romantic and cheesy than it should've.
it was cute in a way really, it got to a point where varka and albedo have commented, and now here he was. your favorite dragon talking about his newest conch he-
"-found in liyue, isn't that great? hat guy took me out there, i wish you were there. all the views reminded me of you. so here, keep the co- what are y- mmn..." subconsciously his wings flap at the sudden warm sensation on his lips.
"y- you... what?"
lohen is busy talking to you about his latest encounter with the abyss. ringing an arm around your shoulder as he shows you around, pulling you close and super distinctively inhales your scent in. i hope you know that he cuts off a lot of his sentences just to tell you how nice you smell and look and are today.
"geez. you're amazing, i can't help but appreciate y- mmmn! mmn..." you can tell he was a little surprised but pulls you in more. it really get to a point where you need to pull away to breathe.
"oh? you seem excited. now you wanna back away."
varka is the kind of guy to pull you in by the waist, and starts to trail his kisses down your neck that turns to bites. has his free hand already cupping your face. it's so habiskjdasdjkhsa that the guy who was trying to hit on you just a moment ago. he would've just told the guy to fuck off but he doesn't mind this either.
"oh? what makes you think they aren't take- huh? what's that ba- mmn!" taken offguard the moment he feels you on him but again, hey. he likes showing off what's his.
Pierrot, kissing Y/N's hand: my tender petal, your flesh rivals the finest velvet, the precious curves of your form must have been made by a sculptor gone mad with the dream of your beauty. My darling nightmare, may I never wake from this enchanted slumber.
Y/N, smiling: you're very silly, and a very good boy. Unlike that other one who broke the vacuum cleaner.
Harlequin, sitting in the corner crankily: that contraption was evil, I say! How long must I endure this cruel punishment, sweet rabbit? Oh, I am just a humble Harlequin, and here I live to see the day where my own wicked darling banishes me to this cold abyss for a thousand years!
Y/N: you have been there for barely five minutes.
Harlequin: an eternity! I wither away as we speak! Remember me, my dear one, may my memory live on in your icy heart. Now, I perish. Observe my demise, I look good from this angle.
Pierrot, grinning: I am observing quite happily. I could watch this every day and never get tired of it. Do you think we could throw darts at him while we are at it? Better yet, I was eager to test my new blade collection and he is the perfect target.
Y/N, placing their hand over his mouth: behave, Pierrot. Now, Harley, you can endure a few more minutes over there and then you may come back here and cuddle with us. Is this adequate?
Harlequin, bowing: merciful sweetheart, I am grateful. What a gentle little rabbit you are, my dear Y/N. See, Pierrot? I told you they were going to show forgiveness, therefore there is no problem with telling them about that little washing machine incident we had earlier.
Y/N:...what?
Harlequin, wrapping his tentacles around Y/N and Pierrot happily: cuddle time!
warning: this part DOES have smut, minors dni!! I'll have the beginning and end of the smutty part(s) labeled with a (***)
wc: 9k
Not proofread lol
You had never realized how soft the rugs were in the manor’s corridors—velvety, like fresh petals pressed beneath your feet. You’d never walked them barefoot before; that luxury had always been reserved for the solitude of your bedroom. It felt oddly liberating now, drifting through the hallways in a gown lighter than those you wore normally for aesthetics’ sake. Ever since the commotion at the funeral and the buildup to it, you had decided you were overdue for a reprieve: no rigid posture, no aging executives calling you sweetheart, no quiet shadowing of your husband at his side. He was, for once, confined to his bed—resting. The thought alone felt foreign. You could count on one hand the times you’d seen him actually sleep since your wedding.
The physician had suggested—no, demanded—that he rest from his duties while the wound in his arm mended under the care of several neat stitches. Pantalone, of course, had been vehemently against the notion of leaving any company affair unattended, but even he could not argue with the threat of infection. In the end, he conceded, though not without visible reluctance. With his absence echoing faintly through the halls and every servant preoccupied with tending to him, you found yourself unmoored for the first time in weeks—free to wander the manor at your own, unhurried pace.
So here you were, strolling past rain-streaked windows, the world outside thrumming against glass whilst you glided along like a melancholic serenade sweeping through a grand concert hall. There was once a time when you loved to dance—bumping into walls, landing on clumsy toes as you twirled through cramped hallways as a little girl, never noticing the modesty of your hearth, lost in the magic of your own music box, a private stage for the most captivating ballerina. Of course, those laughable performances had long been traded for weightier obligations to the Fatui, your childhood whimsy set aside for duty.
Even so, you indulged just this once, arms flailing as if they had minds of their own, toes wobbling dangerously on the polished floor. A stray wisp of your hair caught in your eyes, a soft laugh escaping as you narrowly avoided disaster. The music in your head, an imaginary score, carried you through a routine that had long since left any semblance of grace behind. Step, step, leap, twirl—oh, don’t bump into that vase—step, lean—
“Quite the routine you’ve got there.”
You froze mid-twirl, one foot lifted, arms strewn in careless abandon. Heart thudding, you blinked at the doorway. There he stood—your husband—his injured arm neatly bandaged, the other resting casually against the polished wooden frame. The wedding ring on his finger caught the faint light, glinting gently. To your surprise, he almost never took it off. His bed clothes were on, a rare sight; the comfort of his private attire seemed almost rebellious against the usual polish and precision of his presence. Yet his face, pulled into that tight, familiar smile, betrayed far less relaxation than the soft fabric draped over him.
“Oh, hi, um—”
“My apologies for interrupting. I just heard footsteps outside the door, and—”
“No, no, it’s okay, I was just—”
You stood there, cheeks warming to a rosy glow, heart still fluttering like a trapped bird in your chest, every instinct begging you to melt into one of the plush faux-fur blankets in the drawing room and vanish entirely. Sure, most husbands and wives might share silly, domestic interludes like this, but you weren’t most wives, and he certainly wasn’t most husbands. Your arms slowly drifted to your sides, fingers brushing a rebellious strand of hair back into place, but it did little to calm the embarrassment buzzing through your veins.
From somewhere behind the soft cadence of your panicked thoughts came a quiet, melodic chuckle, so easy and unassuming that it made your ears burn hotter. You couldn’t hide it; he was genuinely amused, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way you had rarely seen outside of moments when he thought himself entirely alone.
“I can’t say I’ve ever caught any woman I’ve wed in the corridor mid-pirouette—or perhaps a slightly more… enthusiastic rendition of one,” he said, voice low, teasing, yet with the gentle patience of someone who knew the fragile dance of nerves and pride you were performing.
Your feet, ever rebellious, refused to cooperate. One slipped from its careful placement, sending you teetering dangerously forward. Panic flared for the briefest second—an almost cinematic moment where the world seemed to slow—but then a hand, firm yet warm, landed at your waist. A soft grunt accompanied the catch, and you realized with dizzying relief and embarrassment that Pantalone had managed to catch you mid-fall, even with his injured arm.
This was certainly a… precarious situation you had managed to land yourself in. Who else but your spouse would have your back like this—even when your spouse was a man whose birthday you couldn’t even recall?
His other arm looped securely around your waist, setting you upright. He was so warm, and you hadn’t forgotten what that warmth had felt like the last time he touched you.
“You wore your ring today,” he observed, his voice carrying that quiet, almost teasing acknowledgment.
You realized how little attention you’d actually paid to Pantalone before. Between his relentless schedule and the steady, polite rhythm of your marriage, there had been no reason to let your eyes linger too long. Of course, there had been that other day—when the rain slicked down his handsome face, dark hair clinging to his skin, eyes lowered yet catching yours in a way that suggested admiration, just enough to make your chest stir. You had quietly yearned to see that look again… if only to break some of the tension between you.
Now, he was looking at you with an intimacy you weren’t used to—not injured, not in the middle of a crisis, not dealing with some urgent misadventure—but simply stopping your fall in the hallway, in his pajamas. The most domesticity he had ever shown you, and yet it held a weight all its own. Your eyes briefly flicked to the shiny crown on your finger, noting its previous absence.
"It would be silly of me to forget it a second time."
You shared a look, a brief exchange of chuckles that seemed to linger in the arched corridor, bouncing off the polished walls and threading through your chest like a quiet melody of mutual amusement.
Just then, the soft clip of hurried footsteps broke the moment—a servant rounding the corner, a young man with a neatly pressed uniform and eyes wide with uncertainty.
"Sir, I apologize to interrupt your re—"
He froze mid-word, gaze darting between you and Pantalone. You noticed, almost too late, that his arms were still looped around your waist. Heart fluttering, you untangled yourself with careful politeness, excusing yourself as you let your husband address the boy.
Yet curiosity—or perhaps a lingering thrill—kept your ears tuned to the conversation that followed.
“Shipment… partner… warehouse… breach…”
You caught the scattered words in passing, the low rumble of Pantalone’s voice threading through marble pillars like smoke. You usually didn’t concern yourself with whatever tiresome company matters invaded your home — but something in his tone tonight was different. Urgent. Measured. Dangerous.
You could have lingered, perhaps even cared, but the truth was simpler: you were tired. Tired of the rush, the peril, the quiet shuffle of men carrying weapons through your halls. Tired of the way death had become a casual dinner guest in your life. So, like any woman who valued her peace over curiosity, you kept walking.
And yet, resentment coiled beneath your composure like a secret. Your husband was too important — indispensable, untouchable. Half a continent moved because he willed it to, and if one cog slipped, the whole delicate machine unraveled… dragging you with it. Nights stretched long and sleepless, filled with half-whispered reports and the ghost of his cologne on empty chairs.
But as long as it wasn’t you, right?
Their silhouettes disappeared around the corner—out of sight, out of mind.
Or so you might have said, if you were still as naïve as you’d been a few months ago.
“[Name], we need to leave. Now.”
You turned, startled by the sudden urgency in his voice. Pantalone rarely raised it, much less allowed it to sound anything other than composed. The soft tread of his shoes dragged against the ornate rug as he hurried toward you, coat half-buttoned, one hand clutching a sheaf of papers you recognized immediately as important.
“We?” you echoed, blinking.
“Yes, you,” he replied, his tone clipped, already scanning the corridor as though expecting it to come alive with enemies. “I don’t have time to explain—put on your shoes. We’re leaving through the servants’ entrance.”
The next thing you knew, you were being ushered down a narrow back stairway you hadn’t even known existed in your own home. The walls were close, the light dim, your breath catching on the scent of old wood and candle wax. Pantalone guided you with a steady hand at the small of your back, his touch firm but careful—hiding every wince of pain that rippled through his injured arm.
“I apologize,” he murmured, voice low and even despite the urgency that laced every step. “I really do. I’ll make this right later.”
You barely had time to respond before the two of you burst out into the outside air, the chill slapping your face awake. Within moments, you were in a car, Pantalone and three of his men piling in after you. The tires shrieked against the cobblestones as the vehicle lunged forward, down the private drive and onto the road with an extremely sharp turn—ninety in a twenty, maybe more. The scenery blurred into streaks of gold and gray beyond the rain-streaked glass.
You gripped the seat for dear life. “What now?”
It wasn’t meant for anyone but yourself, but Pantalone’s gaze slid to you nonetheless, catching the faint tremor in your voice. His good arm slipped around your shoulders, pulling you close enough that you could have a bit of space from the others. The warmth between you, layered in silks and wool, made you sweat.
“…This won’t be every day,” he said softly.
The past twenty minutes, you realized, were the most you’d ever spoken to Pantalone one-on-one. It was strange—being beside him for one of his spontaneous episodes, as you’d come to call them. Like living inside one of his meticulously plotted games, except you had no idea of the rules.
“What’s this about?” you asked, your voice barely steady.
Before you could get an answer, his gloved hand clamped gently—but firmly—over your mouth. The faint smell of leather and cologne filled your senses, warm and suffocating all at once. You froze, startled by the sudden intimacy of the gesture. He didn’t even look at you as he reached for his pocket watch, the metal glinting in the low light.
One of the men in the car tapped a few buttons on his phone before holding it up on speaker. A distorted voice crackled through the receiver.
“We’re expecting four of you. Nothing more, nothing less. You
have ten minutes.”
The air inside the vehicle thickened. You gave him a sharp look—one that clearly said, What in the world have you dragged me into?
He met your gaze with maddening composure, eyes unreadable behind his glasses. His thumb brushed your cheek briefly before he withdrew his hand, as if to apologize—or to remind you to stay quiet.
After a few minutes of speeding through slick, rain-slicked streets—which, as you soon realized, weren’t interrupted by the usual flashing lights because the entire police force owed Pantalone favors—you arrived at a building secluded behind an overgrown cluster of trees, its perimeter shrouded in shadows. A fence encircled it like a fortress, the faint glow of lights behind it barely visible through the metal bars.
Pantalone’s composure remained intact, but there was a grim edge to him that made the air in the car feel heavier, almost tangible. This was the dealer of every game played in the city, the man who always seemed untouchable—but now, there was wariness in his eyes, an almost imperceptible tension in the way his shoulders shifted. It unnerved you, and not a little.
“Follow my lead if you value your life,” he whispered, gripping your shoulders with a firmness that burned into your skin. The touch, usually warm and almost intimate, now carried a weight of urgency that left your heart hammering.
You barely had time to nod before he bent low, lowering you between the front and back seats as if you were a fragile artifact, slow and steady as his normally relaxed eyes bore into you with a burning intensity that made you shiver under all the fur you were draped in. His gloved finger pressed to your lips, cold and smooth, signaling absolute silence. You took the memo, eyes squeezed shut, and listened.
The car rolled to a halt. The driver’s window slid down with a slow hiss, the damp night air curling inside. Pantalone’s hand lingered near yours, brushing accidentally—or perhaps deliberately—against your fingers before he let it go. The contact, small and fleeting, was enough to send a shiver through you. Outside, the night felt alive with whispers of danger: muffled voices, the scrape of boots across concrete, the faint click of metal. The ghost of his thumb brushing yours registered with your senses as he pulled away, sitting up straight in his seat.
The glare of a flashlight cut through the darkness, slicing across the car window, accompanied by the low, gruff bark of a guard’s voice. Each second stretched taut, heavy with dread—the longest two minutes of your life—before the tires screeched over the driveway again, carrying you past watchful eyes, gates, and the cold glint of weapons.
You stole a glance at your husband. Calm, composed, steady—even in such a high pressure environment. His hand dipped beneath the seat, fingers closing around a small, black box. With a measured motion, he popped it open onto his lap, revealing its contents.
Once he judged that the distance from the initial guards was sufficient, he leaned toward you, offering a hand. You took it, letting him steady you back into the seat beside him.
From the box, he drew a dark mask, sleek and shimmering, the kind that seemed designed for both elegance and secrecy. Two eyeholes pierced its surface, just enough to see through, just enough to conceal.
“Wear this,” he instructed, his voice low, steady, carrying that quiet authority that always left you both reassured and stirred. “And do not take it off—not for a single moment while we are here.”
You felt the brush of his fingers against yours as he handed it over. The gesture, fleeting as it was, sent a shiver through you, quickening the pulse in your veins fueled by the danger pressing in from outside. You couldn’t romanticize your life now. Not like this.
Still, you took the mask, letting it settle carefully over your eyes. It felt more like a costume for a silly masquerade than a serious disguise—or perhaps a mistress elegantly cloaked in shadow. Even so, you knew better than to question him.
When the car came to a halt, Pantalone’s steady hand helped you out, his poise practiced and unerring. He guided you toward the chateau perched atop the hill—a fortress of light amid the darkened landscape, its presence both awe-inspiring and slightly intimidating.
He wasn’t one to chatter during business, but tonight his silence was deeper than usual, weighed down with purpose. As he led you up the sweeping steps and toward the ornate doors, the urgency of the moment pressed against your chest. There was a great deal on the line—though you had no clear idea what that might be.
The air inside was heavy, almost suffocating, carrying the scent of perfumed bodies and polished wood. The foyer swarmed with masked figures, faces hidden, whispers curling around you like drifting shadows. None of them were familiar. None were to be trusted—or so it felt. Pantalone wove through them with deliberate ease, his presence cutting a path through the murmuring crowd. Their voices brushed past you like ghosts, cold and intangible, and for a moment, the grandeur of the chateau felt oppressive, a gilded cage.
He led you down a dimly lit corridor, the walls echoing faintly with the susurrus of movement, until they opened onto the elevator at the far end. The polished metal reflected distorted glimpses of masked faces behind you. Pantalone pressed the button, then stepped aside, ushering you in first.
And then—for the first time ever—he took your hand. Not a guiding touch, not a casual brush, but a firm lock of palm against palm, fingers weaving together as though anchoring you in a storm. Your pulse leapt. You had sensed all day that something was… off, unusual, tense—but this—this was another layer entirely.
His men flanked the two of you, forming a silent barricade as the doors slid closed. The ride seemed to stretch on forever, the hum of the elevator mingling with the thrum of your heartbeat. Your eyes traced the height of the elevator shaft, and for a split second, you realized—this mansion was enormous. So enormous that the vertigo clawed at your stomach.
Or so you thought.
Because the numbers on the panel were moving downward.
You were going underground.
When the elevator doors finally parted again, a wall of guards met you, standing shoulder to shoulder, weapons glinting in the dim light. There was no room to move, no path around them—every exit was blocked, every escape attempt accounted for. Your fingers instinctively curled around Pantalone’s, giving a slight squeeze. A signal, perhaps, of fear; perhaps a quiet demand for answers. Or perhaps just a reminder that you were there, present, unflinching despite the danger.
The path ended at another flight of stairs, leading you downward into a cavernous space of concrete and frozen air, the scent of cold metal and stacked cargo biting at your skin. At the center of the room, a small, masked gathering awaited. The moment you stepped into view, their heads turned in unison, eyes hidden yet unnervingly alert.
“You’ve made it,” one of them said, voice neutral but edged with authority.
“I have,” Pantalone replied, calm as ever, his tone masking any trace of concern.
All but him wore masks. All of them fixed their gaze on you.
“And you’ve brought a stowaway with you? Guards are entirely acceptable, but our traditions are… quite confidential, Lord Regrator.” The words hung heavy in the chilled air, laden with both intrigue and subtle accusation.
“She’s sedated,” he lied smoothly, his tone cutting through the tension like a blade. “Won’t remember a thing.”
A beat passed, sharp and measured. You felt the weight of a hundred eyes on you, the chill of the concrete seeping through your gown, the whisper of potential danger in every movement. Even in the shadows, even under masks, you knew you were being sized up.
"Very well. Let's proceed, then."
The men who had accompanied you and Pantalone gently guided you backward, keeping you just out of the circle’s center as your husband stepped forward. Another figure, taller than most, cleared his throat and began to speak, the low cadence of his voice carrying through the cold chamber.
“It has been our tradition for over a century that each member of our esteemed society remain diligent, honest, and act in a manner that benefits both himself and this congregation. We have valued and upheld these standards so that we may gather—just like this—each year to commence our ceremony of honor, recognizing the achievements of every gentleman here tonight. But first, we must acknowledge the man who has provided the most significant contribution to our society this year. And for the seventh consecutive year since his initiation, it is, of course, the Lord Regrator.”
Polite, rehearsed applause followed, sharp and deliberate, the kind that comes from men whose every gesture is measured, even when admiration is due. Seven years in a row. Seven times a man whose weight and influence eclipsed them all. And yet… you couldn’t shake the odd tension curling around your husband’s posture tonight. His jaw was tight, his movements careful, almost hesitant.
Your mind whirred. What could possibly make Pantalone—the unflappable, untouchable Lord Regrator—seem so… skittish about an event that seemed to sing his praises?
The applause faded into a charged silence as the speaker’s tone shifted.
“With that said,” he continued, voice now sharper, eyes flicking briefly toward Pantalone, “it has come to our attention that one of our core values has recently been violated by you as well, Pantalone.”
A chill cut through the warm, suffocating air of the chamber. Even at the height of his power, standing before these masked men, your husband seemed momentarily… human.
That alone answered your unspoken question.
“One of our esteemed members could not join us tonight due to… legal troubles. And all that has transpired stems from you, Lord Regrator.”
Pantalone remained statuesque, silent as a fish in the center of a whirlpool, while murmurs ricocheted off the concrete walls. Your mind raced, desperately trying to connect the dots. Who had Pantalone possibly crossed? Who had provoked this? And then it clicked—swift as lightning.
The sweaty, belligerent old man at the funeral. The one who had caused the injury still healing in his arm.
“What befell Mr. Novak was entirely of his own volition,” Pantalone said, his voice calm and even, almost cold. “It only needed a… nudge.”
Your pulse throbbed in your ears. Something in his phrasing, the way he leaned just slightly forward, hinted that his interference had extended far beyond a public scolding for lying hands on a woman.
Even so, one of the masked men advanced a step, voice sharp, unwavering. “Even so, Pantalone, we in this society stick together, no matter the situation. Because of that… we must dissolve your position within our ranks.”
The room seemed to constrict around you. Your breath caught as the men’s eyes lingered on him, on you. And yet… Pantalone’s response was almost serene. A single, measured smile touched his lips, but there was a tension beneath it, a taut wire of defiance coiled in his posture.
“If that is how it must be,” he said, voice smooth, unshakable, “then so be it, gentlemen.”
Even amid whispered threats and veiled glances, his composure radiated power. And despite the fear knotting in your stomach, you couldn’t help but marvel at the man who could stand so effortlessly in the eye of such a storm.
"Thank you for your time."
As soon as it had begun, it was over. One heartbeat, one tense breath, and Pantalone had already turned on his heel, gathering you gently against his side with the ease of a man who moved through danger as if it were second nature. His other men flanked him like shadows, silent and watchful, each step measured, precise. You followed, pressed almost instinctively against him, your pulse still pounding from the confrontation below.
Once the elevator doors parted on the main floor, you stepped out onto the marble floor, expecting him to continue forward. But he did not. He paused, eyes scanning the corridor, the hum of distant voices barely audible above your own heartbeat. And then, astonishingly, he knelt.
Your breath caught. Pantalone, the implacable Lord Regrator, knelt in front of you in the hushed grandeur of the manor, fingers deftly adjusting the delicate laces on your boots, securing each button on your coat with meticulous care. Every touch was deliberate, considerate, almost intimate. The contrast between the chaos you had just left behind and the domesticity of this act was jarring, making your chest tighten in ways you hadn’t anticipated.
“Shouldn’t we go?” you murmured, voice catching slightly, unsure whether to move or remain trapped in the quiet gravity of the moment.
He shook his head, brushing a stray wisp of hair from your temple with a gentleness that belied the danger around you.
“They know too much,” he whispered, almost to himself, though his voice carried a weight that settled into your very bones.
You could feel the tension coiling around him, a predator’s awareness, and yet there was something infinitely personal in the way he held you close. The warmth of his injured arm pressed against your back, the steady strength beneath it, reminded you of the rare, potent trust you had in him.
Then, the shrill ding of the elevator cut through the silence. Pantalone’s body shifted, pulling you flush against him. His injured arm rose, palm pressing firmly over your eyes. The other guards assumed positions beside you, shadows poised like living extensions of his will.
Through the narrow gap of his fingers, you glimpsed the scene as the elevator doors parted—and chaos erupted. The sound was deafening, a thunderclap that left your senses reeling. Men—too close, too confident—collapsed in rapid succession, falling like puppets whose strings had been violently cut. You barely had time to breathe before the doors hissed closed again, leaving behind nothing but the stark contrast of your shared quiet and the glistening red stains on the polished floor.
When Pantalone finally released his hold on your eyes, you blinked, trying to reconcile the violence with the almost tender intimacy of the touch that had shielded you moments before. He stepped back slightly, enough to let you breathe, but his presence remained a tether you couldn’t escape.
“Now,” he said, voice low, calm, yet carrying the unshakable authority that had kept you alive more than once, “we can go.”
And even as you nodded, still trembling from the mingling of fear and exhilaration, you realized something that made your pulse leap in an entirely different way: nothing in this world—or in him—had ever felt so dangerous, so intimate, or so entirely his.
This was his world.
Everyone else was just fortunate enough—or perhaps just the opposite—to live in it.
The ride home was a blur, but the thought of being back in the quiet familiarity of your home, however fleeting, made your chest ache with relief. Still, relief alone could not quiet the questions burning in your mind.
So, you followed him.
Never in your entire marriage had you dared to be this bold—never had you crossed the threshold of his private study without invitation. But tonight, adrenaline still thrumming in your veins, you breached his domain, ready to interrogate him until your strength gave out.
“What was that?” you demanded, stepping inside, hands clenched at your sides. “What kind of exclusive club requires you to murder every single one of its members the moment they kick you out?!”
Pantalone was stripping off his bloodied gloves when you burst into the room. His wedding ring gleamed untouched amidst the carnage, hands moving with a delicate precision that belied the violence he had just enacted. It was almost impossible to reconcile the image of this composed, polished man with the force he had just unleashed.
“The kind that would’ve stopped at nothing to tear my empire down,” he said softly, voice low, yet cutting through the room like steel. “That would’ve risked your life as well.”
There was no anger in his tone, nor the usual unflappable calm. Something in the way he spoke made the room feel colder, heavier. You felt a shiver run down your spine.
“…Were they capable of that…?” Your voice barely carried, and even then it trembled.
He didn’t answer right away, letting the silence stretch between you like a taut wire. That silence alone was enough to make your heart pound.
“My career—my position—you—will always be safe,” he finally said, his voice firm, deliberate, the words weighted with an authority that left no room for doubt. “I will never let there be so much as a single crack in the foundation.”
Even as you absorbed the reassurance, your mind couldn’t ignore the terrifying truth: this man, your husband, was not only your protector… he was a force capable of destroying everything, and everyone, in his way. And somehow, knowing that both thrilled and terrified you. You were safe, but at what cost?
While he spoke with such self-assurance, you could tell—beneath the veneer of control—that this had shaken him, if only a fraction. The tension lingered in the slight tremor of his breath, the faint stiffness in his posture. You moved before your mind could catch up, your feet carrying you closer through instinct rather than thought.
Your arms slipped around him, the fine fabric of his shirt cool beneath your fingertips. You pressed yourself against the steady rise and fall of his chest, standing on your toes to close the space that always seemed to exist between you and him—worlds apart, even in the same room.
He froze, startled. For a man who could predict the market’s collapse, outwit enemies before they took their first breath, the last thing he anticipated was tenderness. Slowly, his arms came around you, deliberate and hesitant, the kind of touch that felt like both a question and a vow.
“You are…” you murmured, your voice almost lost against the silk of his collar, “more reliable than anyone I know.”
For a fleeting second, his breath caught. Then, with a low exhale, his chin brushed the top of your head, and he pulled you in closer—just enough to remind you that whatever he had just done, whatever world he ruled, you were the one thing he couldn’t quite keep at arm’s length.
"You're a pretty good husband yourself."
You stayed pressed against him, chest to chest, your eyes slowly tracing the lines of his face before finally locking with his. The world outside—every whisper of danger, every masked observer—seemed to melt away until there was nothing but the two of you, breath mingling, hearts hammering in the same quiet rhythm.
“You told me to fall into you, Pantalone,” you whispered, voice barely above a breath. “I need you to do the same with me. I’ll have your back, but only if you let me.”
For a heartbeat, he said nothing, his gaze traveling over your face, lingering on your eyes, your lips, the curve of your jaw. Then, slowly, he let his hands settle firmly around your waist, pulling you closer, as if to anchor you in his world while he measured the weight of your words.
“...You’re right,” he murmured, low and steady. “We’re partners, after all.”
The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy with both authority and a rare vulnerability. His usual impervious calm softened, replaced by something warmer, something domestic yet layered with the dangerous allure that always clung to him. His hands moved slightly, adjusting the sway of your gown as if the smallest imperfection mattered—because to him, you did.
And then, just like that, he leaned down.
The kiss was nothing like you expected. It was slow, deliberate, a careful melding of heat and restraint. Your chest lurched against his, breath catching, as every second felt like both eternity and a heartbeat. You hadn’t kissed him before—not on your wedding day, not in any fleeting private moment—and yet it felt like coming home. For him, too, it was unusual. A man who moved the world from behind a mask of control had never shared a moment like this, not with anyone. Not like this.
When he finally pulled back, just slightly, his face flushed with a quiet intensity, he whispered, “Forgive me. I got ahead of myself—”
“Do it again,” you interrupted, your voice low, firm, but tinged with something unguarded and playful.
For a moment, he stared at you—your boldness, your insistence—but then, just as slowly, he leaned back in. The second kiss was deeper, more insistent, the kind that said more than words ever could. His injured arm looped securely around your waist, holding you close while the rest of him radiated the same dangerous energy that left the world trembling outside your private bubble.
You let yourself melt into him, realizing fully for the first time that the same man who could destroy empires could also protect you with infinite patience and care. Every breath, every subtle shift of his weight, every deliberate pull of his hands anchored you—not just in the moment, but in the certainty that, in a world built on power and fear, you were his, and he was yours.
All of the buildup from the past year—the careful glances, the wordless loyalty, the nights spent wondering who's life filled your pockets—seemed to crystallize in this single moment. The air between you was electric, charged with every secret you’d shared and every one you hadn’t.
***
You found enough boldness to lean forward, tracing a trembling path down his jaw with your lips. The faint scent of his cologne lingered there, sharp and intoxicating. Then, lower—your lips brushed the edge of his throat, where his pulse beat steadily beneath skin that was usually so composed, now flushed faintly beneath your touch.
Your lipstick left faint stains against him, clinging like a delicious sin—evidence of something neither of you could take back.
He exhaled slowly, the sound low and uneven, as his hand found the back of your neck. Not forceful—never that—but possessive, steadying you as though he feared he might lose his balance otherwise. His other hand braced against the desk beside him, rings catching the dim light as his breath grew heavier.
For once, Pantalone looked undone.
“What are you doing to me…?” he murmured, his voice a low rasp, the kind that curled through your chest and left a trail of fire behind.
You didn’t answer. You just let your lips hover there for another heartbeat, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him, close enough to hear the faint tremor that betrayed the calm he always fought to maintain.
In that stillness, it wasn’t about control anymore. It was about surrender—two people finally giving in to something they’d both spent far too long denying.
In a sudden rush—so unlike his usual composure—he swept you off your feet, one arm beneath your knees, the other steady against your back. The world tilted for a heartbeat as he carried you out of the study, his pace brisk but careful, the quiet authority in every step softened by something almost desperate.
“I don’t want this moment,” he said, his voice low, breath brushing your ear, “to be surrounded by my real sin.”
The words lingered like incense—haunting, tender, guilty. You felt the steady thrum of his heart beneath your palm as he used his foot to push open another door, the hinges whispering against the silence of the hall.
You’d never been inside his bedroom before.
It was simple, unexpectedly so. The space smelled faintly of sandalwood and clean linen, the decor refined but unassuming—dark polished wood, soft light, a single decanter of untouched wine on a table in the corner. It was the sort of room meant for rest, not spectacle, and perhaps that was why it felt so intimate to be there.
He set you down gently on the bed, the sheets immaculate and perfectly arranged—until your weight met them. You sank slightly into the plush fabric, and for a fleeting moment, you almost felt bad for disturbing their perfection, for daring to pull disorder into his carefully kept world.
But when his gaze met yours—dark, unreadable, and yet so full of something raw—you realized that was exactly what he wanted.
He rushed down to kiss you again, his hands finding the sides of your face as though afraid you might vanish if he let go. The warmth of his palms contrasted the chill that still lingered from outside, the faint scent of cologne and gunpowder clinging to him in equal measure. His kiss was firmer this time—less tentative, more certain—and it made something inside you ache in the sweetest way.
You felt hot under his touch. It wasn’t the kind of heat born of mere desire—it was heavier, deeper. Because you could tell that this wasn’t about conquest. Not tonight. This was a man who wanted your heart just as badly as he wanted your skin, and the realization left you dizzy.
When he drew back for breath, his eyes searched yours as if for permission to breathe again. The air between you trembled, fragile as glass. His thumb brushed across your cheekbone, a rare tenderness softening every sharp edge of him.
He looked almost apprehensive, as though the next step might undo him entirely. But the want was there—undeniable, pulsing through every small motion. The yearning wasn’t purely physical; it was buried deeper, threaded through years of restraint, fear, and something dangerously close to devotion.
Gone was the frightening Lord Regrator, the untouchable merchant prince who could command a room with a look. Before you now was just a man—one whose lips itched to travel lower, whose thoughts tangled between desire and confession, who longed to tell you things he’d never trusted anyone else to hear.
“All boys just have to tease,” you murmured, your voice low, half a taunt, half a plea. Your fingers reached for the top button of his shirt, tugging it loose with deliberate slowness. “Don’t hold back now.”
For a moment, there was nothing but silence—the kind that hums before a storm, where breath and heartbeat blur together. You could almost see him wrestling with whatever remained of his restraint, jaw tight, eyes dark with everything he hadn’t said.
Then, at last, that cord inside him snapped.
“If you insist.”
His hands were on you in an instant, pulling you up to straddle his lap as he pushed your dress down your shoulders, sucking dark marks into your neck all the while.
You gasped softly, hands braced on his broad shoulders as your lashes fluttered, feeling more and more of the cold air of his room hit your skin. It was then that you realized you hadn't bothered with a bra, deeming the dress you wore supportive enough that evening.
Pantalone may as well have been hypnotized as he revealed more of your body to himself, tossing the dress away as if it hadn't costed thousands. All he was focused on was the vision of pure goddess like beauty before him.
"Remind me again why it took us so long to get to this point..."
"You pretended like I didn't exist there for a long while."
You found yourself more wanton for him the longer his clothes remained on his body, enhanced by the slightly embarrassed pink that crept up his cheekbones. Lord Regrator didn't get embarrassed. Your hips jerked ever so slightly against him, earning a grunt of approval. His hands faltered around your waist, sliding down to your hips to pull you against him harder, seeking more of that stimulation through layers of fabric that seemed far too thick right now.
You weren't sure what you thought of Pantalone as an intimate partner until now, since you fully expected to be out of his care within 12 months, much less in his bed like this. But as you ground together, the sensation of his hips against your own, his lips ghosting beneath your ear, near your collarbone, you realized just how long you'd gone without this kind of sensuality.
You touched yourself, sure, but in a place so big and grand, away from everything you knew and maybe even loved, you didn't get in the mood much. You'd been pent up for some time.
Pantalone could hardly take the heat building beneath his clothes anymore, tearing a glove off his hand with his teeth to work at the last few buttons on his shirt. He shrugged off the sleeves, and for the first time you realized how built he was. He was sculpted, but not in a flashy way, just enough to make you salivate at first glance. A dark happy trail disappeared into the waistband of his pants, and you could hardly keep yourself off him anymore.
"Let me, let me..."
He let out an amused chuckle, half mixed with a gasp as you undid his button and fly, a pair of expensive boxers peeking out at you like a treasure chest with the greatest riches inside.
You glanced up at him once, noting the rise and fall of his chest with each unsteady breath. Your eyes remained locked with him, letting your hand dip beneath his boxers for the first time.
Holy shit, he was big.
You didn't mean to widen your eyes as much as you did when you felt him, already hard and throbbing in your hand. You didn't miss Pantalone's gentle groan either. He looked utterly desperate. It seemed like he hadn't been touched in a long time either.
Carefully, you wrapped your hand around him, your thumb running over the soft head of his dick, watching his teeth grit for a moment. It was only then that you noticed the little diamond in one of his canines. Not flashy, not tacky, just pure class, unlike the pure sin you were engaging in.
"Please...."
Hearing his whisper was like music to your ears.
So you indulged him.
Your soft lips pressed to his once more as you begun to stroke him, up and down, building the tension. Your lashes fluttered as he moaned into your mouth, his hand curling into your soft locks into a fistful, pulling you back to kiss at your jaw while you pumped him.
"There has to be...something...I can do for you.." he whispered in a panting heap.
"Just hold still."
You pressed the weight of yourself down onto him until he was lying back on the bed, his dick still in your hand as you stroked him quicker.
"Gods...o-oh..."
His hips twitched as they fought not to simply buck up into your hand, to take control at his own pace. Still, he was a patient man, or so he proclaimed.
"It just feels good to see you weak for once."
The moonlight filtered in from the window, bathing your nude body in its shimmering glow, making you look nothing short of angelic on top of him.
"I can't take this anymore..."
His hands shot up to grab your hips hard, rolling you over in one swift motion. Before you knew it, he was on top of you, his hands probably leaving bruises from how hard he was gripping your supple flesh.
A startled gasp tore from your lips, but not one lacking pleasure. Watching him take control more carnally...
god, did it have you hot.
and wet.
When he released his grip, he took the opportunity to trace the contours of your body, mapping you out for whatever downright Nast things he was about to do to you. Technically, he never promised to be a gentle lover.
You watched his back muscles flex as he lowered himself to your level, his head between your legs.
"Hope you don't mind. It's only right that I take care of you first, after everything you've put up with."
You could only shiver as he hooked a finger around the flimsy fabric of whatever panties you threw on that night, pulling them to the side. Normally, he was all about formality and respect, but right now, he felt like being disrespectful.
Still, he drew a heart over your clit with his tongue before he delved in and startled half his guards with your scream. This man was an eater like you'd never experienced.
He was practically making out with your pussy, grounding you with a big hand on your thigh as he held you down. His other hand worked you open with a couple fingers, curling just right around a spot you'd almost forgotten about
"Oh my god, P-Pantalone where did you- ngh- even learn to do this..?"
You could feel his tongue lapping at you so passionately, his fingers fucking you better than you could ever hope to do to yourself. Your hands gripped the sheets beneath you as you and the chandelier above you became more acquainted with one another as your walls sucked him in. If you were struggling this much now, how on earth were you going to survive the main event?
"It would truly be unbecoming for a man not to know simply how to please a lady" he said roughly before doubling down his efforts.
You were coming in minutes.
He looked godly, pushing himself back up to his feet, a thin sheen of sweat across his abs. When he was back on you, he had you pinned to the headboard, making out with you with kisses that made it utterly hard to breathe, not that you really wanted to right now.
"Tell me what you want. I swear I'll give you anything."
His whisper sounded more like the yearning plea of a man who had longed for such a great deal of time to have more than a business transaction at his side. He craved a partner, a companion, someone who wasn't a yes man or simple arm candy.
He craved you.
You nipped at his lip, breaths mingling as the moment hung heavy in the air, his arm braced against the dark wood above your head.
"Show me who you really are, Pantalone. Drop the formality. Stop trying to be polite."
Your demand took him aback for a moment, heart pounding in tandem with yours as you sit there chest to chest. Then, he dipped his head to level his lips with your ear.
His hold on your waist intensified, thumb tracing idle circles into your skin.
"...Then fold those legs back as far as they can go and don't even contemplate for a second about staying quiet."
If you weren't on fire before, you certainly were now. He manhandled you into his desired position, spreading your thighs apart to have a clear view of your glistening folds.
"...But if it hurts, say something."
Even when you begged him to be rough with you, he was still a gentleman by default.
The head of his cock rested heavy against your slit, and he entered you slowly as he braced his arm next to your head.
"Oh my god..."
It took him a few seconds to fully sheathe himself inside, the both of you moaning in unison. His hips started moving against you, soft grunts and groans spilling past his lips.
Given that the both of you had been pent up for so long, you were both overly sensitive. One of your heels dug into his lower back as you encouraged him to go faster, the slapping sound of sex filling your ears along with your shared noises.
"Don't stop.."
He reached for different parts of your body, tweaking your breasts, kneading your tummy, pulling your hip flush into him to match his thrusts, all while you practically screamed beneath him.
As you picked up the pace, the headboard behind you begun to do a rhythmic tap, tap, tap against the wall.
Then, just as you felt yourself getting closer to your high, he pulled out, earning a whine of protest from you.
"Hold still, love."
He flipped you over, pressing your face into the sheets as he entered you again, fucking you hard from the back. Your hands clawed at the mattress as your ass bounced off his pelvis with each rough movement. You couldn't help but cry out his name.
"Tell me...you love this...that you need me..."
His grip lightened, opting to rest more gently on your hip even as he practically rearranged your guts. He could say anything right now, and you'd agree dumbly, completely slutted out on his huge dick. But it wasn't even like that. You were just falling in love.
"Fuck, I need this, need it so bad" You cried, "need you...please, please make me cum..."
The heat was becoming all too intense, and you felt yourself begin to spasm around him. His moans were growing in volume too, his hips stuttering every so often.
"Pantalone, y-you need to pull out, we-"
But your own orgasm cut you off, eyes rolling into the back of your head as that heavenly white hot pleasure rushed through you.
Your words hardly registered with him as he let out a few genuinely wanton moans, his hips stilling against you as you felt a warmth flood you, his hands gripping yours against the bedsheets.
***
You both collapsed, breath mingling in the quiet aftermath. For a fleeting moment, it felt like the world had stopped spinning—just the faint thrum of your pulse and his chest rising and falling beside you.
Then the panic hit.
“Pantalone—” Your voice cracked. You pushed yourself upright, clutching the sheets to your chest. “We didn’t use any protection, this isn’t—this can’t—”
“It’s all right,” he interrupted, tone level but faintly winded, his dark eyes watching you with a strange, unhurried calm. “Believe me.”
You froze. That composure of his, the unbothered cadence—it only made your panic worse. “No, it’s not all right!” Your words came faster, your chest tight. “I know we’re married, but I’m not—I don’t think motherhood is—”
He exhaled through his nose, gaze lowering for the first time. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, stripped of its usual polish.
“I can’t have children, [name].”
The room went silent.
The confession hung between you like a loaded gun neither of you dared to touch.
“Oh, gods, Pantalone, I…”
“It’s okay.”
His voice came out softer than you’d ever heard it—no trace of calculation, no edge of performance. Just quiet assurance. His eyes found yours, and for the first time, they weren’t the eyes of the Regrator, or the financier, or the man who commanded entire empires with a glance. They were simply his—warm, human, and full of an understanding that made your throat tighten.
He looked at you with all the gentle comprehension of a husband who had nothing left to prove. And for once, you believed it. You believed him. It was absurd, you thought—falling in love with your husband after the vows had been said, after the chaos, after everything. But here you were. Somehow, in this fragile, stolen calm, the idea of a happy ending didn’t feel so impossible anymore.
The water in the bath had long gone cold by the time you finally gathered yourself. You didn’t even remember how long you’d been soaking there—only that your mind had replayed every word, every touch, every look from earlier that night. You dried off slowly, letting the steam curl around you like a ghost before wrapping yourself in the softest robe you could find.
When you finally found the courage to move, your feet led you down the hall—not to your own quarters, but to his. You pushed the door open as gently as you could, half-hoping, half-fearing what you’d see.
He was there.
Sitting on the edge of his bed in his pajamas, his posture immaculate but his eyes unfocused—like his mind had wandered somewhere far from this world. The mask of composure had slipped, and what lay beneath was raw exhaustion. For a moment, you thought he didn’t even notice you.
Then his gaze flicked up. And instantly, that distant fog behind his eyes cleared.
“Can I…” You hesitated, your voice small in the heavy quiet. “…stay with you tonight?”
The question hung between you, fragile as glass. You weren’t sure if you were asking for comfort, forgiveness, or something far simpler—just the reassurance that you weren’t alone in this strange, beautiful rollercoaster of a union.
“…Alright.”
That single word was quieter than a breath, but it carried a warmth that sank into your bones. You exhaled softly, a tremor of relief hidden in the sound, and crossed the room to him. The sheets dipped beneath your weight as you settled beside him, careful not to break whatever delicate peace had settled between you.
Still, you ached to be closer.
So you moved without overthinking it—sliding nearer until you could slip your arms around his neck from behind, your cheek brushing the fabric of his shirt, the faint scent of his body wash surrounding you. Your chin came to rest against his shoulder, and you felt the subtle rise and fall of his breath under your hands.
“…What are you thinking about?” you asked quietly, afraid your voice might disturb the stillness.
For a long moment, he said nothing. His gaze was fixed on some invisible point ahead, eyes half-lidded, distant—but not cold. Just searching. Then, slowly, his left hand came up to find yours. His fingers threaded through yours with deliberate care, the cool metal of his wedding ring pressing against your skin.
“…I guess,” he murmured at last, “about how to be in a real marriage.”
You blinked, uncertain if you’d heard him correctly. For all of his brilliance and control, Pantalone had never sounded so unsure. There was a quiet tremor in the confession, as though he was admitting to something he’d never told another soul.
His thumb brushed over the back of your hand in small, unconscious motions—almost apologetic, almost reverent. You could feel the weight of everything unspoken: the years of restraint, the loneliness buried beneath the layers of wealth and power, the realization that perhaps he’d never truly let anyone in until now.
And just then you didn’t see the merchant, the lord, or the strategist. You saw the man.
"We'll figure it out."
You fell asleep in his arms that night, voices low, laughter rare but sincere. Between words and stolen kisses, the distance between you dissolved. He told you of the hunger he’d known as a boy, of coins scraped together and winters survived by cunning alone. You told him of the years you’d spent honing a gift that the Fatui had wrung dry for their own ends. The confessions hung in the dim light like fragile ornaments—two lives that had never been meant to cross, now woven together by circumstance and something dangerously close to love.
It wasn’t a perfect story. It wasn’t even a gentle one. But it was yours. And for now, that was enough.
When morning came, the warmth beside you was gone. The sheets were smooth, his scent faint but lingering. For a heartbeat, you wondered if you’d dreamed him entirely. Then you saw it: a folded slip of paper on the nightstand, his handwriting looping across it with deliberate care.
The maids are packing your things.
I booked us a trip—we’ll leave as soon as I return home tonight.New outfits downstairs.
You read it once. Twice. Then pressed it to your chest, unable to stop the quiet smile that tugged at your lips.
This wasn’t temporary anymore. Not another fleeting arrangement, not a performance of affection for society’s benefit.
This was your life now—messy, unpredictable, terrifyingly real. And as you learned to love him, you found yourself falling in love with everything that came with him: the title, the risk, the empire, the man who built it all from dust.
For the first time, you didn’t feel like a guest in his world.
You felt like you belonged there.
How long does he think he can replace your needs with his riches?
; husband!pantalone x f!reader
; wc: 1715
; cw: slight neglect. minor argument. you and pantalone are bad at communicating. could be a bit ooc, but we dont know much about pantalone anyway.
a/n: hi!! this is my first fic that i have posted ever, genshin fanfic community ily pls let me in. btw english is not my first language, sorry if theres any mistakes !!
also posted on ao3
Being the humble wife of the Regrator might not seem as comfortable and enjoyable as some might think, after all, you're a human being with non-materialistic needs and wants. Another expensive dress, pair of shoes or some other trinket is not gonna replace the desire for intimacy and the presence of your lover.
He always reminds you that he’s busy, and if you wanna keep living the way you do, his work comes first. Maybe your humble nature intertwined with clinginess, which has developed from a sense of abandonment, doesn’t let you accept that you aren’t his first priority, at least not in his actions. So before you act on impulse and scream at the Ninth Fatui Harbinger for being home later than intended, while a small, carefully wrapped gift box is being carried by his hands, you take a step back and realize - maybe he has misunderstood everything?
His eyebrows furrow slightly in confusion when he steps through the front door of your shared manor and you simply greet him with no complaints following through. He decides to ignore it, assuming you’re too tired to argue this time, greets you back and hands you the luxurious small box, another pity gift to add to your collection of pretty, but unusable trinkets.
‘’My dear, this silver pendant with the Clearwater Jade really reminded me of our honeymoon in Chenyu Vale. I couldn’t help, but think of you so I didn't hesitate to buy it!” He says with a bright smile while you’re opening the small box, walking behind you, his hands land gently on your shoulders and he admires the jewelry too, waiting for an answer.
It has never been the case of disliking the gifts Pantalone gets you or feeling bad about his spending, since you know it doesn’t make a dent in his wallet. In fact, you’re really appreciative of his habit of spoiling you rotten with surprises like these and anything else you wish for. You just finally understood that the more you validate this behaviour, the more he’s gonna neglect your actual needs. The more you reward it, the more he is gonna do it and think it’s okay. So you simply mutter a ‘’thank you’’ at the gift and close the box.
Now your husband is completely confused and even worried. Were you really just tired? Are you perhaps sick? Even at your worst, you manage to tell him that you like the gift or that it’s beautiful, even if you’re arguing! Did you not like the gift? Did you not like him anymore? Has he really pushed your love and loyalty this far?
He doesn’t question it aloud though. He simply presses a kiss to the side of your forehead and removes his hands from your shoulders, leaving you alone in front of the entrance door.
Your shared night routine doesn’t differ from any other day and neither does your attitude when in bed. Still as needy and clingy as ever, you move and press against him while trying to fall asleep, in return he wraps a protective arm around you.
The next day Pantalone has set out a mission for himself to get you a more expensive and impressive gift than the previous night. That was probably the worst sleep of his life. He stayed up overthinking, to conclude that you simply didn’t like the gift and brainstormed ideas for a better one. Now, he isn't gonna go all out, since he wants to keep the excitement of truly big and prestigious gifts for special occasions, but he is gonna take it a step further.
He yet again got held back longer at work than he should have been, but nonetheless found time to buy a gift for you.
That night when he returns home, he finds you in your shared chambers, reading a book. He sits down at the side of the bed, handing you a quite bigger box than previously. Inside it has a set of delicately crafted hair pins, a hair brush and a hand held mirror adorned with Sango Pearls straight from Watatsumi Island. Knowing about your love for pearls and taking care of your appearance, he thought it was the perfect gift to make your eyes light up in joy and express an overwhelming amount of gratitude, but when you simply say ‘’thanks’’ yet again and get up to store the gift away on your vanity, he understands that there is a deeper meaning behind your behaviour and he will attempt to get to the bottom of it.
‘’Is everything alright, my dear?’’ He asks in a light tone that’s sweet enough to cover up the emotional turmoil he’s experiencing. ‘’Those were one of a kind, real Sango Pearls from Watatsumi Island.’’ He says and holds a smile on his face.
‘’Very well, everything is alright.’’ You say, acting as if this isn’t a part of a scheme of yours.
‘’Are you ill? Should I invite the nurse to check up on you tomorrow?” He says holding the same tone as previously. Now, this question shocks you, because from all the things you expected him to assume, this was one of the last ones. In all honesty though, this type of sincerity, care and worry from him is something you had longed for. It’s not as if he doesn’t ask you how your day was and how you’re feeling nearly every day, but after such frequency, it just feels like a mandatory protocol he has to fulfill.
When you confirm that there’s no need for a visit from the nurse and that you’re feeling well, the Ninth Harbinger decides to let this topic go, he eyes the gift on your vanity once more and sighs. As much as you want to apologize to him, wrap your arms around him and tell him how much you adored both of the gifts, it’s clear that this plan could work. Now, the Regrator is not by any means dumb or a fool, but banking and keeping the Snezhnayan economy in line is significantly different than pleasing a wife.
This evening repeats as the previous. You act as if everything is ordinary and your husband has another sleepless night thinking about what he can do better.
At work he can barely think straight and focus on duty. His mind starts wandering, looking for more ideas on how to make things right. If he was making a business deal right now and the person declined, it must be because they didn't like the offer and something wasn't enough, right? Therefore it's only logical you didn't like his gifts and expect something more… right? He feels somewhat pathetic acting and thinking like this. Although coming up from nothing, he doesn't know any other love language than materialistic, since his entire life has always revolved around just that.
This evening he makes sure he ends work right on time, because he truly is excited to go home and see you. He’s confident his surprise gift is like no other and surely will get a positive reaction out of you.
For starters, his grand entrance is seen with a large bouquet of Glaze Lilies that upon receiving, you struggle to hide your excitement. The main part of the gift that’s wrapped up in a very large box, decorated with a bow on top, he places onto the kitchen table. He sits down and carefully watches every move, face expression you make while opening it.
The box holds a fine porcelain tea set from Liyue, adorned with silver and dark blue, hand painted elements, said to be blessed by the Adepti. Why did your husband think this is the perfect gift? Firstly, he thinks your habit of drinking tea with every meal and in the evenings before bed is the most adorable thing ever, therefore the gift is practical and shows how observant he is. Secondly, it’s a rare, one of a kind, expensive item, proving his willingness to spoil you and to take care of you financially. Thirdly, the whimsical story of it being blessed by the Adepti gives it a charming meaning. Fourthly, it’s simply pretty and elegant and he assumes that every woman is simply blown away at the sight of something shiny and attractive like a crow.
Truth is, you absolutely adore this gift and by now you’re considering to scratch the plan of acting indifferent to your husband's attempts of showing his love, but before you can say or even decide on anything, he speaks up.
‘’You don’t like it, no?’’ You look at him and his face is neutral of any expression, but a tint of disappointment, as well as sadness can be heard in his voice.
Attempting to decide what is the right thing to do in this situation, you stay quiet for far too long while staring at him and he speaks again.
‘’I cannot decipher what it is that you’re feeling, but I have tried my best to make things right so if you don’t tell me-’’ His voice starts slightly increasing in volume, but you interrupt him.
‘’Have you ever truly considered what I want?’’ You say it in a quiet and soft manner, but your words have the harshness to get your point across.
‘’I have given you a comfortable life, you do not need to worry about a single thing. You have protection, you have status, riches, everything other people pray for. What else is there to want?’’ He says with genuine confusion, his hand raises to adjust his glasses.
‘’I want you, not what you can give me.’’ You mutter in an even quieter tone.
Your words get him to stay quiet and reevaluate everything he has assumed and considered the past few days. What can you do, when your husband, the Ninth of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers, the Regrator, is actually a deeply insecure man, who thinks that his status and materialistic valuables is the only thing he has to offer? That you have no reason to like him or even love him beyond that? In this moment, he recognizes that he truly has misunderstood everything he thought he knew about you.
Sometimes, on rare occasions like these, words can turn out to be more important than actions.
a/n: i have been so obsessed w pantalone and just the harbingers in general aaaaa give them to me rn. btw lmk if u wanna be moots!
5598x | do not copy, use for ai, plagiarize, or repost any of my works.
ꜰᴀᴛᴜɪ ʜᴀʀʙɪɴɢᴇʀꜱ & when they realize they fell in love with you
Pulcinella is not included! All x Fem Reader.
Some very ooc- First time doing something like this so be nice :D
Accepting requests in the comments!
THANK YOU FOR THIS REQUEST @koshiroyuzu
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
⋆˙⟡ ℭ𝔬𝔩𝔲𝔪𝔟𝔦𝔫𝔞⋆˙⟡
Columbina didn’t realize it all at once.
There was no dramatic moment where everything suddenly clicked into place. Love, for her, came quietly. Softly. Like something that had always existed and simply waited for her to notice it.
At first, she just liked being near you.
She would drift into rooms you were in without thinking about it. Sit beside you in comfortable silence. Listen to you speak with that distant little smile on her face, humming softly whenever you laughed.
And one day, you reached over absentmindedly and fixed one of the feathers near her shoulder.
Such a small thing.
Barely anything.
Yet Columbina went strangely still.
“You looked crooked,” you murmured casually.
She stared at you for a long moment after that. Not unsettling. Just… thoughtful.
Because nobody had ever touched her so gently without fear before.
Later that night, she found herself replaying the moment over and over again in her head. The warmth of your fingers. The easy affection in your voice. The way you didn’t hesitate to touch her at all.
That was the first crack.
The realization came later.
You had fallen asleep beside her, curled comfortably against her shoulder while rambling halfway through some story. Your words had slowly faded into quiet breathing, and Columbina simply sat there listening to it.
Listening.
Watching.
Feeling something ache softly in her chest.
Not unpleasant.
Just… deep.
She looked down at you resting against her and whispered quietly, almost surprised by the truth of it.
“Oh.”
That was all.
No panic. No denial.
Just understanding.
Then her fingers carefully brushed through your hair as she smiled faintly to herself.
“So this is what it is.”
And from that point on, her devotion became absolute.
⋆.˚𝒜𝔯𝔩𝔢𝔠𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔬⋆.˚
Arlecchino noticed it long before she admitted it.
That was the problem.
She started making exceptions for you first.
Small ones.
Insignificant ones.
Allowing you to interrupt her work. Letting conversations go on longer than necessary. Memorizing details about your habits without meaning to.
At first, she told herself it was practicality.
You were useful to keep close. Pleasant to tolerate. Nothing more.
Then one evening, you arrived injured.
Not severely. Just enough to matter.
And Arlecchino reacted before thinking.
The moment she saw the blood on your sleeve, her expression sharpened instantly.
“Who did this?”
The question came out cold enough to freeze the room.
You tried to wave it off with a laugh. “It’s not that seriou—”
“It is to me.”
That silence afterward was what finally unsettled her.
Because she meant it.
Entirely.
She patched you up herself despite insisting someone else could have done it. Her hands were precise as always, but noticeably tighter than usual whenever you winced.
“You’re glaring at the bandages like they insulted you personally,” you teased softly.
“I dislike carelessness.”
“That wasn’t my fault.”
“I am aware.”
Yet she still looked irritated.
Not at you.
At the fact that you had gotten hurt at all.
And when you smiled at her afterward—warm, trusting, completely unaware of what you were doing to her—something in her chest pulled painfully tight.
That was the moment she understood.
Not attraction. Not attachment.
Love.
Deep enough to make her afraid for you.
Deep enough to make her dangerous about you.
Arlecchino went very still after that realization.
Then she sighed quietly and pressed a final bandage into place.
“…You are becoming a problem.”
You blinked at her. “Excuse me?”
Her gaze lingered on your face for one long second too many.
“…Nothing,” she answered flatly.
But her hand stayed on yours a moment longer than necessary before she finally let go.
✧.*𝔓𝔦𝔢𝔯𝔯𝔬 ✧.*
Pierro realized it in the worst possible way:
Through fear.
Not fear for himself.
For you.
He had spent centuries mastering restraint, distancing himself from attachment, burying softer emotions beneath duty and ambition. He considered it necessary. Efficient.
Then you walked into his life and quietly dismantled all of it without even trying.
At first, he appreciated your presence because it was calming. You spoke to him normally. Not with fear. Not with worship. Just honesty.
It became… addictive.
He began seeking you out without consciously meaning to. Asking for your opinion. Allowing you to remain beside him during long stretches of work neither of you needed to discuss.
And one night, you didn’t show up.
Simple as that.
You were late.
Objectively, it meant nothing.
Yet Pierro found himself unable to focus.
Every passing minute irritated him further. He reread the same document three times without absorbing a single word. His thoughts kept circling back to one thing:
Where are you?
Then the door finally opened.
“There you are,” you sighed, stepping inside. “Sorry, I got held up—”
Pierro stood so abruptly the chair scraped harshly against the floor.
You froze.
“…Pierro?”
The relief that hit him was immediate. Violent.
And horrifying.
Because in that moment, he understood exactly how deeply you had rooted yourself inside him.
You looked confused by his expression.
“You thought something happened to me?”
He said nothing.
Which was answer enough.
You softened instantly. “Hey… I’m alright.”
You stepped closer carefully, placing a hand against his arm.
And Pierro—normally so composed, so untouchable—closed his eyes briefly at the contact like it physically grounded him.
That was when he knew.
Not because you were there.
Because the thought of losing you had genuinely frightened him.
He opened his eyes again slowly before murmuring in a low voice:
“…Do not do that again.”
You smiled a little. “Be late?”
“Disappear.”
The word came out quieter than expected.
More honest, too.
And from then on, Pierro carried the unbearable truth with him constantly:
His heart no longer belonged entirely to himself.
꩜ S𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔪𝔬𝔲𝔠𝔥𝔢 ꩜
Scaramouche realized it slowly.
Then all at once.
And he hated every second of it.
At first, he only noticed the irritation.
You occupied too much of his attention. Your voice lingered in his head after conversations ended. He kept finding himself looking for you in crowded rooms without meaning to.
Annoying.
Pathetic.
Weak.
He told himself that repeatedly.
Yet somehow, it only got worse.
He became territorial without understanding why. Short-tempered whenever someone got too close to you. Irritated when you smiled at other people for too long.
“You’re glaring again,” you pointed out one evening.
“I always glare.”
“…Not usually at innocent civilians.”
“They looked at you wrong.”
You blinked.
“They asked me what time it was.”
“Exactly.”
He turned away immediately after saying it, clearly irritated with himself for even speaking.
Because deep down, he already knew.
He just refused to call it what it was.
Love felt dangerous to him. Stupid. Reckless. The kind of thing people used against you.
And Scaramouche had spent far too long surviving to willingly hand someone that kind of power.
Then one night, you laughed.
That was it.
Not at him. Not because of anything important. You were sitting beside him rambling about something completely ridiculous, and suddenly you laughed so hard you leaned against his shoulder without thinking.
And Scaramouche froze.
Completely.
Because his first thought wasn’t to shove you away.
It was:
Stay.
The realization hit him so hard it made him feel physically ill.
His chest tightened painfully. His stomach twisted. He looked at you like you had personally betrayed him by making him feel something this raw.
“…You’re insufferable,” he muttered bitterly.
You snorted. “You say that every day.”
“I mean it every day.”
Yet he didn’t move away from you.
Didn’t stop you from leaning against him.
Didn’t stop staring at your smile when you weren’t looking.
And eventually—after days of anger, denial, pacing, and internal screaming—Scaramouche came to one miserable conclusion:
He would rather have this painful, terrifying thing than lose you.
That was the part that finally broke him.
Because once he accepted that?
There was no going back.
One night, completely unprompted, he suddenly muttered:
“…I hate what you’ve done to me.”
You blinked at him. “What did I do?”
He stared at you for a long moment before looking away sharply.
“…Made me care.”
And despite how angry he sounded—
His hand still reached for yours beneath the table.
𖤓 𝒯𝒶𝓇𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓁𝒾𝒶 𖤓
Tartaglia fell in love with you like getting hit in the face with a brick.
Fast. Hard. Immediate.
There was no denial stage.
No fear.
Only overwhelming certainty.
One day he was teasing you over dinner, grinning like usual while you rolled your eyes at him—
And the next, he was staring at you halfway through your sentence thinking:
I want to marry her.
The realization was so abrupt he almost laughed out loud.
Because of course this would happen to him.
You looked at him suspiciously. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
“You’re pretty,” he answered immediately.
“That’s not new.”
“No, but right now it feels like a personal attack.”
You burst out laughing.
And that was it for him.
Done.
Finished.
Gone.
Tartaglia loves loudly by nature, and once he realized what he felt for you, it infected everything about him. He wanted you involved in every part of his life immediately.
He talked about the future without even thinking about it.
“You’d love my siblings,” he says casually one afternoon.
You blink. “Your siblings?”
“Mhm.” He smiles lazily. “You’d fit right in.”
Then, after a pause:
“You’d look good with my last name too.”
You nearly choke.
Meanwhile, he’s completely serious.
That’s the terrifying part.
Tartaglia becomes almost love-drunk once he falls. Softer around you. Happier. More reckless with affection.
He drapes himself over you constantly. Grins whenever you walk into a room. Brags about you to other people like it’s his favorite hobby.
And when he realizes you’re looking at him with the same warmth he feels for you?
God.
He practically glows.
One evening, while you’re half asleep against his chest, he suddenly blurts out:
“I think I want everything with you.”
You mumble sleepily, “Everything?”
“House. Family. Matching old people chairs.” He presses a quick kiss against your forehead. “All of it.”
You laugh softly.
Tartaglia just smiles into your hair with the most devastatingly sincere expression imaginable.
Because he means every word.
₊⊹ ℑ𝔩 𝔇𝔬𝔱𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔢 ₊⊹
Dottore knew almost immediately.
The difference between him and everyone else is that he didn’t panic about it.
He identified the feeling, analyzed it, accepted it, and moved on with surprising ease.
Interesting.
That was his first thought.
Not because he considered love trivial—but because he considered his own reaction to you fascinating.
He liked you too much.
Thought about you too often.
Found himself distracted by the sound of your voice.
Objectively speaking, those were symptoms.
And Dottore was very good at recognizing patterns.
One day he simply looked up from his work and said calmly:
“I appear to be in love with you.”
You stared at him.
“…That’s how you confess to people?”
“I was not aware there was a required format.”
The worst part?
He was completely genuine.
After realizing his feelings, Dottore became painfully obvious about them. Not romantically obvious in a normal way, of course. He’s still Dottore.
But suddenly gifts start appearing.
Rare books. Jewelry. Strange little inventions he claims “made him think of you.”
“This reminded you of me?” you ask, holding up something incredibly expensive and vaguely dangerous.
“Yes.”
“…Why?”
“You seemed like you would enjoy it.”
And he says it with such genuine hope that it completely disarms you.
That’s the thing nobody expects from Dottore once he falls in love:
He gets excited.
Not childish exactly, but close enough sometimes that it catches you off guard.
He genuinely likes making you happy.
If you smile at something he gives you, his entire mood noticeably improves for the rest of the day.
“You like it,” he observes one evening after handing you another gift.
“…I do.”
His mouth curves slightly.
“Excellent.”
The satisfaction in his voice is almost unfairly soft.
And when you thank him affectionately—touching his arm, smiling warmly at him, praising something he made—Dottore looks genuinely delighted beneath all that composure.
Like a man who discovered something wonderful and has no intention of ever letting it go.
One night, while watching you ramble excitedly about something completely unrelated, he suddenly says:
“You are disastrously easy to adore.”
You stop mid-sentence.
“…What?”
Dottore just smiles faintly behind his hand.
“I said what I meant.”
Capitano
Capitano realized it quietly.
There was no panic. No dramatic revelation.
Just certainty.
He noticed it through instinct first. The way his attention followed you automatically in crowded spaces. The way he relaxed slightly whenever you entered a room. The way he always positioned himself between you and danger without thinking.
At first, he believed it was habit.
Then one evening, you fell asleep against him during a long journey.
Your head rested on his shoulder, breathing soft and even, completely trusting him to stay there.
Capitano looked down at you for a long moment beneath his helmet.
Then very carefully adjusted his cloak around you so you would not get cold.
That was when he understood.
Not because of the affection.
Because protecting you suddenly felt more important than anything else.
You stirred slightly against him. “Mm… sorry…”
“There is nothing to apologize for,” he said quietly.
His hand rested against your back afterward, steady and warm.
And from that moment on, everyone around him noticed one undeniable truth:
Capitano’s patience for the world became significantly thinner whenever you were involved.
꯱ׁׅ֒ɑׁׅ֮ꪀׁׅժׁׅ݊ꭈׁׅᨵׁׅꪀׁׅꫀׁׅܻ
Sandrone realized it through jealousy.
Which irritated her beyond belief.
At first, she thought you were simply tolerable. Easier to be around than most people. Less annoying. Less incompetent.
Then she started wanting your attention.
And that was the problem.
One afternoon, you spent nearly an hour talking to one of her assistants while she worked nearby.
By the end of it, Sandrone was in a horrible mood.
Tools slammed onto tables harder than necessary. Her responses became clipped and sharp. One poor assistant nearly fled the room in tears.
You finally looked over. “Are you okay?”
“I am perfectly fine.”
“You look mad.”
“I am not.”
A pause.
“…Why are you glaring at him?”
“I dislike his face.”
Which made absolutely no sense because she had employed him herself.
That night, Sandrone sat alone trying to figure out why seeing you smile at someone else had made her chest feel tight with annoyance.
Then it hit her.
And she immediately hated it.
“No,” she muttered aloud.
Unfortunately for her, denial did not fix anything.
If anything, she became worse afterward.
More possessive. More attentive. More obvious.
She’d pretend not to care while quietly building things for you in her workshop for hours.
When you thanked her warmly for one of them, she looked away immediately.
“It’s not a big deal.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“…Well. Obviously.”
But her ears turned pink anyway.
𝕻𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖑𝖔𝖓𝖊
Pantalone realized it embarrassingly fast.
The moment you smiled at him sincerely for the first time, he was practically doomed.
At first, he found you charming.
Then fascinating.
Then suddenly he was rearranging entire schedules just to spend more time with you and buying you gifts because he liked the look on your face when you received them.
One day, someone jokingly asked him why he was so generous toward you.
And before he could stop himself, he answered:
“Because she deserves everything.”
The room went quiet.
Pantalone blinked once.
Then sighed dramatically into his wine glass.
“…Ah,” he murmured. “That explains quite a lot.”
Unlike some of the others, he was not ashamed of being in love. If anything, he leaned into it immediately.
He adored loving you.
Adored spoiling you. Adored hearing your laugh. Adored the feeling of your hand on his arm during conversations.
He became almost insufferably affectionate afterward.
“You’re staring again,” you teased one evening.
“Can you blame me?”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet you continue to indulge me.”
He smiled lazily, reaching over to take your hand and press a kiss against your knuckles like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“You should understand,” he said smoothly, eyes half-lidded with amusement, “that once I decide something has value, I invest heavily.”
You laughed.
Pantalone smiled right along with you—but softer.
Because unlike money, power, or influence…
You were the first thing he had ever wanted simply because you made him happy.
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Ugh, I love them all. ACCEPTING SUGGESTIONS FOR SCENARIOS!! No NSFW rn, just fluff and angst :D
