i am his and he is mine - Pantalone/Dottore/Reader (18+)
Pantalone is proud of his ability to do as he pleases. He is sly and cunning and underhanded, able to get what he wants with force or finances or a combination of both; for the material things he covets, they are proudly displayed in his many residences, carefully arranged as both a symbol of status and a warning that another’s belongings may one day be his.
However, there is one thing - rather, two, two people - whom Pantalone has resigned himself to never having in his life.
You, and your dear Doctor - who strides through the palace with an arm about your hip or your hand at the crook of his elbow, protective as much as it is an announcement to any passersby that you are to be treated with the same respect owed to the Second Harbinger.
It has been months of Pantalone pining; first for you, your cheeky grins and kind features and insatiable curiosity (whenever the Regrator visits the Doctor in the latter’s lab, you are at Dottore’s side, peppering him with questions about this substance or that research paper or, Archons, something mundane you saw outside your bedroom window - and Dottore tends to you with the same care and interest one would expect he’d show to his beloved experiments and nothing else). And that pining has, over time, extended to Dottore as well; or, rather, it rekindled the flame of desire he’d experienced upon first meeting the man, the feisty, young, exiled Zandik all those years ago.
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...eating you out, they get their pleasure from it for different reasons.
Dottore is methodical and calculated. He has studied every anatomy textbook (and probably more than one human body), pored through every reference or light novel possible, and he takes your pleasure as seriously as he does everything else. And that's clear from the way he lavishes you in too-soft kisses, grazes of his teeth at the tender flesh of your inner thigh as you're splayed out on his bed.
Every stroke of his tongue against your folds, every suck of your clit, every single centimeter he slips his gloved finger into your entrance - it is all intended to bring you to the edge and keep you there as long as possible. You are the most lovely specimen to be studied, his pet project, his beloved; and to see you sobbing, thighs quaking in his iron grip, frantically trying to grind your hips against his slick-covered face for an iota of friction after being denied orgasm after orgasm while he chuckles and coos over what a desperate little thing you are...for someone like the Outcast, it warms his heart as much as it hardens his cock.
You are the Doctor's beloved; the one who reminds him of that scrap of humanity he has left. And the way you sing his name (his real name, Zandik, the one he's only heard from your lips since centuries ago) when he finally helps the wave of your orgasm crest its shore...it is tangible proof that he is, in spite of everything, still worthy of love in return.
He will never tell you how you make him feel, preferring to show you instead and knowing you are intelligent enough to make the inference.
Pantalone is different. He is the richest man in all of Teyvat; he can purchase whatever he wants, sell whatever he doesn't, and his wealth and power are evidence that he has risen to the highest of heights without a lick of help from the gods. Money is a catalyst that can bring him that which he desires.
You, however...money could never buy the way you ride his face into oblivion. It could never buy the iron grip of your fingers in his dark locks in a futile effort to keep him in place whilst he teases your clit. It could never buy the rasp in your voice as you cry out his name, 'Lone, please, begging for more, more, more - and Pantalone is greedy. His title of Regrator knows no bounds, and the way he veritably devours you makes that fact quite clear.
He does not know how to navigate a relationship that is not transactional. You snort and roll your eyes at his attempts to adorn you with priceless jewelry and furs; you scoff at his offers of lavish gifts and fine wine, opting for a quiet night in his quarters snuggled into his lap. But the sound of you losing control, at his doing no less...that, Pantalone knows. That, Pantalone can give you - and he will continue to give it to you, over and over and over, until your legs are jelly and his glasses (which he inevitably must leave on to make out the perfect part of your dry lips, the flutter of your lashes, the furrow of your brow in the throes of ecstasy...) are fogged.
You are there to be spoiled, nothing less, and Pantalone will spoil you into eternity.
knocking on heaven's door - Pantalone/Dottore/Reader (18+)
A quick happy birthday gift for the lovely @localplaguenurse of Pantalone pining for you and Dottore!
Pantalone is used to never getting what he wants. It’s how he spent much of his early years; yearning for a Vision, yearning for the Mora to at least assuage his basic needs, yearning for some sort of sign that the gods had not completely abandoned him…
Yet he was not granted such boons, and thus Pantalone has grown used to taking what he wants with his own two hands. However, he is wise enough to know that his current predicament is not one he can do anything about - not if he wishes to keep his body intact, that is.
The Doctor would never let him live otherwise if he knew the filthy thoughts that ran through Pantalone’s head whenever you walked by.
You, who, through some unspoken sort of whimsical twist of fate, managed to soften Il Dottore’s heart to the point of having the Second Harbinger fall for you. You were so oddly…normal, so unassuming. It was strange enough for Dottore to have someone he cared about other than himself, but for that person to be so…lackluster? The Doctor always preferred something unique, something shiny and sparkling and screaming for his attention -
Maybe that’s why Pantalone feels that uncomfortable squeeze of jealousy whenever he spies you shooting the Doctor a particularly loving glance. That should be him, at Dottore’s side. Someone worthy. Someone who had climbed the ranks through blood and tears and fought tooth and nail for it. Someone who had been rejected by society, too.
Of course, the Regrator has no way of determining how, exactly, you won his comrade over. It seemed as if you’d appeared out of thin air, suddenly working diligently at the man’s side as his most trusted assistant. And Dottore has been careful with you; whatever data was once available on you has been scrubbed away, or perhaps tucked under lock and key in the Doctor’s lab. A rumour has circulated amidst the palace that the poor unfortunate underling who walked into Dottore’s lab, only to find you resting snugly in the Harbinger’s lap, met a gruesome end lest his tongue prove too loose.
So, although you may appear fairly average on the outset, you hold a great deal of power regardless. And it has begun, over time, to pique the Regrator’s interest.
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and i bleed when i fall down - Dottore/Reader (18+)
To be the beloved of Il Dottore is to invite a barrage of questions upon yourself.
The most common one, from the agents who dare to speak to you upon learning your association of sorts with The Doctor,or the newcomers who haven’t yet learned to bite their tongues, is, How do you do it? And you’ll smile nervously and give a little laugh and a shrug and send them on their merry way - lest Dottore find them prodding at his darling.
Of course, it’s a valid question. Indeed, you have always had one of your own to ask him in turn: Why me? You are not especially useful or strong or beautiful, average as average comes, and still, Dottore seems to find a list of traits you possess that he considers endearing - and attractive. And so you have come to accept it even as the nagging sense of inadequacy never leaves your person.
You help him in his laboratory and return to your shared quarters to await his return every evening - for his endurance and obsession with his research knows no bounds when compared to anyone else’s. He can come to bed well into the wee hours of the morning, curls of blue hair brushing up against your cheek when he nuzzles into your neck beneath the blankets, and even if it rouses you from sleep, you find you drift back into slumber much easier with him at your side.
You know of his past, in bits and pieces, like a puzzle scattered about; when he shares certain parts, the stories of being expelled from the Akademiya and exiled from his hometown and joining the Fatui, no matter how detached he may sound recalling it…you can make out the distinct hint of disappointment and rage in his words. And you know him well enough by now, after all your time together, to reasonably suspect that there is an air of hurt to the memories.
As much as his thirst for knowledge fuels his research, you have the feeling that there is also a desire to prove himself worthy; a desire to shove his successes in the faces of anyone who dared doubt he would come out victorious. His worth, in a way, is measured by that success - and so Dottore pours everything he has, cup full or not, into his experiments, until he returns back to your chambers drained and bleary-eyed - no matter how much he may try to plaster on a facade of neutrality.
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those three words are said too much - Dottore/Reader (18+)
My part of a gift exchange for my dear friend @fatuismooches. Can be read as part of her fragile!Reader series or a standalone! This fic mainly features the Omega segment (the one seen in Sumeru, and ostensibly Nod-Krai).
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The Dottore you had fallen in love with was not an emotional man - at least, not on the outside.
He had long since been stoic and determined and fiercely fixated on his single goal of ascending humans to the level of gods; his pastimes were otherwise focused on research of one kind or another with little consequence to the price paid in pursuit of knowledge. Outwardly, he did not have time for such petty and undefinable things as ‘feelings’; they were subjective and observable only on paper as fascinating brain maps and electrical waves. And, at worst, they were a distraction…or so he claimed.
However, you came to realize that this was far from reality. Because The Doctor - Second of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers, his name feared among those aware of his little experiments and what the most gruesome entailed - was indeed a deeply emotional man.
And it was why he had created his segments in the first place.
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Dottore could always find some time to sneak away from his experiments to tend to his beloved. You are the one thing he can prioritize above all else; after all, what good is a new world if you are not there at his side to see it?
And yet, as it presently stands within the echoing chambers of Irminsul, it is you who is tending to him.
Greedy little thing, you are on your knees, barely tall enough to be able to press the lower half of your face to the apex of his thighs. The air in this place is cool, and the Doctor notes the thin goosebumps that prickle your exposed skin. But his focus is soon back on you, the way you palm his glistening slit, finger coaxing his essence to slick up your digits, the rush of energy and euphoria that threatens to blind him…
“You’ve worked so hard,” you croon in a murmured whisper, making a show of licking his juices from your hand. “You deserve a reward.” It’s downright lewd, and all Dottore can think of is how much he longs to kiss it from your lips. But that would be going against your little experiment - you want to see the type of pleasure he can experience in this new body.
And who is he to deny his darling their quest for knowledge?
Apparently satisfied with your toying, you press a chaste kiss to his swollen lower lips, once, twice, then again, at the very top, where a prominent peak of nerve endings reacts immediately to the gentle brush. The Doctor groans, throwing his head back, fighting the temptation to grab your hair and keep you in place. Instead he clenches and unclenches his fists as you continue, peppering the inner flesh of his thighs with similar attention and lapping up the slick that coats them.
“I didn’t think you’d be so…needy,” you tease, and Dottore can hear the cheeky smile in your words. “You don’t have other more pressing matters to deal with? The whole of Sumeru trying to stop you, for instance?”
“Is that your way of…of saying you wish to stop?” the Doctor grits out, failing to avoid bucking into your face. You laugh and cup his cunt in response, plunging one of your fingers into his glowing entrance. The sound that dies in his throat is obscene as it echoes about the walls.
“The experiment isn’t over yet,” you reply simply; though, perhaps sensing his impatience - or the increasing tremble of his knees - you opt to be merciful and begin to move your finger. You add another, in and out, in and out, scissoring and stretching, gauging his reaction. Dottore is sure he looks veritably debauched in your eyes; quaking and gasping and writhing, all the more with every motion of your digits within his walls.
Suddenly you press the flat of your tongue at the tip of his entrance, and this time he positively whimpers. The vibrations of your chuckling only add to that buzzing sensation in his core, burning and all-consuming, the wet sound of your tongue and fingers intermingling with his pants and whines. He is close, so close, pressure in his lower half unbearably tight and yet too good to let go of -
When you circle your lips about that little bundle of nerves and suck, Dottore’s vision whites out. Pressure gives way to release, your knuckles crooking in come-hither motions as if coaxing the orgasm out of him. It is all he can do to remain standing, and despite your differences in strength, the Doctor is quite sure you are the only thing holding him up as the waves of pleasure crash over him again and again.
Your suckling slowly melts into languid kitten-licks, the curling of your fingers to gentle stroking, just before you slip them from your lover’s walls. The Doctor is still fighting for breath, recovering his senses, when he glances down to find your face covered with his juices. Unfazed, you make a show of licking your lips.
And you smile.
“I want to see,” you begin, pawing at his tender cunt once more; and his heart rabbits in his chest as the pangs of overstimulation give way to excitement, “just how many times we can make you do that.”
strike up the band and make the fireflies dance - Zandik/Reader (18+)
The sun beat hot against the back of Zandik’s neck, Akademiya robes fluttering in the desert breeze. The wind did little to alleviate the heat, only serving mostly to blow sand into his mouth as he tried (and failed) to avoid making a fool of himself when spitting it out. He ordinarily would not have cared about appearances to this degree - it would only hold him back - but…you had insisted on tagging along, confident he was a capable leader, and Zandik was not about to give you any other impression.
The reason why he cared about such things was somewhat lost to him; the heat blooming in his cheeks, he told himself, was unrelated to your presence tagging cheerily behind him.
The golem sat unmoving, its awesome presence the only source of shade in the whole of the Hadramaveth Desert. Zandik could feel his heart flutter with excitement; he’d come here only briefly, once before, giddy as he’d realized the nuts and bolts of sorts he’d salvaged at Devantaka Mountain would likely make this massive automaton functional again. But he’d hesitated; there were other students alongside him, and to even attempt to reactivate it with them nearby was a risk Zandik was not willing to take.
But wouldn’t you be surely impressed if he got it working again right before your eyes?
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go ahead and break my heart that's fine - Dottore/Reader (18+)
Previous installment
Nod-Krai’s climate is warmer than you might have imagined, given its being a part of Snezhnaya; it’s reminiscent of an early autumn, a crisp damp chill in the air that nevertheless can be easily countered with a warm, comfortable sweater. And yet you feel frozen to the bone, shivering with every step, the sweat clinging to your undershirt beneath the pack on your back the only reminders of the surrounding tepid air.
You’re not entirely surprised Dottore didn't forbid this journey; he’s always known you are a force unstoppable, and perhaps that is part of the reason he has always been fond of you. In turn, he did not seem surprised that you intended to go after his wayward segment - an experiment gone wrong, Dottore called it, but an interesting one nonetheless - merely intrigued.
“You still intend to pursue him, knowing he only wants that which he can never have?” he’d asked, barely looking up from his lab reports.
And you’d clenched your fists and swallowed your grief, steadying your voice all the same. “I would pursue you in every lifetime, no matter what,” you’d settled on at last - truthful albeit flowery. Dottore had seemingly accepted your words and the silent implication within them: that even his most selfish segment, his selfish nature, had a place in your heart…if not been left rather confused by them.
Omega had scoffed when you’d made him swear a promise of where to find you should the worst happen. You’d selected a cave near Amsvartnir: blastedly within the vicinity of far too many Ratniki and Knights of Favonius, but, at just the right time of night, mercifully vacant for you to slip through. Hidden within plain sight, you might say. And so, after word had gotten out that the terror within Nod-Krai had ceased and the Moon Goddess and her comrades had come out on top, you had not hesitated to head for that carefully chosen location, hoping (against hope?) that Omega would await you there unscathed.
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