Women bleed from...Where?? (Pierrot TFC x FemReader
Synopsis - Every month Pierrot smells blood coming from his partner so he gives her bandaid after bandaid but it doesnt fix anything! When she finally explained what a period is...he proves hes the best boyfriend ever by caring for her during her time of the month
Eli note! Hello everyone! Sorry for so much Freak Circus, I love Pierrot hes so baby girl. Anyway! Drawing commissions are open guys! Super cheap. If you like my writing thats one way to support me
Pierrot had noticed it months ago.At first, he thought she was injured.
The scent of blood was unmistakable to a creature like him. Humans struggled to detect it sometimes, but monsters never did. Blood had a scent all its own—sharp, metallic, impossible to mistake.
And every month, for roughly a week, it appeared.
Not enough to indicate a serious wound.Not enough to make her collapse.
Just... there.
Every single month.
The first time, he'd panicked.
The second time, he'd become suspicious.
By the fourth month, he'd developed a solution.
A bandaid.
Every morning during Blood Week, he would quietly appear beside her and hold one out.
No explanation.
Just a bandaid.
"...Thank you?" she'd say.
Pierrot would nod seriously.
Then leave.
It became routine.
Blood smell appears.
Bandaid is presented.
Bandaid is accepted.
Everyone moves on.
At least, everyone except Pierrot.
Because it made absolutely no sense.
A bandaid should have fixed it by now.
Months passed.
The blood kept returning.
The bandaids kept being offered.
The mystery remained unsolved.
Until one morning.
Pierrot froze halfway through making breakfast. His head snapped up.
Blood. Fresh blood.
His eyes widened.
"No."
He dropped everything.
The pan clattered onto the stove.
"P-Pierrot?"
He was across the room instantly.
"What happened?"
She blinked.
"What?"
"The blood."
His hands immediately began checking her arms.
Then her shoulders.
Then her face.
"Where is it?"
"What are you talking about?"
"The bleeding."
His voice was getting higher with panic.
"You are bleeding."
She stared. "Pierrot—"
"I can smell it."
He sounded genuinely distressed.
"You are bleeding."
His hands moved to inspect her again. More carefully this time. Looking for cuts, Scratches, Bites, anything.
"Where is the wound?"
Pierrot looked ready to cry.
His shoulders slumped and his eyes were huge.
"That is how blood works."
She finally put a hand over her mouth.
Trying not to laugh.
He looked so serious.
So worried.
So utterly lost.
"Pfft—"
His expression immediately soured.
"Do not laugh."
That only made it worse.
She laughed harder.
Pierrot crossed his arms.
"I am worried."
"I know."
"You are bleeding."
"I know."
"Then why are you laughing?"
She finally managed to calm herself enough to speak.
"I'm on my period."
The words clearly meant absolutely nothing to him.
"A what?"
"A period."
He continued staring.
"...What is a period?"
Now it was her turn to blink.
"Wait."
Pierrot frowned.
"What?"
"You don't know what a period is?"
His confusion deepened.
"No."
"Oh."
She suddenly understood everything.The bandaids.
The concern.
The monthly investigations.
She finally took pity on him.
"Okay. A period is when women bleed."
Pierrot nodded slowly.
Following along.
"So there is a wound."
"No."
"No?"
"No."
His confusion returned instantly.
"Then where does the blood come from?"
"..."
"Where?"
"...My vagina."
The room somehow became quieter.
His eyes widened.
Then widened further.
Then somehow widened even more.
"Your what?"
"My vagina."
Pierrot looked horrified.
Absolutely horrified.
Women...Bled...From there?
"Oh."His voice was tiny.
"Oh, God."
She immediately started laughing again.
Pierrot wasn't listening anymore.
His entire worldview had just shattered.
"Every month?"
"Yep."
He sat down.
Slowly.
"What kind of cruel design is that?"
She snorted.
"I don't know."
He buried his face in his hands.
Then another thought struck him.
His head immediately shot up.
"Does it hurt?"
She shrugged.
"Not really."
Relief flooded his face.
Then she continued.
"The bleeding doesn't."
His relief vanished.
"The cramps do."
Pierrot's expression darkened.
"The what?"
"Cramps."
"What are cramps?"
She pointed vaguely at her stomach."Feels like my organs are trying to kill me sometimes."
Pierrot stared at her.
Then slowly looked toward the ceiling.
As if searching for whoever designed humanity.
He looked deeply disappointed in them.
"That is stupid."
She laughed.
"A lot of women agree with you."
"It is extremely stupid."
He stood abruptly.
Determination replacing panic.
She immediately recognized that look.
"Pierrot."
"What?"
"Don't."
"I have not done anything."
"You're planning something."
"I am not."
"You are."
"I am merely going to acquire things. "
His expression became deadly serious.
"Blankets."
She sighed.
"Babe—"
"Tea."
"Love-."
"Medicine."
"Pierrot."
"Perhaps soup."
She groaned.
Meanwhile Pierrot was already moving toward the door.
Muttering to himself.
Still horrified.
Still offended on behalf of every woman in existence.
"Every month," he whispered.
Shaking his head.
"That is ridiculous."
-----------
Naturally, there was only one thing to do.
Research....
The computer glowed ominously in the dim living room.
Pierrot sat in front of it with the intensity of a scholar deciphering an ancient prophecy.
Technology was...Confusing.
Very confusing.
His claw hovered uncertainly above the keyboard.
"..."
One tap.
"H."
He squinted.
Another tap.
"O."
"..."
Backspace.
Wrong letter.
Growling quietly under his breath, he continued pecking at the keyboard one painfully slow key at a time.
He leaned back.
"P...period."
Success.
The search results exploded across the screen.
His eyes widened. There were... hundreds. Thousands.
He clicked the first one.
Then another.
His face cycled through every emotion imaginable.
"...Cramps can be severe..."
His brow furrowed.
"...Fatigue..."
He frowned harder.
"...Mood swings..."
His horns drooped.
"...Iron loss..."
He sat up straighter.
Iron.
She loses blood. Blood contains iron. She needs more iron.
She'd been doing this...Alone...Before she met him.
The thought made something ache inside his chest.
He hated it.
He hated imagining her curled up somewhere hurting without someone there to take care of her.
"...No."
He quietly folded the paper.
"Not anymore."
-------
By the time she returned from work, the apartment smelled incredible.
She blinked as soon as she stepped inside.
"...Pierrot?"
He poked his head around the corner.His eyes immediately lit up.
"You're home.
She smiled, then she noticed...
"...Are you wearing an apron?"
Pierrot looked down.
"...Perhaps."
It looked almost comically domestic on someone as monstrous as him.
He'd somehow managed to get flour across one cheek.
She covered her mouth to hide a grin.
"It suits you."
His ears twitched happily.
"I cooked."
"You... cooked?"
"I researched."
"...Should I be worried?"
"No."
He sounded almost offended.
"I followed instructions precisely."
He ushered her toward the dining room with surprising confidence.
The table was covered with food.
She stared.
"...Pierrot."
"I read that iron is important."
"You..."
"I also prepared a bath."
She looked back at him.
He looked so...Proud.
Like a child presenting a drawing to their parent.
She crossed the room and wrapped both arms around him.
Pierrot immediately melted.
His arms carefully circled her waist.
"...Did I do well?"
She buried her face against his chest.
"You did amazing."
He practically purred
-------
The bath had been perfect.
Warm.
Relaxing.
Comfortable.
Though...She couldn't help noticing Pierrot pacing outside the bathroom door every few minutes.
"You okay?"
"...Yes."
"...Are you hovering?"
"No.....I am guarding."
She laughed.
"I don't need guarding while I bathe."
"...You are vulnerable."
"I'm fine."
"..."
"..."
"...May I come in?"
She snorted.
"No."
"...Why?"
She laughed harder.
"Because I want five minutes to myself"
"...Very well."
She could practically hear the pout in his footsteps as he wandered away
....
She emerged from the bathroom...
Only to find Pierrot waiting with a bowl.
"...Open."
She laughed.
"Really?"
"You require nutrients."
"I'm capable of feeding myself."
"I know."
"..."
"...Open."
She rolled her eyes.
"...Fine."
He smiled.
The spoon carefully lifted toward her lips.
"There."
She accepted the bite.
He watched with intense concentration until she swallowed.
"Good."
Another spoonful.
"So..."
His voice was gentle.
"...How was work?"
She smiled.
"It was normal."
He continued feeding her between conversations, occasionally reminding her to drink her tea.
Every tiny thing she'd mentioned during his research...He was following. Exactly. Without missing a step.
By the end of dinner...She'd never felt more cared for in her life....
"Lay down."
She looked over her shoulder.
"Hm?"
"On your stomach."
"...Why?"
"I researched."
She laughed then flopped dramatically onto the bed.
Pierrot climbed on beside her.
His large hands hovered uncertainly above her lower back.
"...If this hurts...Tell me immediately."
"I will."
He pressed gently.
She let out a quiet sigh.
"...Oh."
His ears perked.
"Good?"
"...Really good."
Relief washed over him.
Slowly...Carefully...His thumbs worked across the tense muscles in her back.
He wasn't rushing.
He could actually feel the tension slowly melting beneath his hands.
"There..."
He murmured quietly.
"Relax."
She practically melted into the mattress.
"...You're unfairly good at this."
"I researched."
She laughed into the pillow.
"I can tell."
He smiled to himself.
Research was wonderful. Research made her happy.
He approved of research.
When he'd finished, she rolled onto her back with a sleepy little yawn.
Pierrot immediately climbed into bed beside her.
Without a word...She curled against him.
Like she'd done a thousand times before.
His arms surrounded her instinctively.
One hand settled gently over her lower stomach.
Remembering another article...He rubbed slow, careful circles through the fabric of her shirt.
"...Better?"
"Mhm..."
"So this helps?"
"...Mhm..."
He felt ridiculously accomplished.
His chin rested lightly against the top of her head.
"...I have made a decision."
Her eyes remained closed.
"...Mm?"
"I will do this every month."
She smiled sleepily.
"You don't have to."
"I do."
She laughed quietly.
His hand never stopped those slow circles across her stomach.
After a long moment, he spoke again.
"...Actually..."
"Hm?"
"I could also do these things when you are not bleeding."
She opened one eye.
"Oh?"
"I can cook. I can prepare baths. I can massage your back. I can cuddle you."
"Hmm."
"...Daily."
She finally looked up at him.
"...You just want an excuse to pamper me."
He blinked innocently.
"...Perhaps."
She rolled her eyes.
"I knew it."
He kissed the top of her head with surprising tenderness.
"I simply enjoy caring for you."
His voice had grown so quiet she almost missed it.
"...It makes me happy."
She looked up at him.
He wasn't embarrassed. He wasn't teasing. He meant every word. He loved taking care of her.
Not because he thought she couldn't care for herself
...But because every act of service was another way of saying what he still struggled to put into words.
I love you.
I worry about you.
I want you comfortable.
I want you safe.
I want you smiling.
She reached up and gently cupped his cheek.
"...I love you too."
Pierrot's heart nearly stopped.
He leaned into her touch without thinking.
"...Good."
He whispered it almost shyly.
"...Because I intend to keep spoiling you."
She laughed softly.
"I figured."
His tail curled happily around her legs beneath the blankets as she drifted off to sleep, one hand still rubbing gentle circles over her stomach while the other held her securely against his chest.
He listened to her breathing even out.
Only then did he allow himself to relax.
Next month, he'd be ready.
No more suffering alone.
Not while she had him.
--------
Hello!! He might be a little OOC but I don gaf. YALL. if you wanna get your drawing commissions JUST DM ME. I draw pfps, yumiships, character sheets and so much more! If you enjoyed this fic, think about commissioning me
Synopsis - Being a secretary for the 9th Fatui Harbinger comes with its ups and downs. Pantalone likes you a bit too much, and he shows it. But all hell breaks loose when Dottore also takes an interest in you. You'll have your hands full now
Tags - OOC Dottore and Pantalone/ Jealousy/ D and P hate each other/ Part two/ Sexual tension/ Both smitten but wont admit it/Time to spice thing up a bit/ The reader actually has a voice/
Full series here
The office was quieter than usual.
Not empty—never empty when it belonged to him—but stripped of the usual rhythm of movement and purpose.
Papers were stacked with exact precision across Pantalone’s desk, ink bottles aligned, ledger books closed but not yet shelved.
He was not seated.
Neither was he relaxed.
He stood near the tall windows instead, gloved hand loosely resting behind his back as he spoke.
“And yet you continue to interfere.”
His tone was controlled.
“I have made it abundantly clear that my time with her is not to be disrupted.”
Across the room, Il Dottore gave a quiet, irritated exhale—something between a sigh and a scoff.
“You speak as if she is an appointment.”
“She is my secretary.”
“Mm,” Dottore hummed, tilting his head slightly. “And yet she does not appear bored of me.”
That made the air shift.
Pantalone’s gaze slid sideways.
Dottore continued anyway, almost lazily, as if enjoying the reaction he was provoking.
“She laughs more when I am present,” he added. “That alone suggests a deviation in preference.”
Pantalone’s smile did not change.
But it sharpened at the edges.
“Your definition of ‘preference’ is remarkably self-serving.”
“And yours is remarkably delusional.”
A pause.
Then Pantalone turned fully.
“Do not mistake her politeness for interest.”
Dottore’s visible expression—what could be seen above the mask—shifted slightly.
Amused.
“I do not mistake anything.”
A beat.
Then, quieter:
“She is intelligent.”
Pantalone’s gaze flicked toward him again.
“Yes.”
Another pause.
Dottore added, almost as an afterthought:
“And attractive.”
That earned him a long, very pointed look.
Dottore did not seem bothered.
If anything, he seemed entertained by it.
“She processes information quickly,” he continued. “She questions things instead of accepting them. That alone is rare.”
Pantalone exhaled softly through his nose.
“She also works herself to exhaustion if not monitored.”
“That is not a flaw.”
“It is inefficient.”
Dottore shrugged slightly.
“It makes her interesting.”
That word lingered.
Interesting.
Pantalone did not respond immediately.
Instead, he turned back toward the window.
The conversation, for a brief moment, lost its sharpness.
Because beneath all of it—there was the same uncomfortable conclusion neither of them wanted to fully acknowledge.
She was not easily replaceable.
Not in work.
Not in presence.
Not in attention.
And worse—not in interest.
Dottore spoke again, quieter this time.
“This is not like usual arrangements.”
Pantalone’s expression tightened faintly.
“No.”
A pause.
Neither of them liked that answer.
Dottore tilted his head.
“We are not in control of the outcome.”
That sentence landed heavier than either of them liked to admit.
Because it was true.
And neither of them was accustomed to truth standing outside their influence.
Pantalone’s voice lowered slightly.
“She will decide.”
Dottore gave a faint hum of agreement.
“And neither of us can ensure the result.”
Silence.
For once, neither filled it immediately.
Then Pantalone said, almost calmly:
“That is… inconvenient.”
Dottore’s reply came just as flat.
“Yes.”
A knock interrupted the moment.
The door was already open.
She stood there.
Holding a small stack of folders.
As usual.
Perfectly placed in the rhythm of the office without realizing she had become part of it.
Pantalone moved first.
Immediately.
Any tension from moments ago vanished behind practiced composure.
“Come in,” he said gently.
Then, softer—“You didn’t need to bring those personally.”
“I was already passing by,” she replied, stepping in.
He crossed the room to her in a few unhurried strides and took the folders from her hands with care.
His fingers brushed hers briefly in the process.
“Thank you,” he said. “As always.”
Her shoulders relaxed slightly at that.
Then—she noticed Dottore.Standing off to the side.
Watching.
A faint tilt of his head.
And then—a small, almost playful wave of his fingers.
She stiffened.
Immediately flustered.
Heat rising fast in her face.
Pantalone did not see it.
Dottore’s mouth curved faintly behind the mask.
Pantalone, meanwhile, gestured toward the chair in front of his desk.
“You can sit for a moment.”
“I’m fine—”
“You can sit,” he repeated, still polite, still soft, but leaving no real room for refusal.
She hesitated—then lowered herself into the single plush chair positioned directly in front of his desk.
Dottore leaned lightly against the desk edge nearby.
Pantalone stood just behind it.
Framing her without meaning to.
Or perhaps meaning to very much.
She looked between them, suddenly uncertain.
“…Am I in trouble?”
Dottore answered first.
“No.”
Then, after a beat:
“Not yet.”
She blinked.
Pantalone shot him a look.
Pantalone ignored him and turned his attention back to her fully.
Something shifted in his posture.
Not dominance.
Not control.
Something more careful.
“…We wanted to speak with you,” he began.
A pause.
Then corrected himself slightly:
“About… moving forward.”
Her brow furrowed.
“Moving forward?”
Dottore sighed lightly, as if deciding patience had officially expired.
“He means this is becoming complicated.”
Pantalone exhaled quietly through his nose but did not correct him.
Dottore continued, stepping forward slightly now.
“We like you.”
Simple.
Direct.
“No correction needed,” he added. “An absurd amount.”
“And,” Dottore went on, voice calm but sharp underneath, “it has become inefficient to continue competing in this manner.”
Her stomach tightened slightly at that phrasing.
Competing.
Pantalone spoke now, more carefully.
“There are limits to what can be… shared.”
Dottore gave a small nod.
“We tried.”
A beat.
His voice dropped slightly.
“It nearly resulted in physical violence.”
That made her eyes widen.
“…What?”
Pantalone did not look pleased at the admission, but he did not deny it.
Instead—he spoke quietly.
“So we have reached a conclusion.”
Her grip tightened faintly on the arms of the chair.
“…Conclusion?”
Dottore straightened slightly.
“You will choose.”
Silence.
The words landed cleanly.Unavoidable.Her brows knit together.
“Choose what?”
Dottore blinked once, as if the question itself was unnecessary.
“Between us.”
Pantalone added quickly—slightly too quickly for him:
“There are no obligations or expectations regarding the outcome. We simply—”
She cut him off.
Cleanly.
Immediately.
“Neither.”
She stood there in front of them, arms crossed tightly over her chest, breathing uneven—not from fear, but from frustration so sharp it practically radiated off her.
For the first time since either of them had known her—she looked angry.
Not flustered.
Not embarrassed.
Not quietly overwhelmed.
Actually angry.
Pantalone blinked once.
Slowly.
As if recalculating everything he thought he understood.
Dottore tilted his head slightly, watching her with an unreadable stillness.
“…You didn’t understand the question,” Dottore began carefully.
She cut him off immediately.
“I understood it perfectly.”
She stepped forward half a pace, still holding that tight, frustrated posture.
“You asked me to choose between you.”
Pantalone’s brows lifted slightly.
“Yes.”
“And not once,” she continued, voice sharpening, “did either of you ask what I want.”
Silence.
Dottore opened his mouth.
She immediately pointed at him.
“No.”
He paused.
Pantalone exhaled faintly through his nose, as if already sensing where this was going.
She continued anyway.
“What if I don’t even like you like that?”
Both men went still.
Dottore’s posture shifted first.
“…You do.”
It wasn’t a question.
She shot him a look so sharp he stopped speaking.
“And what if I didn’t?” she pressed. “What if I was just being polite? What if I was just—just doing my job? What if I was—”
She hesitated, then added quickly:
“What if I was a lesbian?”
There was a beat.
Then both men spoke at the same time.
“…What?” Pantalone said.
“…Are you?” Dottore added, suddenly far too alert.
She groaned in frustration.
“No! That’s not the point!”
Dottore relaxed—slightly—but not fully.Pantalone, however, looked faintly unsettled for the first time.
“…I see,”
he murmured.
“No, you don’t,” she snapped immediately. “Because you don’t know anything about me.”
She turned slightly now, pacing one step as her frustration spilled over.
“You’re asking me to pick one of you when you don’t even know basic things about me.”
Her gaze snapped back to them.
“What’s my favorite color?”
Silence.
Dottore blinked.
“…I don’t recall you stating it,” Pantalone said carefully.
She let out a humorless laugh.
“Exactly.”
She pointed between them.
“What am I allergic to?”
Nothing.
“What’s my favorite food?”
Still nothing.
“What movie do I rewatch when I’m tired?”
Silence again.
Her voice rose slightly now, not shouting—but firm enough that neither interrupted.
“What song do I hum when I’m stressed? What do I do when I can’t sleep? What did I want to be when I was younger before all of this?”
Nothing.
Not a single answer.
Her arms tightened across her chest again.
“And you expect me to choose between you?”
Dottore tried again, softer this time.
“That is not—”
“No.”
The word snapped cleanly through the air.
He stopped.
She shook her head.
“No, don’t do that. Don’t explain it away.”
Her breathing steadied slightly, but her eyes were still sharp.
“You don’t know me.”
A pause.
Then quieter, but no less firm:
“And I don’t know you.”
Pantalone’s gaze flickered at that.
She continued, voice steady now, controlled anger replacing the earlier spike.
“You think you can show up with gifts, and charm, and attention, and I’ll just—what? Fall into it?”
She gestured vaguely between them.
“Like some kind of prize you win by being the most persistent?”
Dottore’s fingers tightened slightly at his side.
Pantalone said nothing.
She stepped forward again, just slightly.
“I’m not that.”
A beat.
“I don’t work like that.”
Silence stretched again, but this time it felt different.
Less heavy.
More… exposed.
She exhaled.
Then looked between them one last time.
“If you actually like me,” she said quietly, “then you’ll stop treating this like a competition.”
Her gaze hardened again.
“You’ll get to know me. And I’ll get to know you.”
A pause.
“And if, after that, I still like either of you?”
She shrugged one shoulder.
“Then we can talk.”
Her hands dropped from her arms at her side.
“I need to get back to work.”
No one stopped her.
The door clicked shut behind her a moment later.
Silence returned.
Thicker than before.
Pantalone stood perfectly still for a few seconds.
Then—very slowly—he exhaled.
“…Good lord,” he murmured.
A pause.
“That woman…”
Dottore hadn’t moved.
But something was different.
His posture was still.
His head slightly tilted down.
And then—very faintly—he laughed under his breath.
Not mocking.
Not amused in the usual way.
Something sharper.
Stranger.
“…Fascinating,” he murmured.
Pantalone glanced at him.
“…You are smiling.”
Dottore didn’t deny it.
Instead, he adjusted his gloves slightly, as if trying to regain composure that had already slipped.
“She’s correct,” he said simply.
Pantalone’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Dottore continued, quieter now.
“We approached it incorrectly.”
A pause.
Then, almost reluctantly:
“And she is… considerably more compelling when she is angry.”
Pantalone sighed through his nose, looking toward the closed door she had vanished through.
“…Yes,” he agreed softly.
Then, after a beat—
“She is going to be significantly more difficult than anticipated.”
Dottore’s head tilted again.
A faint, almost dangerous edge returning to his tone.
“Yes.”
A pause.
Then, softer—
“I like it.”
‐--------
I hope yall enjoyed this chapter! I need some ideas on how to go from here.
Hello everyone! I know i haven't been updating recently and I SWEAR I will lock in soon
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You're still smiling at her. Still speaking softly. Still letting her hold your hand.
The dream feels normal. Comfortable. Safe.
Then, little by little, you stop reaching for her.
Your replies become shorter. Your smiles don't quite reach your eyes anymore.
And Columbina notices.
"Are you upset?" she asks softly. You shake your head.
"No."
But the answer feels wrong. Days pass. Weeks. Every time she reaches for you, you seem farther away. Not physically. Emotionally.
Like you're slipping through her fingers one inch at a time.
Then one day, you're packing a bag.
Columbina stares.
"What are you doing?" You don't look at her.
"I can't stay anymore."
Her stomach drops. The sensation is so sharp it almost hurts.
"What do you mean?"
You continue folding clothes. Still refusing to meet her eyes.
"I'm tired." The words are quiet. Gentle.
"I don't want this life anymore."
For the first time in a very long time, Columbina feels panic. Real panic. The Fatui. The missions. The responsibilities. They're chains around her ankles.
And suddenly she's terrified. Because if you leave...She can't follow. She can't abandon everything. She can't run after you.
"Please." The word slips out before she can stop it. You finally look at her. And your expression is kind. That's the worst part. Not anger. Not hatred. Just pity.
"I'm sorry." Then you walk away.
And Columbina can't move. Can't stop you. Can't reach you. The distance grows. And grows. And grows.Until you're gone.
She wakes up instantly.
A sharp breath catches in her throat.
For a moment she doesn't know where she is. Then she feels warmth beside her. She turns. And there you are.
Still asleep. Curled up against her. Exactly where you should be. The relief hits so hard she almost laughs.
Instead, she immediately wraps both arms around you and pulls you closer. Closer. Closer. As though making up for the nightmare.
You stir slightly.
"Mmh...Columbina?" Her face disappears into your hair.
"I had a terrible dream."
Your sleepy hand finds hers immediately.
"Oh."
She squeezes your fingers.
"You left." The words come out so small.
So unlike her. You turn toward her fully now.
"I'd never do that."
"I know."
But she still holds you tighter.Just for the rest of the night. Just until the fear finally fades.
⋆.˚𝒜𝔯𝔩𝔢𝔠𝔠𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔬⋆.˚
The nightmare begins with a letter.
Simple. Plain. Folded neatly on her desk.
Arlecchino recognizes your handwriting immediately.
She opens it.
And feels the world stop.
I can't do this anymore. You're dangerous. The Fatui are dangerous. Everyone around you is dangerous. I love you, but I can't spend the rest of my life wondering if tomorrow is the day something kills me. Please don't come after me.
Arlecchino reads it twice. Then three times. Then a fourth.
Each word feels less real than the last.
No.
No.
This isn't right. You wouldn't—Her thoughts stop immediately.
Because deep down? She understands. She always knew this was possible. She knew exactly what she was. Exactly what kind of life she lived. Exactly what kind of danger surrounded her.
And for the first time, she hates it.
The dream skips forward. Days. Weeks. Months. No trace of you. No leads. No letters. Nothing.
She's searched everywhere.
Every contact. Every city. Every possibility.
Gone. The realization slowly settles into her bones. You didn't disappear. You escaped. From her.
And no amount of power can force someone to stay.
Not if they don't want to.
The thought is unbearable.
Arlecchino wakes with a violent inhale.Her heart is hammering.
For several seconds she simply sits there in silence.
Breathing. Thinking. Trying to shake off the lingering dread.
Then she looks beside her. You are asleep. Peaceful. Safe. Alive. Still here.
The relief is immediate. And deeply unsettling. Slowly, carefully, she reaches out and brushes a strand of hair from your face. She leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead. Then another. And another.
The affection is so uncharacteristically open that you immediately frown, woken up suddenly. "...What happened?"
"A dream."
Your hand reaches for hers.
She takes it instantly.
"I see."
A long pause. Then quietly: "You aren't going anywhere."
It's not a question. You smile softly.
"No." Arlecchino closes her eyes briefly. And for once, she allows herself to believe it.
✧.*𝔓𝔦𝔢𝔯𝔯𝔬 ✧.*
The nightmare lasts years.
That is what makes it so cruel.
Years. Years of watching you die. Slowly. Helplessly.
It starts small.
A cough. Fatigue. A few missed meals.
Nothing alarming.
At first. Then it gets worse. And worse. And worse.
Doctors are summoned. Researchers. Scholars. Healers.
Every resource the Fatui possess. Every favor. Every contact. Every expert.
Nothing works. Nothing.
Pierro pours wealth, influence, knowledge, and power into saving you. Entire fortunes disappear.
It changes nothing. You keep getting weaker. And weaker. And weaker.
The nightmare drags him through every stage. The denial. The bargaining. The desperation. The quiet terror.
Until eventually there is only acceptance left.
You sit beside a window one evening. Far thinner than before. Far too tired. Yet still smiling at him. Always smiling at him.
"You should rest." His voice sounds strange. Older.
You shake your head gently.
"Come sit with me."
He obeys immediately.
You reach for his hand. And he takes yours carefully. Like you're made of glass.
"I'm sorry." The words break something inside him.
"No." His grip tightens. "No."
You smile sadly.
And suddenly he knows.
Knows exactly what comes next. The nightmare has been building toward it for years. He still isn't ready. Never will be.
You lean against his shoulder. Your eyes close. And then—Nothing.
Pierro wakes before dawn. For a moment he can't breathe. The grief is still there. Still fresh. Still real.
His chest aches with it. His hands shake. He hasn't experienced that in a very long time.
Slowly, he turns.
There you are. Sleeping peacefully beside him. Alive. Warm. Breathing.
He simply stares. Minutes pass. Perhaps longer.
Then, very carefully, he reaches for your hand beneath the blankets.
Just to feel it.
Just to know.
You stir slightly. Your fingers curl around his automatically. Even half asleep. The simple trust of the gesture nearly undoes him.
He looks away briefly. Composing himself. When he speaks, his voice is quieter than usual
"...Go back to sleep." You squeeze his hand.
"I'm here." Two simple words. Nothing more.
Yet somehow they chase away years of nightmare grief in an instant.
Pierro presses your hand gently against his chest and closes his eyes. For tonight—That is enough.
꩜ S𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔪𝔬𝔲𝔠𝔥𝔢 ꩜
The nightmare starts like every other day.
Which is why it takes him so long to realize something is wrong.
You're sitting beside him.
He's irritated. Someone annoyed him earlier. Something went wrong. The details don't matter.
So when he makes a snide comment, he doesn't think twice about it.
"Honestly, were you even paying attention?" The words leave his mouth automatically. Sharp. Dismissive. Normal. At least for him.
Usually, you roll your eyes. Usually, you fire something right back. Usually, you understand.
But this time...You just stare at him. Quietly. For a long moment.
"What?" His tone is already growing defensive.
You look away. And somehow that feels worse. "I'm tired."
The words are soft. Not angry.
Not emotional.
Just tired.
Scaramouche immediately feels something twist unpleasantly in his stomach.
"What does that mean?"
"It means I'm tired." You stand. Slowly. Calmly. And suddenly he doesn't like this conversation anymore. Not one bit.
"You know what? Forget it."
You shake your head. "No." His chest tightens. Because there's no yelling. No argument. No fight.
Just quiet disappointment.
"I'm tired of being spoken to like that."
His stomach drops. "What?"
"You always have an excuse." You aren't even looking at him anymore. "I know that's how you are."
Every word feels like a knife. "But maybe I don't want to keep making excuses for it."
For the first time, genuine panic starts creeping in. "That's not what I meant."
You laugh softly. Not happily. Just sadly.
"I know." The answer destroys him.
Because you understand. You always understand. And you're leaving anyway.
You pick up your things. He follows immediately.
"Stop."
You don't.
"Hey." Nothing.
"Stop walking away from me."
Finally, you turn.
And the look on your face is what breaks him. Not anger. Not hatred. Acceptance.
Like you've already made peace with leaving. Like you've already let him go.
"I'm done." Then you walk away .And this time...You don't come back.
Scaramouche wakes up immediately. His eyes snap open. For a second he can't breathe. His heart is hammering so hard it physically hurts.
The dream feels real. Too real. His chest feels hollow. Like someone ripped something out and left nothing behind.
He sits upright. Running a hand through his hair. Trying to shake it off. Trying to convince himself it was nonsense.
But the fear lingers. Because the nightmare wasn't impossible. That was the problem.
He knows he's difficult.
He knows he's sharp. Cruel sometimes. Even when he doesn't mean to be.
And what if one day—No.
His jaw clenches.
He hates how much the thought scares him.
More than any enemy.
More than any battle.
Eventually he glances toward your sleeping form.
And some of the panic finally fades.
Still here. Still safe. Still his.
Scaramouche stares for a long time.
Then quietly mutters: "...I'd be screwed without you."
The words are barely audible.
And he'll deny saying them if anyone ever asks.
𖤓 𝒯𝒶𝓇𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓁𝒾𝒶 𖤓
The battlefield is covered in blood.
Not his.
Yours.
At first he doesn't understand what happened. One moment you're fighting beside him. The next—
A scream. Your scream. Then red. Everywhere.
The nightmare becomes chaos. Enemies. Smoke. Steel. People shouting.
And through all of it, he can't reach you. No matter how fast he runs. No matter how many people he cuts down. No matter how desperately he tries.
He's too late. Every time. Too late. Too slow. Too weak.
He falls to his knees beside you. His hands are covered in blood. Your blood. And suddenly none of his strength matters anymore. Not his training. Not his title. Not his power.
Nothing.
Because you're dying. And he can't stop it.
"Stay awake." His voice cracks.
The sound terrifies him.
"Hey." He grabs your shoulders.
"Look at me."
Please.
Please.
Please.
The words never make it out.
You smile weakly. Trying to comfort him. Even now. "I'll be fine."
The lie shatters him.
"No."
His hands are shaking. "No, you're not."
You reach for him. Your fingers barely touch his face. Then everything goes still.
Tartaglia wakes up with a strangled gasp. His entire body is tense. For several horrible seconds, the grief remains.
Raw. Fresh. Real. He can still see the blood.
Still hear your voice. Still feel your hand slipping away. His breathing becomes uneven. He hates it. Hates how powerless the dream made him feel.
Because in the nightmare, there was nothing to fight. No enemy to kill. No solution. No victory.
Only loss.
Eventually he drags a hand over his face. Trying to steady himself. Trying to push the images away.
His gaze lands on you. Sleeping peacefully. Alive.
The relief is almost painful.
Tartaglia closes his eyes briefly. Then quietly laughs to himself.
A little shaky. A little emotional.
"You're not allowed to do that."
The dream version of you, specifically.
Because if anything ever actually happened—No. He doesn't even finish the thought.
₊⊹ ℑ𝔩 𝔇𝔬𝔱𝔱𝔬𝔯𝔢 ₊⊹
The nightmare begins with a mistake.
A tiny one.
The kind that shouldn't matter.
You're standing in his laboratory.
Looking curious. Looking harmless. Looking like yourself.
Dottore is busy. Focused on another project. Another experiment. Another calculation.
Then he hears glass shatter. He turns. Immediately.
And sees you standing beside a broken containment vessel. For a moment neither of you move. Then his stomach drops.
Because he recognizes what was inside.
Instantly.
Far too instantly. "No."
The word leaves him before he can stop it. You blink. Confused. Then stumble.
His entire body goes cold.
"No." This time louder.
He reaches you in seconds. Already calculating. Already searching for solutions. Already trying to fix it.
There has to be a solution. There is always a solution. That is what Dottore believes. What Dottore knows.
Except this time there isn't one. Every treatment fails. Every antidote fails. Every procedure fails.
And for the first time in his life, all his knowledge means absolutely nothing.
He watches helplessly as the person he loves dies because of something he created. Because of his work. His laboratory. His ambition. His fault.
The realization tears through him.
Dottore wakes violently.
Immediately sitting upright. The dream vanishes. The panic doesn't. For several moments he simply stares into darkness.
Until he finally stands. And starts moving. Fast. Methodically. Almost frantically.
Locking cabinets. Securing chemicals. Moving dangerous prototypes. Sealing storage containers. Double-checking security measures that absolutely did not need double-checking.
Hours pass. He knows the dream wasn't real.
Knows you would never touch something dangerous without permission. Knows his laboratory safety protocols are absurdly excessive already.
Doesn't matter. The nightmare got under his skin.
By sunrise, half the laboratory has been reorganized.
Dottore stands in the middle of it all. Exhausted. Annoyed. Deeply unsettled. His gaze drifts toward the door leading back to your shared rooms.
Still asleep. Still safe. Good. He exhales slowly.
Then mutters under his breath: "...Ridiculous."
A pause. Then quieter: "Not worth the risk."
And despite everything he tells himself, he spends the rest of the day checking on you far more often than usual. Just to make sure the nightmare stays exactly where it belongs.
A nightmare.
Capitano
It begins with victory.
Which is what makes it so cruel. The mission is complete. The enemy is defeated. His soldiers are alive.
The journey home is uneventful. Quiet. He thinks about seeing you again. About hearing your voice. About finally putting aside his duties for a few hours and simply existing beside you.
Then he reaches home. And something feels wrong.
Too quiet.
The front door hangs open. His stomach immediately sinks. The feeling is instant.
Capitano moves through the house quickly. Calling your name.
Once.
Twice.
No answer. The silence grows heavier.
Then he finds you.
And the world stops.
Old enemies. Cowards. The sort of people who couldn't strike him directly. So they chose the next best thing.
You.
The nightmare doesn't spare him details.
The overturned furniture. The broken glass. The evidence of a struggle. Evidence that you fought. Evidence that you were afraid. Evidence that he wasn't there.
His knees hit the floor beside you.
For a moment he simply stares. Unable to process what he's seeing.
No.
No.
No.
This isn't possible. You're supposed to be waiting for him. You're supposed to smile when he comes home. You're supposed to complain that he works too much. You're supposed to be here.
Not—Not this.
His hands shake as he reaches for you.
And that's what truly terrifies him.
Because Capitano doesn't shake. Not in battle. Not in war. Not in the face of death.
Yet here he is.
Helpless. Powerless. Too late. The strongest warrior in Teyvat.
And he couldn't protect the one person who mattered most.
Capitano wakes abruptly.
His breathing is steady. His expression remains composed. To anyone watching, he would appear completely calm. But beneath the blankets, his hands are clenched so tightly his knuckles ache.
The dream lingers.
The image refuses to leave. For several minutes he sits in silence.
Thinking. Remembering. Feeling a grief that never truly existed.
Then his gaze shifts. There you are.
Safe. Sleeping peacefully. The relief is overwhelming.
He does not touch you immediately. Instead, he simply watches.
Making absolutely certain. Only when he's convinced does he finally reach out, resting one hand gently over yours. The contact grounds him. Anchors him.
And for the remainder of the night, he does not sleep again.--
꯱ׁׅ֒ɑׁׅ֮ꪀׁׅժׁׅ݊ꭈׁׅᨵׁׅꪀׁׅꫀׁׅܻ
The nightmare starts with an argument.
Which should have been her first warning.
Because arguments with you are rare.
Not impossible. But rare. Usually, one of you caves. Usually, things cool down. Usually, it never gets this bad.
"You're being ridiculous." Sandrone folds her arms.
You stare at her. Clearly unimpressed.
"Am I?"
"Yes."
Her response comes instantly. Sharp. Dismissive. Exactly the way she always talks when she's irritated.
Normally you'd roll your eyes. Maybe tease her. Maybe call her dramatic. Instead, your expression hardens.
And suddenly Sandrone feels uncomfortable.
A strange sensation. One she doesn't like.
"You know what?" you say quietly.
"What now?" The words come out harsher than intended. She sees it happen. Sees your face fall. Sees the hurt. And still—Still she doubles down.
Because that's what she does. Because she's angry. Because she doesn't know how to stop.
"Honestly, you're acting like a child." The moment the sentence leaves her mouth, she regrets it.
Immediately. But it's too late.
Your expression changes. Something closes off. Something important. And for the first time, Sandrone feels genuine panic.
"Excuse me?"
"That's not what I—"
"No."
Your voice cuts through hers. Sharp. Cold. The coldest she's ever heard from you.
"No, actually. I'm tired of this."
Her stomach drops.
"What?"
"I'm tired of being spoken to like that."
You step back. And suddenly she's terrified. Not angry. Not annoyed. Terrified. Because she knows where this is going.
And she can't stop it.
"Wait."
You shake your head.
"No."
"Stop."
"I love you, Sandrone. But I can't keep doing this."
No.
No.
No.
Not that.
Anything but that.
You pick up your things. Sandrone follows desperately.
"You're overreacting."
Even in the nightmare, she hears how stupid that sounds. How wrong. How much worse she's making it. You laugh bitterly. Then look at her one last time.
"Aren't you tired of hurting people who care about you?"
And suddenly you're gone.
Sandrone wakes up crying.
Actual tears. Hot. Humiliating. Terrifying.
For several moments she doesn't even understand what's happening.
Then the dream crashes back into her. The argument. The look on your face. The disappointment. The emptiness afterward.
Sandrone immediately curls inward. Gripping the blankets tightly. Trying to calm down.
Trying to convince herself it wasn't real.
Because logically she knows it wasn't.
But the fear remains. Because unlike many nightmares...This one felt possible.
That is what scares her.
Not losing you.
Not exactly.
Becoming the reason she loses you.
𝕻𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖑𝖔𝖓𝖊
The nightmare unfolds slowly. Painfully. Like watching a flower die one petal at a time.
At first, nothing is obviously wrong. You still smile. Still speak with him. Still sit beside him.
Yet something feels different. Subtle. Distant. Like a crack forming beneath the surface.
Pantalone notices immediately.
Of course he does.
He notices everything about you.
Every expression. Every glance. Every change. And the change terrifies him.Because he doesn't understand it.
The weeks pass. And the distance grows.
You stop reaching for him first. Stop leaning into him. Stop laughing quite as much.
Conversations become shorter. Colder. Politer. Like he's speaking to a stranger.
One evening, he presents you with a gift. Something beautiful. Something expensive. Something chosen specifically for you.
You thank him.
Then set it aside. Barely looking at it. His stomach drops.
"Do you not like it?"
"It's fine. "
The answer is sincere.
Which somehow hurts even more.
Because once upon a time, your eyes would've lit up. You would've smiled. You would've thrown your arms around him.
Now?
Nothing. Just polite appreciation. The sort you'd offer anyone.
---The nightmare drags on.
Months. Months of watching you fall out of love with him. And being completely unable to stop it.
Or won back through effort alone.And for perhaps the first time in his life
Pantalone is confronted with something money cannot solve.
Eventually, he asks.
"Do you still love me?"
The question sounds pathetic. Weak. He hates it. Yet he asks anyway.
You look at him for a very long time.
Then lower your eyes.
And that silence tells him everything.
His heart breaks before you even speak.
"I don't know."
Pantalone wakes with a gasp. The grief is immediate. Crushing.
For several seconds he genuinely believes it happened. That you've stopped loving him. That somehow he lost the most precious thing in his life without noticing.
His chest aches.
Then reality slowly returns.
The room. The darkness. The quiet. The dream. Just a dream. Pantalone exhales shakily.
Running a hand over his face. Trying to compose himself. Yet the feeling remains.
That terrible helplessness. The realization that some things cannot be bought.
Cannot be controlled.
Cannot be guaranteed.
And somehow, that frightens him more than poverty ever did.
Much more.
--------
Some Eli notes and updates!
Eli is going away to Europe tomorrow! Won't be back for about 13 days so most comments wont be answered right away. Speaking of comments, the only people who can comment right now are people who have followed for over a week. I was getting a lot of hate and spam and it made me not wanna write anymore. BUT. Thats taken care of.
Requests are still open, tho no guarantee they will be done. I also have an Instagram where ill be taking art commissions and im doing genshin stuff! Find me at Jennie_Miller77
TAGLIST!
@dcroo
@minjitorre
Wanna be added? Just ask!
Never another forgotten birthday (Columbina x FemReader)
Symopsis - After Columbinas girlfriend revealed that no one's ever celebrated her birthday, Columbina took it upon herself to fix that.
Tags - Sweet Columbina/ Lesbian Columbina/ Birthdays/ SFW/ No NSFW/ In honor of Elis birthday/Columbina cooks/ Very dedicated Columbina
Eli note! My birthday is on the 29th but I wanted to do something before because im not sure if ill be able to post on my birthday
The apartment was warm with candlelight and the faint smell of garlic and herbs still lingering in the air from dinner.
It wasn't extravagant. Nothing in the small space ever really was.
A soft record crackled quietly from the corner, mixing with the familiar sound of Columbina humming to herself as she drifted through the living room.
Literally drifted.
Her bare feet barely brushed the hardwood floor as she floated from wall to wall, fingertips trailing over framed photographs like she was visiting holy relics. Her dark hair spilled down her back in soft waves, mask absent as usual whenever she stayed over like this. It rested discarded beside her plate at the table, forgotten hours ago.
She paused in front of a particularly embarrassing photo.
“You were very small here,” she mused softly.
Heat rushed into her girlfriend's face immediately. “I was twelve.”
“Mhm.” Columbina smiled dreamily at the picture anyway. “Adorable.”
A groan left her as she pushed another bite of food around her plate.
Columbina noticed instantly.
She always did.
The humming stopped.
A moment later, soft hands slid over her shoulders from behind, delicate fingers intertwining loosely over her chest as Columbina leaned down against her. Her cool cheek brushed the top of her head.
“What troubles you?” she asked quietly.
“Nothing.”
“Hm.”
The sound alone said she didn't believe that for even a second.
She sighed softly, melting back against the taller woman anyway. Columbina smelled faintly like incense and flowers, comforting and familiar enough to make her chest ache a little.
“Don't make it a big deal,” she mumbled.
That got her attention.
Columbina tilted her head slightly, pearl-like eyes lowering to study her face carefully. Without the mask hiding her expression, every emotion became painfully easy to read. Curiosity. Concern. A little confusion.
“…What happened?”
She hesitated.
Then immediately regretted opening her mouth at all.
“It's my birthday tomorrow.”
Silence.
Blink.
Columbina straightened slowly behind her.
“…Your birthday?”
The offense in her voice was immediate.
“Oh no,” she muttered under her breath.
“Your birthday,” Columbina repeated, softer this time, like she was testing the words. “And you neglected to tell me this?”
“It wasn't important—”
“It is the anniversary of your existence.”
“Well when you say it like that it sounds dramatic.”
“It *is* dramatic.”
She couldn't help laughing a little at that, even as embarrassment crawled up her neck.
Columbina pulled away completely.Which was honestly worse.
The goddess floated backward through the air with slow, wounded grace before turning from her entirely with an exaggerated little huff. She crossed one leg over the other midair, arms folding beneath her chest as she faced the opposite wall in open protest.
“You hid this from me,” she said flatly.
“Oh my god.”
“You concealed a sacred occasion.”
“It is not sacred.”
“It is to me.”
Her heart squeezed painfully at how genuine Columbina sounded.
She stood from her chair with another helpless laugh, approaching slowly until she was standing in front of the floating woman. Columbina refused to look at her at first, chin tilted up stubbornly.
It was ridiculous.
And adorable.
“Bina.”
Nothing.
“Columbina.”
One pale eye cracked open slightly.
“There you are.”
“I am upset with you.”
“I can tell.”
“You should have informed me immediately upon courtship.”
“That sounds insane.”
“It is correct.”
She laughed again, softer this time, before reaching to gently touch Columbina's wrist. The other woman finally looked at her fully, pout still firmly in place.
Warmth spread through her chest despite herself.
“I just…” She shrugged awkwardly. “I dunno. Birthdays were never really a thing.”
Columbina's expression shifted slightly.
“My plans always kinda fell apart growing up,” she admitted quietly. “People canceled a lot. Forgot. Something always happened and I ended up spending it alone anyway, so…” Another shrug. “I stopped telling people when it was.”
The room went still.
Completely still.
Even the teasing irritation disappeared from Columbina's face.
For a brief moment, something sharper flickered behind her eyes.
Not anger directed at her.
Something colder.
Something deeply displeased with the world itself.
“You were alone?” Columbina asked softly.
She instantly regretted saying it.
“It's not a pity thing,” she said quickly. “Really! I got used to it after awhile.”
That somehow seemed to make it worse.
Columbina stared at her silently for several long seconds before finally drifting closer again. Slowly. Carefully. Like approaching something fragile.
Then gentle hands cupped her face.
“You will never become accustomed to being unloved,” Columbina murmured. “Not while I breathe.”
Her throat tightened embarrassingly fast.
“…Bina.”
The goddess leaned forward until their foreheads touched lightly.
“So many birthdays,” she whispered. “And no one celebrated you properly.”
The sincerity in her voice nearly killed her.
She immediately grabbed Columbina's wrists with a nervous laugh before things got too emotional.
“Okay, okay— don't spiral about it.” She smiled softly. “Maybe we can just do something small tomorrow?”
Columbina paused.
Just for a second.
A very suspicious second.
Then she smiled.
Gentle. Sweet. Angelic.
“Something small,” she agreed obediently.
The look in her pale eyes said absolutely nothing good.
-------
Columbina absolutely refused to acknowledge the filthy joke at first.
Which only encouraged her girlfriend further.
“Oh?” she teased, leaning against the kitchen counter with a grin. “You wanna spend the night *that* badly?”
Columbina calmly lifted her teacup to her lips.
“You know what happens when you stay over.”
Silence.
A tiny blush crawled over Columbina's cheeks immediately.
“Interesting,” she continued smugly. “No denial.”
“I am choosing not to indulge you.”
“Mhm.”
Pale eyes narrowed over the rim of the cup.Then, very deliberately, Columbina set it down.
“I simply wish to be beside you,” she said with forced dignity, “when your birthday begins.”
The teasing expression melted right off her girlfriend's face.
Just gone.
Replaced with something soft enough to make Columbina immediately feel victorious.
“…Oh.”
“Yes,” Columbina said, much quieter now.A warm hand slipped into hers carefully.
“Then you can stay,” she murmured, squeezing gently. “Obviously.”
Columbina smiled faintly as she intertwined their fingers.
Then—“But,” her girlfriend added, voice turning wicked again, “if we're having a sleepover, I think we should probably get it on first.”
Columbina made the most offended sound imaginable.
“Oh, you impossible creature—”
She dissolved into laughter before she could even finish the sentence, pushing her away weakly while her girlfriend cackled triumphantly.
“You're blushing!”
“You are intolerable.”
“You love me.”
“…Unfortunately.”
That earned her a kiss.
Slow.
Warm.
Smiling.
And several hours later, long after teasing had turned into muffled laughter against skin and tangled limbs beneath the sheets, Columbina found herself unable to sleep at all.
Moonlight spilled silver through the curtains.
The apartment had gone completely quiet save for the soft sound of breathing beside her.
She sat at the edge of the bed wearing one of the oversized robes she'd stolen from the closet earlier, the fabric slipping off one shoulder as she looked back toward the sleeping figure tangled lazily in the blankets.
Bare skin.
Messy hair.
Half-buried beneath twisted sheets after thoroughly exhausting herself earlier.
Beautiful.
Columbina's expression softened instantly.
Carefully, she reached down and brushed a strand of hair away from her girlfriend's face.
Tomorrow is my birthday.
The words echoed again in her head.
So casual.
So resigned.
Like loneliness had become routine.
Her chest ached.
How many times had she waited for people who never arrived?
How many cakes had never been bought?
How many candles never lit?
Columbina's lips pressed into a tiny frown.
Unacceptable.
Absolutely unacceptable.
She looked down at the peacefully sleeping woman for another long moment before leaning forward carefully and pressing a featherlight kiss to her forehead.
“You will celebrate this year,” she whispered softly.
Then she vanished.
The sleeping city was dark and cold beneath the night sky as Columbina drifted silently through empty streets with alarming determination.
She had never baked before.
Not once.
Cooking, yes. Barely. Occasionally. When emotionally motivated enough.
But baking?
No.
Still.
How difficult could it truly be?
The answer, she discovered thirty minutes later while standing in a tiny twenty-four-hour market holding three different bags of flour with growing despair—Very difficult.
“What is baking soda?” she whispered to herself.
An exhausted employee glanced over nervously as the pale woman in white hovered motionlessly in front of the ingredients aisle at two in the morning.
Columbina smiled pleasantly.
The employee immediately walked away faster.
Good choice.
Eventually she acquired:
flour*
sugar
eggs
butter
vanilla extract
Strawberries because they were pretty
three cookbooks
decorative candles shaped like stars
enough frosting supplies to feed a wedding party
Whether she *paid* for all of them remained deeply questionable.
By the time she returned to the apartment, her arms were overflowing with bags and recipe books balanced precariously against her chest.
She slipped quietly back inside, nudging the door shut with her foot.
The apartment remained dark and peaceful.
Still asleep.
Good.
Columbina stood there silently for a moment, clutching the ingredients close while warmth bloomed strangely inside her chest.
Hope.
Excitement.
Nervousness, oddly enough.
Tomorrow would not be lonely.
Not if she could help it.
Even if she burned the kitchen down in the process.
--------
Warm sunlight filtered softly through the curtains when she finally started waking up.
The bed was still warm beneath her, sheets tangled lazily around her legs, body pleasantly sore from the night before.
Half-asleep, she instinctively reached across the mattress.
Cold.
Empty.
A tiny disappointed sound left her throat as her hand searched blindly over the abandoned space beside her.
“Bina…?”
The response was immediate.
“Do not open your eyes!”
She jumped slightly at the sudden sound of hurried footsteps.
“What—”
“Eyes closed,” Columbina insisted from somewhere near the doorway. “Keep them closed.”
A laugh bubbled up in her chest as she rolled onto her back obediently, one arm flopping over her eyes dramatically.
“Yes ma'am.”
“I am serious.”
“You sound panicked.”
“I am *focused.*”
She grinned sleepily.
From the sound of it, Columbina was darting around the apartment at alarming speed. Cabinets opening. Something clinking. Mutters beneath her breath.
Then—
“Did you open them?”
“No.”
A pause.
“…Truthfully?”
“Yes, truthfully.”
A pleased little hum answered her.
Cute.
She heard Columbina rush away again before quickly returning a few seconds later. The mattress dipped beside her as the Harbinger sat down carefully.
“Alright,” Columbina said softly, trying—and failing—to hide the excitement in her voice. “You may look now.”
She pushed herself upright slowly, immediately dragging the sheets against her chest to cover herself before blinking the sleep from her eyes.
And then—“Oh my god.”
Columbina sat beside her looking absurdly proud of herself.
In her hands was a plate of waffles so aggressively decorated they barely looked edible anymore. Strawberries were piled on top alongside whipped cream, powdered sugar, syrup, little chocolate shavings—There were even tiny mint leaves.
Why were there mint leaves.
“Happy birthday,” Columbina announced brightly.
She stared for another second before looking up at her girlfriend in disbelief.
“…Where did you learn to cook?”
Columbina immediately looked away.
Interesting.
“…Bina.”
Silence.
“…Did you rob a grocery store?”
“No.”
“You hesitated.”
“I was reflecting.”
“On crime?”
“On love.”
She burst into laughter.
Columbina took advantage of the distraction immediately, cutting off a piece of waffle before pushing it directly into her mouth to stop further interrogation.
“Mmph—”
“Eat first,” Columbina declared firmly.
Still chewing, she squinted suspiciously at the other woman.
The waffles were actually good.
Shockingly good.
Maybe slightly too sweet, but honestly? Better than anything she'd expected from someone who apparently learned baking through sheer obsession overnight.
“You made these?” she asked around another bite.
“Yes.”
“…You absolutely burned something in my kitchen.”
A beat.
“…Only once.”
“Bina!”
“It was a small fire.”
“Oh my god.”
Columbina laughed softly, the sound airy and bright before she reached over to brush powdered sugar from the corner of her girlfriend's mouth with her thumb.
What its like dating the Second Harbinger (Through his eyes)
Part one
Synopsis - Love? Such an odd concept. Caring for oneself? Such a waste of time...curiously enough...This woman has completely changed my view on such things
Tags - OOC Dottore/ First person Dottores pov/ Dottore doesn't take care of himself/ Hes smitten yall/ He loves this woman/ Lowkey a simp/Suggestive/ Talk of sex/ No graphic sex/ I love him with all my heart.
Eli note! Ah my birthday is May 29th! I've made way too many posts about that on my Hazbin blog, but I'm excited! Might post a little genshin thing for my birthday. Not sure with who though...I think I've been giving Dottore lots of attention (he deserves it tho)
Loving another person is an extraordinarily inconvenient phenomenon.
Objectively speaking.
Attachment compromises judgment. It alters priorities, weakens objectivity, introduces irrationality into otherwise efficient thought processes. History itself repeatedly demonstrates the catastrophic consequences of emotional interference.
Which is precisely why I had never intended to experience it myself.
Unfortunately, intention has proven largely irrelevant where she is concerned.
What I find considerably more baffling than loving her, however, is the realization that she appears to love me in return.
Not the Harbinger.
Not the reputation.
Me.
An utterly absurd development.
Prior to her involvement in my life, self-preservation occupied a rather insignificant position among my concerns.
Food was forgettable.
Sleep was inefficient.
Physical safety remained largely negotiable.If an experiment endangered me, so be it. If a mission carried lethal risk, irrelevant. Segments existed for a reason. Replacement had already been solved as a concept long ago.
I saw little value in preserving a body that merely housed a mind.
Then she arrived and began treating my continued existence as though it mattered.
Deeply.
Annoyingly deeply.
The first major disruption manifested in my eating habits.
Or rather—the lack thereof.
Apparently, consuming nothing except tea and the occasional nutrient supplement for multiple days is considered “unacceptable.”
I learned this after she discovered I had skipped breakfast and dinner consecutively.
“You didn’t eat again.”
“I was occupied.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It is a perfectly sufficient answer.”
“It’s a stupid answer.”
I recall blinking at her briefly after that statement.
Not because of the insult itself. Others have called me considerably worse things.
No—the surprising part was the genuine frustration in her voice.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Concern.
For me.
“You cannot continue functioning this way,” she had continued, hands planted firmly on her hips. “You’re a person, Zandik, not a machine.”
Debatable.
Regardless, from that point onward, she apparently appointed herself guardian of my physical well-being.
Every morning, breakfast appeared.
Every afternoon, lunch was forcibly inserted into my schedule.
Every evening, she personally verified whether I had eaten dinner.
Disturbingly thorough behavior.
At first, I attempted avoidance.I failed quickly.
She began appearing at the laboratory unexpectedly.
One moment I would be working peacefully, the next—
“Open the door.”
“No.”
“I know you’re in there.”
“I am busy.”
“And I brought your lunch.”
Silence.
Then, inevitably, the sound of the door unlocking.
Humiliating.
Even worse, the entire laboratory became aware of this dynamic.
The segments, traitorous by nature, immediately began assisting her.
“She asked whether you ate.”
“You should answer honestly.”
“You skipped breakfast again.”
“Disappointing performance.”
I considered dismantling several of them for insubordination.
I did not.
Mostly because she would become upset.
An increasingly influential factor in my decision-making process.
The truly irritating part is that her efforts have been objectively successful.
I possess more energy.
My concentration has improved.
Several chronic headaches disappeared entirely.
Embarrassingly enough, I suspect I may have gained weight.
When I mentioned this observation aloud, she looked up from her book and smiled instead of reacting with appropriate concern.
“That’s good.”
“It is unnecessary.”
“You were basically a corpse six months ago.”
“A dramatic exaggeration.”
“You fell asleep sitting upright in a chair.”
“In fairness, the chair was comfortable.”
“It was a wooden stool.”
A pause.
“…A moderately comfortable stool.”
She laughed for nearly two full minutes.
An excessive reaction.
The sleep issue proved considerably more difficult to resolve.
For most of my life, sleep served little purpose beyond temporary maintenance.
Two or three hours was sufficient.
Anything more felt wasteful.
She disagreed immediately.
Violently.
At approximately ten each evening, she begins searching for me.
The location is irrelevant.
Laboratory.
Office.
Workshop.
She always finds me.
And despite my repeated objections, the outcome remains identical every time.
“I am in the middle of something important.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“Because I was.”
“And you still are today somehow?”
“Yes.”
“Bed.”
“I refuse.”
Then she kisses me.
An underhanded tactic.
Entirely unfair.
Worse, it works with humiliating consistency.
The moment her hands slide up beneath my mask and her mouth brushes mine, coherent resistance becomes significantly more difficult to maintain.
Manipulative creature.
Afterward, she removes my mask herself.
Carefully.
Then the coat.
The gloves.
By the time she finishes dismantling my work attire piece by piece, I find myself substantially less interested in returning to the laboratory.
Another deeply concerning development.
Once she gets me into bed, escape becomes nearly impossible.
Not because she physically restrains me.
Because she curls herself around me with such casual affection that leaving feels…Unpleasant.
I remain uncertain when exactly I became accustomed to sleeping beside another person.
Or when I began sleeping through entire nights instead of brief unconscious intervals.
Yet now, whenever I wake during the early hours and find her pressed against my chest, still breathing softly against my throat, I discover I no longer possess any desire to leave.
Objectively speaking, the effects have been beneficial.
My cognitive processing has improved noticeably with proper rest.
Memory retention has sharpened.
Problem-solving efficiency increased by nearly eighteen percent.
When I informed her of this discovery, she looked unbearably smug.
“Wow,” she said. “It’s almost like humans need sleep.”
I disliked her tone immensely.
Primarily because she was correct.
Again.
An unfortunate pattern.
Still…When she sleepily reaches for me each night without waking fully—fingers curling instinctively into my shirt as though ensuring I remain there—I experience something deeply irrational in my chest.
Something warm.
Dangerous.
Human.
And despite every logical instinct warning otherwise, I find myself allowing it to stay.
----
Obsession is a fascinating thing.
I spent years studying it in others.
The scholars obsessed with forbidden knowledge.
The researchers obsessed with recognition.
The gods obsessed with control.
I understood the phenomenon academically long before I experienced it personally.
I simply failed to anticipate how pleasant it would feel.
Because yes—I am obsessed with her.
The admission should disturb me more than it does.
Instead I find myself almost amused by the severity of it.
She occupies my thoughts with alarming consistency. During meetings. During experiments. During surgery. I will pause midway through calculations only to realize my mind has wandered toward entirely irrelevant things.
The sound of her laugh.
The softness of her hands.
The way she squints slightly while reading.
The little pleased hum she makes when tasting something sweet.
Utterly useless information.
I remember all of it anyway.
At night, when sleep finally claims me beside her, I dream of her often enough that the distinction between memory and fantasy occasionally blurs by morning. My subconscious appears just as compromised as the rest of me.
Pathetic.
And yet—I have never felt more alive.
That is perhaps the cruelest part.
Before her, existence was… flat. Efficient. Purposeful, certainly, but lacking texture. There was ambition, curiosity, progress. But joy? Anticipation? Warmth?
No.
Then she arrived and suddenly every day became structured around one simple desire:
Return to her.
I finish missions faster.
End meetings earlier.
Abandon experiments midway through observation because she mentioned wanting dinner together hours beforehand.
I once left a negotiation involving diplomatic catastrophe because one of the segments informed me she had fallen asleep waiting for me on the couch.
The diplomat was deeply offended.
I did not care.
Because she had fallen asleep waiting for me.
Even now, the thought settles strangely beneath my ribs.
There are moments when I watch her moving through our home—half-dressed and sleepy in the mornings, humming quietly to herself while preparing tea—and I experience something dangerously close to awe.
How did something so gentle choose me?
More importantly—How long until she realizes her mistake?
There it is.
The rot beneath everything else.
Fear.
A thoroughly unpleasant emotion.
I did not recognize it initially because it manifests differently than expected. Not sudden panic. Not immediate terror.
No.
It lingers.
Quiet.
Persistent.
What if she gets hurt?
The thought alone is enough to make my stomach twist unpleasantly.
What if someone targets her because of me?Because they will.
Eventually.
I am not naive enough to believe otherwise.
I have enemies. Many of them. Intelligent enemies. Vindictive enemies.
People willing to carve out my organs slowly if given sufficient opportunity.
And she—She is soft in all the ways I never allowed myself to be.
The idea of someone touching that softness with cruel intent makes something vicious rise inside me instantly.
Then comes the worse thought.
The unbearable one.
What if she dies?
I cannot linger on that possibility for long.
The few times I have attempted to imagine it fully, I found myself physically ill afterward. Genuine nausea. Tremors in my hands. An inability to focus for hours.
Curious.
The human body reacts quite violently to grief even before grief technically occurs.
And then, of course, comes the final fear.
The one I never voice aloud.
What if she leaves?
What if one morning she finally sees me clearly?
Not the softened version she kisses half-asleep. Not the man who cooks beside her or lets her drag him to bed or folds himself around her at night like something starved for affection.
But the real thing beneath it all.
The monster.
The scientist.
The Harbinger.
What if she eventually decides love cannot survive that reality?
The possibility infects my thoughts more often than I care to admit.
Particularly after arguments.
We do not fight frequently, but when we do, I find myself unraveling internally with humiliating speed.
She becomes quiet.
Distant.
And suddenly my mind begins generating catastrophic conclusions immediately.
She is reconsidering.
She regrets this.
She will leave.
Absurd behavior.
Especially because I always apologize afterward.
Not because I enjoy admitting fault.
Because I cannot tolerate the sight of genuine hurt in her expression.
The first time I apologized sincerely, she stared at me as though I had grown another head.
“You’re apologizing?”
“Yes.”
“…Voluntarily?”
“You are becoming irritating.”
She laughed then kissed me immediately afterward, and the relief I experienced in that moment was so overwhelming it nearly angered me.
Now I have become embarrassingly attentive to maintaining her happiness.
I kiss her constantly.
Touch her constantly.
Praise her constantly.
I learn every sound she makes, every reaction, every tiny thing that pleases her.
I devote myself to her pleasure with the same intensity I once reserved solely for research because watching her come apart beneath my hands is one of the few experiences powerful enough to quiet my mind entirely.
When she clings to me afterward, trembling and breathless and trusting, I feel complete in ways I cannot rationally explain.
Surely that is enough.
Surely she would not leave a man who worships her this thoroughly.
No.
She loves me.
I know she does.
Still…On particularly bad nights, when paranoia crawls beneath my skin and refuses to leave, darker thoughts emerge.
Dangerous thoughts.
If she ever attempted to leave, I do not know if I could permit it.
An alarming realization.
I imagine her walking away and immediately feel something primal and ugly tighten around my lungs.
No.
Unacceptable.
She belongs with me.
With me.
The thought should horrify me more than it does.
Instead I find myself rationalizing it with frightening ease.
I keep her safe.
I care for her.
I would give her anything she desires.
I would destroy entire nations for her without hesitation.
Surely remaining with me is the preferable outcome.
And if she cried? If she pleaded? If she hated me briefly for it?
The discomfort would pass eventually.
I could be patient.
The realization settles over me slowly.
Calmly
.Like poison entering blood.
Ah.
So this is what love does to men like me.
-----
Um so...Yandere Dottore anyone..? Just me? Okay...ANYWAY- I hope everyone enjoyed, definitely giving Zandik way too much attention lately...but I can't help it. The archon quest left me devastated. Yk, I actually used to hate Dottore, like I told myself id never like him...um...here's the 5th fic about him...I think I might like him gng
Synopsis - Being a secretary for the 9th Fatui Harbinger comes with its ups and downs. Pantalone likes you a bit too much, and he shows it. But all hell breaks loose when Dottore also takes an interest in you. You'll have your hands full now
Tags - OOC Dottore and Pantalone/ Jealousy/ D and P hate each other/ Part two/ Sexual tension/ Both smitten but wont admit it/ The reader actually has a voice/Pantalones chapter
Part one - Part two
The office had long since emptied.
Most of the lamps had been extinguished hours ago, leaving only scattered pools of warm golden light across the quiet hallways of the Northland Bank.
The distant ticking of a clock echoed softly through the stillness, accompanied only by the occasional scratch of pen on paper and the rhythmic clacking of keys from her typewriter.
Clack.
Clack-clack.
Pause.
She frowned down at the figures in front of her, rubbing lightly at one temple.
“…That total is wrong,” she muttered under her breath.
Except her focus kept slipping.
Again.
And again.
Because every few minutes, her thoughts wandered right back to yesterday.
To heated fabric wrapped around her shoulders.
To gloved hands against her face.
To the impossible closeness of Il Dottore standing over her in that strange glowing laboratory, speaking like she was some once-in-a-lifetime discovery.
Her face warmed instantly.
Again.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she whispered to herself, pressing both hands briefly against her cheeks.
She shook her head hard, trying to physically fling the thoughts out.
Work.
Focus on work.
Not on Dottore staring at her like she hung the stars in the sky while explaining illegal science.
Clack.
Clack.
She reached for another document—Only for the paper to vanish from beneath her fingers.
She blinked.
Looked up immediately.
“…Sir.”
Pantalone stood beside her desk, elegant as ever even at this hour, gloves immaculate, posture relaxed, dark eyes calmly scanning the stack of paperwork he had just removed from her hands.
She straightened instinctively.
“I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I noticed.”
His tone was smooth.
She smiled faintly anyway, immediately assuming he was finally leaving for the evening.
“Goodnight, then,” she said softly. “I was just finishing these up.”
He looked down at the papers again.
Then back at her.
And smiled.
Small.
Polite.
“…I didn’t assign you these.”
Her stomach sank slightly.
“…No.”
“Mm.”
He flipped through the stack once.
Another quiet pause.
Then:
“Whose work is this?"
There it was.
That perfectly controlled voice that somehow still carried irritation beneath it like silk over steel.
She tried to sound casual.
“Just a few reports from the others.”
“The others,” he repeated.
“They were behind.”
“And so naturally,” he said smoothly, “they allowed *you* to compensate for their incompetence.”
“It’s not that bad—”
“It is if you’re still here doing it after hours.”
His gaze lifted fully to her now.
Not angry.
Never outwardly angry.
But attentive in that sharp, unsettling way he got when something displeased him.
And apparently, her being overworked displeased him greatly.
She shifted slightly in her chair.
“I didn’t mind helping.”
“That,” he said quietly, “is part of the problem.”
Her chest tightened a little at that.
Because he wasn’t scolding her.
He sounded… concerned.
And somehow that was worse.
He set the papers neatly back down onto the desk.
Farther away from her.
Deliberately out of reach.
Then he extended one gloved hand toward her.
Elegant.
Steady.
“I believe,” he said, “you’ve worked enough for one evening.”
Her eyes flicked from his hand back up to his face.
“…Sir?”
“I’d like to help you relax.”
The words themselves were simple.
But from him—carefully chosen, calmly spoken, impossibly sincere—they settled somewhere deep in her stomach and stayed there.
Heat climbed immediately into her face.
Pantalone noticed
Something faintly pleased softened his expression.
“Come,” he said gently.
She hesitated for all of two seconds before placing her hand in his.
Warm gloves closed around her fingers instantly.
And before she could fully recover from that alone—he lifted her hand slightly and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss against her knuckles.
Her breath caught
Dottore overwhelmed.
Pantalone dismantled.
“You spoil me,” she murmured weakly.
A faint chuckle escaped him.
“That is very much the intention.”
Her pulse stumbled.
He released her hand only long enough to help her out of the chair, guiding her with a light touch at her back that lingered just enough to make her acutely aware of it.
Then he reached for her coat.
Not handing it to her, helping her into it.
Carefully lifting it around her shoulders, adjusting the fabric so it sat properly, smoothing it lightly near the collar afterward.
The entire thing felt absurdly intimate for something so mundane.
Especially because he acted like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“There,” he murmured.
She looked up at him, still flustered.
“…Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, dear.”
Dear.
Her poor heart.
He offered his arm next.
Looping her arm through his as he guided her toward the entrance of the bank.
The halls were quiet around them now, the staff mostly gone, their footsteps echoing softly across polished floors.
Outside, snow drifted lazily through the night air.
Pantalone paused only briefly to open the door for her before stepping out beside her into the winter evening.
Dottore made her feel exhilarated.
But Pantalone—Pantalone made her feel treasured.
--------
The tea house was unlike anywhere else in Snezhnaya.
That was the first thing she noticed.
The second was how quiet it felt.
Not empty—there were people scattered throughout the building, low conversations murmuring softly beneath the delicate sound of string instruments somewhere deeper inside—but quiet in a way that soothed instead of silenced.
Warm lantern light glowed amber against dark polished wood. Thin trails of steam curled lazily through the air carrying scents she couldn’t quite place—floral, earthy, sweet in subtle ways she wasn’t used to. The windows were painted with elegant Liyue-style designs, gold and crimson catching against the snowy night outside.
It felt… gentle.
Which somehow surprised her.
Because she had expected something grand from Pantalone.
Luxurious.
Extravagant.
Instead, this place felt deeply intentional.
Calm.
Carefully chosen.
And watching him now as he guided her further inside with one hand lightly at her back, she realized that probably *was* the luxury.
Peace.
The hostess nearly startled herself into a bow the moment she recognized him.
“L-Lord Pantalone—welcome back.”
His expression remained pleasantly neutral.
“You’re too kind.”
But she noticed the way the poor woman’s hands trembled slightly anyway while leading them through the restaurant.
Apparently being one of the Fatui Harbingers had that effect on people.
She tried not to smile.
Their table sat tucked into a quieter corner near the back, partially hidden by carved wooden screens and hanging silk decorations. Isolated enough to feel private without seeming closed off.
Of course he’d picked this spot.
Pantalone pulled out her chair before she could even reach for it herself.
“Thank you,” she murmured, sitting carefully.
“You’re welcome.”
His voice always sounded smoother in quieter places.
More dangerous somehow.
He took the seat across from her, posture elegant and relaxed as though he belonged there more than anyone else in the room.
Maybe he did.
A waiter approached almost immediately.
And the second he realized exactly who was seated at the table—the poor man nearly forgot how to breathe.
“L-Lord Pantalone,” he greeted carefully, bowing his head. “It’s an honor to see you again.”
Pantalone offered him the smallest nod.
“The usual.”
“Of course.”
Then his attention shifted toward her.
And she felt immediately responsible for the waiter’s rapidly worsening nerves.
Pantalone noticed too.
His lips curved faintly.
“She’ll need something lighter,” he said calmly. “Not overly bitter.”
She blinked.
The waiter nodded frantically like his life depended on it.
"Yes, my lord.”
She looked between them. “…I haven’t even ordered anything yet.”
Pantalone finally looked back at her fully.
And smiled.
Not the public smile.
This one was smaller.
Softer.
“I’m aware.”
Her face warmed instantly.
“I don’t really know what I like,” she admitted quietly. “I don’t drink tea much.”
“No?”
She shook her head slightly. “Mostly coffee.”
His expression shifted into something that looked dangerously close to disapproval.
“That explains several things.”
She laughed softly.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” he said smoothly, “you routinely exhaust yourself and compensate with stimulants instead of rest.”
“…That sounded judgmental.”
“It was.”
She tried not to smile again.
Failed.
Pantalone turned back toward the waiter.
“Bring her the jasmine pearl.”
The waiter bowed immediately. “Right away.”
Then practically vanished.
She stared after him briefly before looking back at Pantalone.
“You already knew what I’d like?”
“I had suspicions.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
“I’m rarely wrong.”
The confidence in his voice should not have been attractive.
The music drifted softly around them while silence settled between them—not awkward, not strained.
Comfortable.
She found herself looking around again, taking in the warm lantern glow and painted screens with quiet fascination.
“It’s beautiful here,” she murmured.Pantalone didn’t answer immediately.
Because he wasn’t looking at the room anymore.
He was looking at her.
Specifically at the expression on her face.
The quiet wonder in it.
And she only realized after a moment because the silence stretched just a little too long.
When she looked back at him—he was smiling again.
Softly.
Like seeing her enjoy herself had rewarded him somehow.
“What?” she asked, suddenly self-conscious.
“You relax differently outside the office.”
Her brows lifted slightly.
“That’s an odd thing to notice.”
“I notice many things about you.”
Her stomach flipped.
His gaze lingered another second before his hand lifted slowly across the table.
She barely had time to process it before gloved fingers brushed lightly against her cheek.
Just once.
Gentle.
The touch startled her enough that she froze outright.
And then immediately—heat flooded her face.
Pantalone’s expression softened even further at the reaction.
“There it is,” he murmured quietly.
Her pulse stumbled.
“There what is?”
“That look.”
His thumb brushed once more near the edge of her cheek before he withdrew his hand with maddening composure.
“The one you make when you’re flustered.”
Her breath caught slightly.
“You make it often around me.”
“I wonder why,” she muttered weakly.
That earned a soft chuckle from him.
The tea arrived a moment later, saving her from further embarrassment.
Steam curled elegantly from delicate porcelain cups as the waiter set everything down with visibly trembling hands before escaping once more.
Pantalone lifted his own cup first.
Graceful.
Unhurried.
She copied him carefully, still eyeing the unfamiliar tea with suspicion.
“Trust me,” he said simply.
Dangerous words coming from him.
Still—she took a sip.
And blinked.
Oh.
It was light.
Warm.
Softly floral without being overwhelming.
Comforting.
Her eyes widened slightly before she could stop herself.
Across the table, Pantalone looked unbearably satisfied.
“You like it,” he observed.
She glanced at him over the rim of the cup, cheeks still warm.
“…You’re annoyingly good at this.”
“At what?”
“Knowing things about me before I do.”
He leaned back slightly in his chair, gaze never leaving her.
“That,” he said softly, “is because I pay attention.”
Steam curled softly from her teacup as she held it carefully between both hands, letting the warmth seep into her fingers.
The tea really was good.
Annoyingly good.
Light enough not to overwhelm her, but warm and calming in a way coffee never managed to be. Coffee kept her awake. This felt like it was actively convincing her body to unclench for the first time in weeks.
Across the table, Pantalone watched her with that same composed attention he always seemed to reserve exclusively for her.
Not staring.
Never crude enough to stare.
She took another sip, trying very hard not to think about the fact this entire evening felt suspiciously intimate.
Then Pantalone spoke.
“You left rather abruptly yesterday.”
Her entire body jolted.
She nearly inhaled tea.
Coughing lightly, she lowered the cup with wide eyes while Pantalone sat there perfectly composed, one hand resting near his own untouched tea.
Smiling politely.
Oh no.
“Oh dear,” he murmured smoothly. “Was the question that alarming?”
She stared at him.
“…You noticed?”
“My dear,” he said softly, “I notice when you leave the building for lunch three minutes later than usual.”
Right.
Of course he did.
She looked down at her cup quickly, suddenly very interested in the steam rising from it.
“I, um…”
Pantalone waited.
She swallowed.
Then mumbled into the rim of her teacup:
“Dottore took me somewhere.”
Silence.
She looked up carefully.
Pantalone was still smiling.
Exactly the same as before.
“Oh?” he said lightly.
She rushed onward immediately.
“He just kind of… appeared while I was working and said he was bored and then suddenly I was outside and—and then he took me to this lab—”
Pantalone’s brow lifted slightly.
“A lab.”
“Yes.”
“With the Doctor.”
“…Yes.”
His smile sharpened by the tiniest degree.
How elegant of him.
Managing to look annoyed without changing expression at all.
She rambled harder under the pressure.
“It was strange! There were tanks and glowing things and I think something alive in a jar? I didn’t ask. He kept showing me inventions and weird experiments and—and he teleported us somehow?!”
At that—Pantalone actually closed his eyes briefly.
Like he had just developed a headache.
“How charming,” he said dryly.
She laughed nervously.
“He’s very… strange.”
“That is an extraordinarily generous description.”
“But…” she hesitated, cheeks warming faintly, “…he’s kind of charming too.”
Pantalone looked at her.
Long enough that she immediately regretted saying it aloud.
Not because he looked angry.
Never that.
Just…calculating.
Then he sighed softly through his nose and leaned back slightly in his chair.
“The Doctor possesses many qualities,” he said carefully.
“Charm is unfortunately one of them.”
She smiled weakly into her tea.
“He’s pushy.”
“That,” Pantalone said smoothly, “is the understatement of the century.”
She laughed despite herself.
And his expression softened immediately at the sound.
There it was again.
That thing he did.
The way he visibly relaxed whenever she smiled.
Like it rewarded him somehow.
Her gaze drifted down again after a moment.
Quiet.
Thoughtful.
“…I still don’t understand it.”
Pantalone’s fingers paused lightly against his cup.
“Understand what?”
She shrugged one shoulder faintly, avoiding his eyes now.
“Why he likes me.”
A pause.
Then quieter:
“Why you do either.”
Pantalone blinked once.
Then—unexpectedly—laughed.
Not politely.
Not softly.
Actually laughed.
Warm and genuine enough that she stared at him in shock.
It wasn’t cruel.
If anything it sounded startled.
Disbelieving.
“My apologies,” he said after a moment, still smiling. “I’m not laughing at you.”
She crossed her arms immediately anyway, cheeks pink.
“That sounds exactly like laughing at me.”
“No,” he said, still far too amused, “I’m laughing because apparently you have absolutely no understanding of your own appeal.”
She looked away immediately.
Which only seemed to prove his point.
Pantalone sighed softly, though there was fondness in it now.
“My dear…”
His voice lowered slightly.
“You are intelligent.”
Her face warmed.
“You speak honestly even when it would be easier not to.”
Warmer.
“You work harder than everyone around you while asking for almost nothing in return.”
She shifted slightly in her seat.
“And despite your competence,” he continued smoothly, “you remain remarkably kind.”
Her fingers tightened around the teacup.
Pantalone watched her quietly for a moment before his expression softened further.
Dangerously further.
“And then, of course,” he said, “there is the issue of you being breathtakingly beautiful.”
Her entire face burned.
Immediately.
She made a small noise of embarrassment and hid part of her face behind one hand.
“Oh, don’t do that,” he murmured, sounding genuinely disappointed.
“You say things like that so casually—”
“Because they’re true.”
“That doesn’t help!”
A quiet chuckle escaped him.
God.
He was so composed about it.
Like saying devastating things to her was effortless.
“You underestimate yourself severely,” he said gently. “Frankly, it’s astonishing.”
She peeked at him through her fingers, still mortified.
And Pantalone—Pantalone looked entirely sincere.
No games.
No teasing.
Just certainty.
It made her chest feel strange.
Then, after a pause, he added smoothly:
“As for the Doctor’s interest…”
There it was.
That faint edge again.
Subtle.
Controlled.
“He tends to become obsessive regarding things he finds stimulating.”
Things.
Not people.
Interesting.
Pantalone lifted his teacup calmly.
“I would prefer his attention remain elsewhere, naturally, But.”
His gaze met hers over the rim of the cup.
Certain.
And suddenly very, very confident.
“I’m not particularly concerned.”
Her brows lifted slightly.
“…You aren’t?”
“No.”
The answer came instantly.
Smooth as silk.
And somehow far more possessive because of how calm he sounded saying it.
He set the teacup down carefully.
Then smiled at her again.
Slowly.
“My dear,” he said softly, “I have very little doubt regarding which of us you would ultimately choose.”
------
Eli note! I really thought I preferred Dottore but after writing this, I have no idea lol. I love them both! I don't know what to do after this so id love to hear everyone's ideas! >3<
not a request, but your Arlecchino fics are SOOOOO sweet to read. I adore how you write, truly. If you don’t mind, since I imagine I’ll be interacting a lot more when I start reading through some of you other works, can I identify myself as the 🐎 emoji if that’s something you do?
Awe thank you for the sweet words!! I rlly do appreciate it 💚
And yeah! Thats perfectly fine with me, you may identify yourself however you see fit!
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
Hii! So I was wondering if you could write a fic of Arlecchino, where she gets protective/jealous over y/n, because y/n was talking to one of the other girls in the Fatui, like Sandrone or Signora. Could be fluff or smut depending on how you want to write it
Ty!! :D
SO CUTE!! I made this fluff, btw! I love this idea, I had a....ball...hehe...(get it...cuz...cuz they're at a ball...ha...get...get...it?...)
Tags - Jealous Arlecchino/ Arle being pissed/ Sandrone being gay for the reader/ Childe knowing his place/ Possessive Arle/ No smut/
The ballroom glittered with gold.
Crystal chandeliers spilled warm light across polished marble floors, strings playing somewhere high above the noise of conversation while diplomats, Harbingers, and wealthy fools drifted through the room in expensive silks and sharpened smiles.
Arlecchino hated every second of it.
She stood near the back of the hall with a half-empty bourbon glass in one hand while Tartaglia rambled beside her with the unstoppable energy of a hunting dog.
“—and then the idiot actually thought he could outrun me across Dragonspine. In snow. Like I wouldn’t track him—”
Arlecchino gave a low hum that sounded vaguely attentive.
In truth, she hadn’t heard a word in the last several minutes.
Her gaze had already wandered.
Naturally.
It always did.
Across the ballroom, she caught sight of her wife weaving elegantly through clusters of guests, smiling sweetly as she spoke with various diplomats and Fatui officers alike. Effortless. Charming. Warm in ways Arlecchino herself could never quite emulate naturally.
People adored her.
That was the problem.
Arlecchino watched a lieutenant nearly trip over himself trying to make her laugh. Watched another woman touch her arm while speaking. Watched her smile politely through every interaction with practiced grace.
Then—
Her eyes landed on Sandrone.
And stilled.
Tartaglia noticed the shift immediately.
“…Uh oh.”
Sandrone stood near one of the massive windows overlooking the frozen Snezhnayan streets, speaking animatedly while one of her mechanical servants hovered silently behind her.
And in Sandrone’s hand—
Was her wife’s hand.
Not briefly.
Not accidentally.
Holding it.
Long fingers wrapped carefully around hers while Sandrone spoke with unusual enthusiasm, eyes bright beneath heavy lashes. The puppet-master leaned closer as she talked, clearly absorbed, clearly pleased.
And her wife—
Her darling, oblivious wife—
Was smiling.
Sweetly.
Patiently.
Listening with complete attention while Sandrone continued to hold her fucking hand.
The bourbon glass creaked faintly.
Tartaglia glanced down.
“…You’re squeezing the glass.”
Arlecchino did not answer.
Her stare remained fixed across the ballroom, sharp enough to skin flesh from bone.
Sandrone.
Of all people.
The woman was not subtle in the slightest once she developed interest in something. Or someone.
And Arlecchino knew.
God, she knew.
She had seen the way Sandrone’s gaze lingered before. Had noticed how quickly she appeared whenever her wife entered a room. The excessive gifts. The bizarre little mechanical trinkets mysteriously arriving at the estate.
At first, Arlecchino had tolerated it.
Barely.
Because her wife had seemed unaware. Innocently fond in return, perhaps, but oblivious to the implications.
Now?
Now Sandrone was standing in the middle of a crowded ballroom openly clutching her wife’s hand like she belonged there.
Something ugly twisted low in Arlecchino’s chest.
Possessive.
Hot.
Embarrassingly human.
Her thumb brushed unconsciously against the black wedding band on her finger.
Mine.
The thought arrived instantly. Violently.
Across the room, Sandrone laughed softly at something her wife said, tightening her hold slightly as she spoke again.
Arlecchino’s eye twitched.
Tartaglia physically leaned back.
“…Right,” he muttered carefully. “I’m gonna go… literally anywhere else.”
Smart boy.
Arlecchino barely noticed him leaving.
Around her, conversation had subtly begun to thin. Agents nearby suddenly remembered obligations elsewhere. A diplomat excused himself so quickly he nearly spilled his drink.
No one wanted to stand too close to The Knave when she looked like this.
Her wife still hadn’t noticed.
Still smiling.
Still allowing Sandrone to touch her.
Arlecchino set her glass down with deliberate care before it shattered in her hand.
Then she started walking.
The click of her heels against marble cut through the music like a blade.
Sandrone noticed first.
Of course she did.
Her yellow eyes flicked upward, immediately catching the approaching figure stalking across the ballroom floor. And instead of looking ashamed—
That irritating woman looked amused.
Her wife turned a second later.
The second she saw Arlecchino approaching, her entire face brightened beautifully.
There it was.
That softness reserved only for her.
And it soothed absolutely none of the rage simmering beneath Arlecchino’s skin.
“My love,” her wife greeted warmly.
Sandrone still had not let go of her hand.
Arlecchino stopped directly before them.
Towering.
Elegant.
Terrifying.
Her gaze slid slowly down toward their joined hands.
Silence.
Heavy silence.
Then finally, smooth as silk:
“…Am I interrupting?”
Her wife blinked innocently. “No? Sandrone was just showing me sketches for one of her new automatons—”
“She finds my designs fascinating,” Sandrone interrupted calmly.
Arlecchino’s eyes moved to her.
The air itself felt colder.
“How fortunate for you.”
Sandrone tilted her head slightly, entirely unbothered. “You appear tense tonight.”
“Oh?” Arlecchino said softly. “Do I?”
Her wife finally seemed to notice something was wrong.
“…Arle?”
God.
That nickname in that sweet worried voice nearly ruined her composure entirely.
Sandrone’s thumb absentmindedly brushed across the back of her wife’s hand while speaking again.
Mistake.
A horrible, horrible mistake.
Arlecchino smiled.
Not warmly.
The kind of smile that made grown men shut their mouths and reconsider every decision they had ever made.
Then, without breaking eye contact with Sandrone, she reached forward and slowly took her wife’s hand from the other woman’s grasp.
Deliberately.
Finger by finger.
Possessive in a way that was almost obscene.
“There,” Arlecchino murmured. “That’s better.”
Her wife stared up at her in confusion, cheeks beginning to pink faintly as realization slowly settled in.
Sandrone’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Oh,” she said.
Yes.
Oh.
Arlecchino interlaced their fingers tightly before lifting her wife’s hand to her lips, pressing a slow kiss against her knuckles while keeping her gaze fixed directly on Sandrone the entire time.
A warning.
Clear as a blade to the throat.
Mine.
-------
By the time they returned to the House of the Hearth, the halls had gone mostly quiet.
Only the low crackling of fireplaces and the occasional creak of old floorboards disturbed the stillness of the estate. Moonlight spilled silver through tall windows while servants quietly extinguished lamps deeper within the manor.
Arlecchino walked beside her wife in complete silence.
Not hostile silence.
Worse.
Sulking silence.
Which was honestly almost comical considering she looked capable of personally executing an entire nation.
Her wife had noticed it immediately after they left the party. The clipped responses. The way Arlecchino’s hand remained possessively fixed against the small of her back the entire carriage ride home. The cold expression sharpened into something dangerously juvenile beneath all that terrifying composure.
Jealous.
Absurdly jealous.
And apparently determined to nurse that jealousy like a grudge.
But first—
There were children to take care of.
As they passed one of the side corridors, soft footsteps pattered against wood flooring before a tiny sleepy figure appeared rubbing at tired eyes.
“Mother?”
Arlecchino’s wife immediately softened.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured gently. “Why are you still awake?”
The little girl sniffled. “Couldn’t sleep…”
Arlecchino watched as her wife crouched without hesitation, smoothing messy hair back from the child’s forehead while speaking softly.
“No nightmares tonight, hm?”
A tiny nod.
Within minutes, another child emerged from somewhere down the hall. Then another. Apparently several of the younger ones had escaped bedrest entirely.
Arlecchino leaned silently against the wall with crossed arms while her wife handled them with practiced ease.
And gods.
There it was again.
That warmth.
That impossible gentleness Arlecchino herself could never replicate correctly.
One child climbed directly into her wife’s lap while another clung sleepily to her arm. She soothed each of them patiently, humming under her breath while escorting them back toward their rooms.
No irritation.
No exhaustion.
Just tenderness.
It did something dangerous to Arlecchino every single time she witnessed it.
Eventually, after stories were read, blankets tucked properly, and sleepy foreheads kissed goodnight, the manor finally settled into silence once more.
Their chambers greeted them with soft amber firelight and warmth.
Her wife disappeared toward the vanity while Arlecchino removed her gloves with sharp, deliberate movements.
Still sulking.
Honestly impressive.
From the mirror, her wife watched with increasing amusement as Arlecchino sat stiffly at the edge of the bed, arms crossed tightly over her chest and gaze pointed stubbornly away.
Pouting.
Actually pouting.
A woman capable of reducing entire organizations to ash sat on their bed looking personally offended by existence itself.
Her wife bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing.
Instead, she calmly dragged a comb through her hair and said lightly, “The party ended up being rather nice.”
A dangerous pause.
“Hm.”
Ah.
Still grumpy.
She set the comb down slowly before turning to look at her fully.
Arlecchino refused to meet her eyes.
That almost made it worse.
Her wife finally moved to sit beside her on the mattress, close enough for their knees to brush.
“…You’re still upset.”
“No.”
A lie.
A terrible one.
She smiled despite herself. “Arle.”
Silence.
Then finally, clipped and bitter:
“Sandrone has taken an interest in you.”
Her wife blinked.
“…What?”
That got Arlecchino’s attention for exactly long enough to shoot her an incredulous look.
“What do you mean what?”
“I mean…” she said slowly, trying not to laugh yet, “what do you mean?”
Arlecchino stared at her like she was being intentionally difficult.
“The woman practically hangs off you every time you enter a room.”
“She does not.”
“She held your hand.”
“…She did?”
Arlecchino’s eye twitched.
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
There was a pause.
Then, horrifyingly:
“I thought she was just being friendly.”
Arlecchino made a low sound somewhere between disbelief and suffering before leaning back dramatically against the headboard.
“You are impossible.”
That finally cracked her composure enough for a laugh to slip out.
Then Arlecchino began muttering again, irritation bubbling back to the surface.
“It is constant,” she complained. “Every gathering. Every meeting. Someone always trying to touch you or monopolize your attention despite the fact that you are very obviously married.”
Her wife leaned her cheek against one hand, listening fondly while Arlecchino continued her irritated rant.
“Signora flirts simply to provoke me. Tartaglia encourages it because he enjoys chaos. Sandrone stares at you like she’s planning to steal state secrets from your brain.”
“That seems dramatic.”
“It is accurate.”
“And?”
“And,” Arlecchino continued sharply, “I dislike people behaving as though they are entitled to what is mine.”
There it was.
Mine.
Always mine.
Her wife’s expression softened completely.
She shifted closer before asking gently, “Who did I marry?”
Arlecchino blinked.
The question clearly caught her off guard.
“…Me,” she muttered after a moment.
“Mmhm. And who do I love most?”
Another pause.
This one quieter.
“…Me.”
The sulkiness in her voice was so ridiculous that her wife nearly laughed again.
Instead, she sighed fondly and climbed properly into Arlecchino’s lap before the woman could protest.
Large hands instinctively settled against her waist.
There we are.
Her wife cupped Arlecchino’s face between both hands, thumbs brushing along sharp cheekbones while forcing her to finally meet her gaze.
That stubborn pout remained firmly in place.
God, she was adorable like this.
“There’s no need to be so jealous,” she murmured softly.
Arlecchino frowned faintly. “Easy for you to say.”
“You’re my husband.”
A quieter expression flickered beneath the irritation.
Her wife leaned down and kissed her gently.
Slow.
Soft.
Lingering.
Arlecchino melted almost instantly despite herself, one hand sliding upward along her back while her shoulders finally loosened beneath the affection.
When they parted, their foreheads rested together.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered.
Arlecchino stared at her silently for a long moment.
Then, very quietly:
“…I know.”
Another pause.
“…I still dislike Sandrone.”
-----
This was so CUTE I love writing Alrecchino!! I'm taking suggestions!! Message me your request and I'll likely do it!! No smut right now though <33
