hihi !! i love ur writing sm, pls could i request pantalone x reader with the kissing to avoid someone trope (if that’s what it’s called??) !!
maybe they’re at a ball/gala thing and reader is being hit on by a guy who just won’t take no for an answer and she’s like “oh i have a bf” and he’s like where and blah blah she goes over to pantalone and she’s mouths that she’s sorry and just kisses him
TYSM <333
໒⦂ 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐒 𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐄.
notes. hello anon! tysm for the kind words, that makes me so happy to hear<3 and ofc you can! i love this idea a lot, been musing it w dottore and my oc in my ggl docs augh.. so i hope that gave me enough practice for this<3 hoping pantalone ain’t too ooc, haven’t written him all that much aaaaa
genre. fluff
tw. attempted harassment, use of ‘dear’
pantalone x gn!reader.
if there was a reason behind your lack of presence at formal events, it had to be the small talk and the drunken talk. the kind where people no longer even knew what the hell they were even going on about — where personal space became optional, and where ‘no’ was just a suggestion no matter how many times it was said.
something you were not entirely a fan of, as you stepped back with an awkward laugh and a dream to put space between the two of you. conversation could be had without breaching one’s personal bubble, and yet he was drawing closer to you not even a second after. there might as well have been metal attached to your body and an eager magnet on his.
and the yapping — archons, it never ended. he was stressing- insisting that you joined him at his place for the night, promising the world if you did. breakfast, clothes, the finest wine in his cellar — everything he could think of in the moment despite repeating some options ( see wine ) more than once already.
but what the hell would that do for you when this guy was hardly someone you wanted to spend an evening with? for goodness sake, you were in the middle of getting rid of him and nothing seemed to get your point across!
there was but a final resort left, and it was a hard lie, no doubt about it.. something you might even regret if worse came to worst.
but if it could get this squid off your back, you were willing to deal with those consequences after.
clearing your throat when the other seemed to lean forward to claim your lips, you placed a gloved hand over his own, offering a strained smile. “look, no offense — but i fear i cannot possibly be kissing strangers here, sir.. my partner,” you paused, looking around for good measure. “it’d be such a betrayal to him- to his affection, and i couldn’t possibly do that to someone i so dearly love.. so if you would,” a pause, a breath. “please refrain from overstepping such boundaries with me.” otherwise, hands were about to be thrown.
only when the weight didn’t push anymore against your palm did you remove it from his mouth, stepping back an inch with a hope that your point might have gotten across. it was the old, ‘sorry i have a lover’ trick — which worked quite often, and usually got people to back off..
but by the skeptical look you were given in return, this guy.. wasn’t budging.
“strange.” the nobleman finally said, folding his arms over his chest. “if you have a boyfriend, then why isn’t he with you? why leave you alone for the night? to toy with the feelings of others?” he pressed, stepping forward. “i don’t buy it one bit.”
annoyed, you backed up another step, patience leaving you as you fought back the urge to clock him right then and there for the public to see. “it’s an event — we are allowed to mingle and not be glued to one another for the entirety of its duration. furthermore there’s something called trust and oh, i don’t know, boundaries.” something he certainly wouldn’t know about. “so either take my word for it, or i’ll call him over right now and tell him you tried taking advantage of me.”
being the one to stumble back this time, he let out an appalled gasp, or scoff — you weren’t sure, shifting a hand over his heart in offense. “i have done nothing of the sort, and now you’re just — making things up! lying through your teeth!”
and that was the last straw.
turning on your heel after a scalding glare, you marched up to the nearest contender — tall, lean perhaps, clad in opulent black and violet fabrics — evidently engaged with a masked man dressed in white, azure and onyx. good grief, you felt bad to have to do this- but what other choice did you have?
“excuse me,” you called out loud enough to reach his ears, mentally whipping yourself for having interrupted the conversation of not one, but two beautiful men that looked strikingly familiar. goodness, if they were harbingers- it was so over for you, but that could be dealt with later.
this was the priority.
“hm?” the dark haired one mused out, offering a small smile. “is something the matter? i don’t believe we’ve-”
“sorry-! just follow my lead!” you intercepted, pulling the raven haired male against your lips for a haphazard, but telling kiss. it wasn’t by any means your best work, however it wasn’t meant to be. it was something to ward off the piece of shit staring with his jaw dropped for flies to take up residence.
only when you caught him turning away did you take a step back from the man you had just shared breath with, straightening your clothing out before offering a sympathetic look. “forgive my actions — that was.. barely consensual, considering what i was just trying to avoid.. but i couldn’t think of anything else.” you tried explaining, holding up a handkerchief to the other, who more or less had opened up his eyes to really see you this time.
and rather than anger, or to snatch the cloth from your hands, amusement had adorned his features, along with this quiet aura of understanding.
he smiled, to your absolute surprise. “no need to ask for forgiveness of any kind, certainly with a reason like that.. i almost wonder how such a man had managed to slip into an event like this, nobility or not..”
“those with wealth and even an inkling of status flaunt their mora like second nature.” the seafoam haired male chimed in, tucking one hand behind his back. “i shall alert fatui personnel to dispose of him immediately. do excuse me, and i better not catch you with another cigarette in my absence, regrator.”
regrator? that was.. oh.
just your fucking luck — they were harbingers. and you just kissed the ninth.
dammit.
“of course i walk up to the finance guy..” you muttered mostly to yourself, tucking away the fabric in your hands before leaning forward to bow. “my apologies — i was.. not aware that you were pantalone of the fatui harbingers. i don’t think i would have gone up to you otherwise..” you spoke up, lifting your head only when you heard the low chuckle above you.
“does my rank make me less of a contender for a fake boyfriend?” he parroted back, tilting his head. “if anything, i would quicker think that it would be of more value.”
letting out a sigh that more or less became an exhausted laugh of your own, you rolled your eyes, shaking your head. “it’s more so that i shouldn’t involve a harbinger in something as mundane as this.” in other words, a coverup because someone didn’t get the memo.
but at least another did.
pushing up his glasses, pantalone then extended a leather-clad palm, humming. “well, i’d say i am quite involved now.” he whispered, dark curls bouncing as he leaned forward. “so might i interest you in something as mundane as a dance?” he offered, meeting your gaze. “i wouldn’t make a good fake partner if i didn’t, after all.”
incredulous, your eyes locked with his violet ones, blinking once and then twice before you placed your hand in his own after a hum of consideration. “i guess you wouldn’t.” you returned, moving your opposite hand to his shoulder. “‘suppose we’d better fix that, then.”
“already a step ahead of you, my dear.” he chuckled again, allowing his free hand to meet your hip. “however, i do expect an appropriate payment afterwards.”
your lips curled, lashes lowering cheekily. “a less sloppy and half-assed kiss, got it.”
notes. sorry this is a little rushed</3 still trying to recover a little but i wanted to finish this up since i had a draft for it :’) anyway- i haven’t written much for pantalone but i hope i was able to get his character ok!
tysm for reading! consider leaving a tip if you enjoyed<3
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syn: you've always loved the piano, but the piano never loved you. perhaps, you should hate it too, just as it hates you, and just as you hate the smell of cigarettes.
wc: 1701
warnings: yandere content, 6.6 aq spoilers (only pantalone's real name and eye colour reveals), implied-ish depression, cigarettes, the yan is kinda subtle tbh, ooc pantalone, gn reader (pls lmk if theres any gendered terms used!)
notes: yes this was inspired by dottore playing the piano / written in ~3 hours so forgive me if some things arent as cohesive / title and the piece played later is taken from tchaikovsky's october, autumn song
m.list
You remember it just like yesterday, the first time you met the Regrator.
A cool autumn day, an empty theatre, a beautiful piano, and the acrid smell of cigarettes.
Since you were a child, it was always your dream to pursue a professional career in music as a pianist. The keys seemed to call your name, your fingers twitching uncomfortably as if they yearned for the smooth surface of the keys. But fate, as it often does, did not agree with you.
Despite how much you practiced, how much you competed, how much you tried, the world spat in your face over and over again. You were forced to watch, eyes wide and mind all too conscious as your peers and even those who gas started far later than you did breezed past you and achieved the dream you so desperately wanted for yourself.
Years piled upon years, and you were still at the same place you started. Staring at the grand and majestic piano in the center of an empty theatre, the silence a cruel reminder of a dream unrealised.
Then, in the midst of your wallowing, a voice breaks the silence like the shattering of glass.
"Your performance last night was magnificent." The man smiled, a black coat sat on his shoulders. His glasses reflected the dim light of the theatre, so polished that you could even see a glimmer of the piano's glossy wood.
Last night… he was there, then, to see you lose once more. To watch as another person takes a leap closer to your dream, while you can only watch from behind, chained to your place.
"It was hardly anything worth praising, but thank you for your compliment." A bitter smile sits on your lips, having long grown used to these fruitless endeavours. Ah… perhaps you should let this childish hope go and become an adult.
"I would disagree. The way your fingers glided across the keys was a delight for the eyes, and your technique was just the perfect balance of technical yet soulful." The man walks closer to the stage, and with him brings the scent of cigarettes. Subconsciously, your nose scrunches at the bitter scent.
His words bring about a sense of emptiness, words you can't even believe yourself. His sincerity wasn't of any interest to you, a life of performance and polite speech having made you numb to both negative and positive criticism. In the end, this was all you would amount to in your music career.
"Is that so? Then you have a good eye, sir." Your hand glides across the glossy keys of the piano once more, before pulling the lid close. At the place of your final loss, you would say goodbye to the instrument and its world forever. "It's a shame then, that my first admirer will also be my last."
"Oh? Do you plan on abandoning this path?"
"Perhaps a better word would be finding a path that I can walk." You walk down the steps slowly, each tap of your shoe against the wooden floor echoing throughout. From the corner of your eyes, you can see that he follows each of your movements despite his eyes being closed.
He hums in reply, a thoughtful look crossing his face for a moment before it settles back into a neutral expression.
"Sorry, I didn't manage to get your name." You say, standing by the stairs. You open your mouth to give him yours, but he quickly cuts you off by saying he remembers it from the night before.
"Feofan. You may call me Feofan."
Testing the name on your lips, you cherish it for a second as you prepare to leave it with the tattered dreams of the child you once were. When you part with it a moment later, there's a weight that grows in your chest.
"Thank you for enjoying my performance, Feofan. If one person enjoyed it, then this silly passion of mine wasn't for naught." Even at the end of this road, stepping out of your chains and changing your direction, you still can't seem to smile, not a genuine one.
When you turned your back, he called out to you again, a softness to his voice that sent inexplicable chills down your spine.
"What would you say, if you became my pianist?"
The memory is still fresh, a wound that refuses to close. In hindsight, perhaps that was the true end of your road, caged within the walls of this labyrinthine mansion.
It is a beautiful cage, the mansion reminds you every waking moment of that. It is a proper reflection of its owner, and it hides its captive without struggle. Truthfully however, with every day that passes, you've found less interest in even leaving the room, let alone escaping this maze.
Feofan, or the Regrator, as you've heard some servants refer to him, lives lavishly. He spends countless mora on your wellbeing and your beloved piano, dedicated doctors, servants, and technicians at your beck and call. Even he himself keeps a rather close eye on your health, an obsessive one you would even say. Whenever he arrives back from another one of his business trips, the first thing he checks is your wellbeing.
The second thing he checks is your skill.
A theatre, similar to the one you had sealed your fate in, was built just for you. At least, that's what he tells you. Whether his words are truthful or just sweet talk, you can't be bothered to care. There's nothing you can do with them, after all.
The grand piano, a replica of the one in the theatre, sits quietly on the stage. It reminds you of that day.
It's hard to say if you resent it. It is the reason your life ended up so miserable, yet at the same time, it is the very thing that keeps you alive. The only audience you play for is Feofan, and he is nothing short of the perfect audience, always ready with praise for your piece.
To be honest, these days, the numbness that started in your heart has spread through your body and infected your mind. Your emotions steadily become more and more muted, life a poor imitation of functions you can only describe as mechanical. There's days you don't remember awaking at all.
But if there's anything that sets your emotions ablaze, it's the smell of cigarettes.
You don't know how to explain it, a pounding of your heart and an anxious sweat that drenches your whole body. Your mind is sent into a frenzy stuck between rage and grief, and despite all these years, their symptoms only seem to worsen. But you've learned to keep it together, to force the chaos to exist only within the boundaries of your mind.
Feofan knows this, and it is this exact reason that you truly despise him. But a performer cannot hate their greatest and only admirer.
There's a routine to his return, you see. First, the servants knock on the door. Then, they usher you into a warm bath, washing and scrubbing every part of you until the invisible dust has been erased from your skin. Then, they fit you into stiff and formal clothing, clasping countless diamonds and other similar jewellery around your neck and arms. Lastly, they ease you into new and uncomfortable shoes, and accompany you to the theatre. There, you sit at the piano and wait until Feofan takes a seat in the front row, and only then do you begin your performance.
Today is no different, except that you've managed to gather what little motivation you've had over the span of his trip and written a new piece. Judging by the trees outside of the window, you can guess that it's around the anniversary of your first meeting. In honour of this, you will perform it for him. It will be a pleasant surprise, you're sure.
As you await his arrival, you press each of the keys with a practiced touch. They are well-oiled, surfaces smooth, sound loud and clear. The pedals can all be pressed with little resistance outside of what is expected. Even if there is nothing left in this world, you can still love the piano.
You smell him before you see him. The doors open with an echo, your back straightening in instinct. Your audience has arrived, and now your own performance is about to begin.
"Welcome back, Feofan." You greet him with a practiced smile, face turned to him as you wait for him to take his usual seat. "Have you been well?"
"As well as I could be without you, my darling." His tongue knows no rest, sweet words always at the ready. Still, you entertain him with a practiced giggle. "What will you play for me, on this blessed day of our union?"
"I wrote a piece just for you, in celebration of this day. I hope you like it." Like a dance, the two of you sway to the rhythm of the beat, smooth and coordinated in your responses.
"Is that so?" His purple eyes watch you with interest, a glint in them behind his silver glasses.
"Of course. I have elected to name it Autumn Song, as a reminder of the season our destined encounter fell upon."
As you play, the melancholic sound puts your mind at ease for the first time in what feels like forever. Here and now, there is only you and the piano and the sound of music that you've lived and loved your whole life. Maybe, your passion could find its flickering embers and reignite.
The bitter and overwhelming scent of a cigarette brings this wishful thinking to a halt, staining the beautiful piano with its acrid smell. Here and now, all that you love has been tainted by sorrow and a wordless reminder of that you are no longer yourself.
In the end, you hate the very thing that made you, you.
When a tear hits the key just as you press the final note, a clap resounds through the hall.
"What a magnificent performance."
And you're back to where you wished everything had ended, all those years ago.
How the harbingers and their darlings ready for bed
Yan! Harbingers x reader (separate)
Feat: Capitano, Dottore, Pantalone and Scaramouche
Word Count: 3.4K
A/N: “honk shoooo honk shoooo” - capitano, “zzzzz zzzz” - Pantalone, “honk mi mi mi” - Scaramouche, dottore’s doesn’t snore but he does speak in fluent sentences in his sleep and it’s terrifying. thank you for coming to my ted talk. also yes i made scaras pretty purple eyes light up like ei’s when she’s using her skill, the more raiden parallels the better in my opinion
Warnings: 5.3 archon quest spoilers, Yandere behaviours, i have likely not proof read this as well as i should have so i apologise for any mistakes, dark themes, some mentions of NSFW themes but no actual smut, being robbed of making choices, they all have serious control issues
Capitano:
Capitano has struggled with sleep for centuries now, he hopes you take no offence when he doesn’t join you at night however he would never wish to make you feel neglected. The primary reason he stole you away was to could ensure that you are treated with the dignity and adoration that befits someone of your character.
If your hair is long enough then he takes great care in braiding it every night. You’re surprised that a man of his stature is able to manoeuvre his fingers so nimbly through your hair. If braids aren’t your style or they simply wouldn’t work with your hair then he patiently awaits your instruction. Whether you want a bun, a ponytail or simply for your hair to flow freely he will diligently do as you command.
Although some aspects of your night routine may resemble that of Pantalone’s darling, Capitano doesn’t force you to abide by any particular routines. As long as you get enough rest he doesn’t mind if you spend every evening huddled in the library, just please allow him to sit with you as you read, nothing would bring him greater pleasure.
Despite the first harbinger being unable to sleep due to the constant burden of the tormented souls upon him, he does find comfort in the domesticity partaking in your nightly routines affords him. Watching your eyes flutter shut, hearing the words that slip out of your mouth leaving him to guess what you could possibly be dreaming about, watching over you when you are at your most defenceless.
He finds it utterly endearing to see you in this state. His heart feels much lighter the first night you fall asleep in his presence. He understands you may hold some resentment towards him for stealing you away from your home and the life you knew yet he is able to find hope in the vulnerability your behaviour shows. Being in your most docile and helpless form around him must surely mean you hold some form of trust for him. Trust is something he can work with, he’s certain now that he can cultivate this small piece of trust that you’ve extended to him from a sapling into a flourishing bloom and in time, perhaps you’ll forgive him for the selfish decision he made. He was utterly mindless and inconsiderate when he took you with him, against your will. Every day he lives with the shame of stealing you and yet... watching over you as you lay in his sheets, he cannot bring himself to regret it.
He shuts his eyes and listens to the rhythm of your breaths, a symphony that brings him nothing but relief. The knowledge that you were resting peacefully by his side invigorates him far more than slumber ever could.
After some time passes and he truly believes you are warming up to him in spite of everything, he might slip into your bed (with your permission of course). He’s unsure what to do at first, so overwhelmed with your closeness and warmth but as you begin to drift into a dreamscape, he allows his hands to wander slightly (but never anywhere inappropriate, despite how desperately he might crave your body he would never force you to do anything that might dishonour you). The body heat that emanates from you brings him immeasurable comfort as he forgets about the pain of the abyssal rot ravaging his body, instead focusing on the softness of your skin on his.
To feel you against him, your body tucked against his, it brings comfort that settles deep in his bones, not even the heavenly principles nor the curse that eats away at his flesh could strip it from him. For the first time in 500 years he remembers what its like to have a home.
Dottore:
You have the misfortune of having spent more time alone with Dottore than anyone else in Teyvat. In spite of his near constant presence, you had never once see him or any of his clones go to sleep. Once every few months you’ll catch him with his eyes shut and hunched over his desk, you assume he has finally drifted off but then mere seconds later his eyes will shoot open and his hands resume tinkering with whatever (or whoever) has had the misfortune of piquing his interest.
Prior to eliminating his clones he often used them as lab assistants, citing that the only person who he could trust to fulfil his work to the measure of perfection he demanded was himself. As the sun began to set whichever of his clones had the least to do would be charged with escorting you from his laboratory in the cellars of Zapolyarny palace to your shared estate. Much to Dottore’s annoyance, he swears that as the moon begins to rise, the segments begins to rush to finish their tasks in hopes of being the one to escort you home.
From early morning to night time you are forced to remain wherever Dottore is however he understands you are only human (for the time being, however he has plans to change that) and you require rest so he allows you to go home and sleep with the caveat that a segment remains by your side as he repeats a similar sentiment as he did earlier, that being the only man he would ever trust with your safety is himself.
Upon prime having to destroy the clones he is visibly on edge despite his dismissals when you try to enquire about it. It’s evident to you that without having the security of his segments watching over you he is tense. He now forbids you from going home, even with a platoon of Fatui guarding you, he has made far too many enemies to count over the years, he isn’t foolish enough to entrust your safety to some lackeys that even the eleventh could carve through with ease.
Much to your dismay he also states that he cannot take so much time away from his experiments to tend to your slumber and that from now on you will be sleeping in the laboratory.
It doesn’t take much exertion for his brilliant mind for him to deduce that you are not thrilled at this development.
After a few days of complaining he finally cracks. You seem to find a fault with every aspect of his laboratory.
”I’m uncomfortable”
”My back hurts”
”It’s too loud”
”It’s too bright”
”It’s too hot”
“It’s too cold”
”This pillow is lumpy”
”I can feel you staring at me”
It drives him mad. His next experiment will be on your voice, he has to test his hypothesis that there is something particular about your voice, perhaps it’s the tone or the pitch but whenever you speak he can’t help but grant you his full attention.
He prides himself on his resilience but for you he has always been quick to crack. Seeing you in such a bad mood puts him in a bad mood. Suddenly his patience has been shortened exponentially, the screams of his patients grind on his nerves far too quickly, leading to many experiments being cut short.
The following morning you will see two anemo skirmishers setting down a large object covered in a dust sheet in the far corner of the laboratory. You raise your question to Dottore, asking what it is. Only then does he set down his tools, a tiny smirk blooms across his face as he takes your hand in his and leads you across the room before lifting the sheet off the object and looking at you expectantly.
It was a single bed with plain white sheets and a single pillow. It was hardly exuberant but for Dottore to even show any form of regard for the discomfort of any living being was nothing short of a miracle.
If you ask him what prompted this his voice will grow venomous as he bites out that your endless complaints were a hindrance to his experiments but you see the self-satisfied sneer on his face as he soaks in your gratitude.
Admittedly you do still have to endure the screams of those unfortunate enough to end up strapped to the operating table as he refuses to allow you any form of noise cancellation lest he needs you for something (he never has but you’re sure he just doesn’t want to give you any avenues for ignoring him), at least you can keep your head staunchly under your pillow for whatever small form of muting the cries that it's able to provide.
Pantalone:
In spite of your resentment for Pantalone you could not deny the morbid interest you had in watching him go about his day. As an outsider you couldn’t shrug the pervasive feeling that had settled in your mind that his whole day seemed to be more of an elaborate routine rather than a man naturally progressing through the day.
Every paper, painting and plate had a specific place in his life and that was how Pantalone preferred it. One night at dinner you had made note of it and he had let out a rare chuckle as he gazed at you from across the grand mahogany dinner table. He put down his utensils before taking a moment to stare down at his hands, twisting the rings back into place so that the gemstones on them rested perfectly on his fingers, glimmering just right in the light before he acknowledged that perhaps some people might agree that he can be a little particular.
From the moment he had taken you into his home, he made sure that you too fit into his routine as flawlessly as everything else. He had expectations that you would meet if you knew what was good for you. Throughout the day his routine never once relaxed and as such, neither did yours. From the moment dinner ends he has you on a schedule that he had devoted hours to ensure it would allow you to fit into his schedule as perfectly as he wants you to. Like a ballerina wound up in a jewellery box, you would pirouette seamlessly to whichever melody he desired and you only move when he winds your cogs, never before.
Once you rise from the dinner table and he returns to his study, you are taken directly to your shared chambers with Pantalone by your ladies maids. In the porcelain tub within the en-suite sits a pool of hot water, still steaming with heat. Standing there awkwardly with only a silk robe wrapped around you as maids flutter in and out of the room. You stay rocking on the balls of your feet until at last the head maid returns, with her she carries a silver tray upon which rests several different bottles of fragrant oils and soaps to add to your bath.
Perhaps if you had been a little less perceptive you would believe this to be one of the areas in your life in which he allows some leniency but that is not the case. You are certain beyond all measure that each and every scent has gotten his approval before being presented to you. Maybe you should be thankful for this small illusion of choice but it only makes the reality of you situation sting in your tear ducts.
As you smell each one the head maid takes great enthusiasm in telling you the elaborate backstory for each and every bottle. Although its her voice speaking, you can hear his words.
The violet grass scent that had been acquired from the very highest point of Liyue’s immense mountain scape lending to it’s powdery floral notes being far more potent that before.
The sakura bloom oil had been extracted from a handful of petals that had been struck by the Shogun’s own divine lightning lending to it’s typical sweet smell having a bright undertone. You couldn’t stand that oil, you swore every time you applied it, it tingled.
The glaze Lilly that this oil had been diffused from had allegedly only bloomed when an adeptus descended from her abode in Jueyun Karst to serenade the flower and coaxing it into opening its petals. Supposedly its scent was so delicate and intoxicating that everyone who smelt it wept tears of joy. You didn’t think it smelt much different than any other glaze Lilly.
After a dozen more being presented to you, each with its own elaborate origins you simply grabbed the bottle closest to you on the tray, not caring which. They all smelt far too similar to care.
Since the day you were taken he had insisted that there was no price too high for his beloved. Perhaps he thinks you find his gifts romantic, instead you can’t help but laugh bitterly at the irony of your bathing products being better travelled than you are.
After nearly an hour of several maids scrubbing you from head to toe (when you had originally arrived you had refused their help however once Pantalone caught wind of this he had punished the maids for it. You had pleaded with him that it was your own fault for refusing their help and to please not punish them for your actions. He smiled gently, thanking you for your honesty before pressing a gently kiss to your forehead yet he said nothing about pardoning the maids, dismissing you at every mention of it. You had an entirely different group of maids tending to you the following morning and every subsequent morning after that).
After leaving the bath and drying off, you were dressed in a night gown. They were undoubtedly the worst part of the night, although they were beautiful they were also covered in itchy lace with necklines too deep and hems too short for the Snezhnayan winter.
After being dressed you would sit down at your vanity and methodically brush your hair with the gifts he had gotten you from Mondstadt: a boar bristle brush with a silver handle (he claimed the bristles were from a mighty bore sovereign native to Dragonspine) and a Dragon bone comb (he also had this made in Dragonspine, the bone acquired from the skeleton of Durin, the comb was a sturdy bone that no matter what always stayed warm).
Finally you would lie in bed and wait for your husband. If he decides to join you then you can slip gently into your dreams, the one place where you can forget about the heavy arm latched around your waist and the fingers tangled in your hair. On more unfortunate nights, he would not join you in your shared chambers, instead he would expect you to come to him. Shuffling sleepily through dark corridors until you finally reached the tall doors of his study. Your knuckle barely grazes the wood before the door swings open and he offers you a gentle smile before wrapping his arm around your waist and coaxing you in.
If you were lucky a few well-placed tender kisses to his neck would persuade him to abandon his work and join you in bed however some nights he would have you sat on his lap until the sun rose. Those nights you rarely slept well as you had to deal with his mutterings, the candle light illuminating the room and the way he adjusted you on his lap. If you were lucky you could shut your eyes and feign sleep when you felt something hard growing beneath you, other nights he was insistent on your participation.
Scaramouche:
Throughout the countless waking hours you’ve spent in unwilling solitude with the sixth harbinger you were hardly surprised at the revelation that his sour attitude persists far past the sunset and well into the moonlit hours. If anything his annoyance only grew the closer you crept to retiring for the night.
Having no knowledge of his marionette body’s ability to endure without sleep, you couldn’t disguise your discomfort the first night you shared his bed and his lilac eyes stayed glued to you all night, their vibrant hue glowing in the dark of your chambers. You could see the dim purple light in the room, even through your eyelids. His illuminated eyes wouldn’t move from your face as you rested. It doesn’t matter how often you late in the night you might wake up or how often you squint through your half-closed eyes at him, Scaramouche’s gaze stays fixed intently on you from the moment you pull the blankets over your shoulders.
Should you somehow develop a fondness for your captor you will quickly learn that in spite of his feelings for you, he is not an attentive or affectionate man. Scaramouche scoffs at the proposal of ‘cuddling’. He spits out that he will not entertain such pathetic displays of fondness, not even for you. The firm tenor in his voice makes you believe that there is no room for negotiation on the matter, however from that night onwards, his hand remains fixed tightly around your wrist the moment you retire under the covers with him.
One particularly irritating trait about Scaramouche is his insistence that you never turn away from him, many times your awoken by a set of firm hands clamped down on your shoulders as they turn you around in the bed, back to facing him. While you are both waking and sleeping he refuses to allow you to turn your back to him, you’re unsure as to why and frankly you’re not certain you wish to know. There are aspects of your captor's past that you're undoubtedly influence his current actions yet you do not wish to learn such things, not yet.
On exceptionally rare occasions, oftentimes after an intimate night of gently unwinding with him, removing his clothing with all the attentiveness he has expected to be synonymous with being the wife of the sixth harbinger. Brush your lips gently over his skin with a tenderness in your touch he hasn’t felt since… he can’t recall. After several hours in each others passionate embrace, Scaramouche may fall into a restless slumber. You may initially find this rare period of sleep from him to be enjoyable however it opens the gateway to a version of Scaramouche you may find yourself unfamiliar with.
The first night Scaramouche falls asleep in your presence, you soon understand his disdain for sleep. The whimpers and cries that escape the balladeer are completely uncharacteristic for him. You had never heard his voice assume any tone beyond a haughty drawl or an intimidating bark, you almost didn’t recognise it was Scaramouche speaking until a familiar word escaped his throat.
”Y/N...”
It was undoubtedly the balladeer speaking however his voice had been fragile and light as he spoke your name, as though saying it too harshly would cause it to shatter.
”Y/N… come back, please…”
“please...” he had whispered out and the word sounded almost foreign on his tongue. Until now you had assumed the word didn’t even exist in the harbingers vocabulary. His sleep only seemed to worsen. You sat up, unsure whether you should wake him or not. His gentle murmurs were slowly growing louder and more desperate. You watched as his sleeping form writhed across the bed, his arms fully extended as his fingers clenched and unclenched, grasping and pawing at the bedsheets.
You slowly nudged yourself closer to him, preparing to wake him from whatever nightmares was plaguing him until his hand brushed against your night clothes. Suddenly his fist clenched tightly around your waist as he yanked your body impossibly closer, curling around you.
The following morning he untangled his limbs from yours before quickly scurrying out of the room. His gaze never met yours but from the chaste kiss and the way his eyes refused to look up from the ground… you swore he almost seemed embarrassed, his demeanour suiting that of a pouting child rather than an agent of destruction.
As you opened the bedroom doors not long after his departure, the stench of sizzled flesh wafted through the corridors. Some poor Fatuus were now paying the price in blood for Scaramouche’s humiliation as they were demoted from subordinates to the punching bags for him to unleash his rage on. The part of himself that he had buried so deeply, shrouded in layer and layer of bitterness and rage, had exposed itself to your discerning gaze and his mortification was suffocating him.
If he were a weaker man perhaps the humiliation would have brought tears to his eyes but he was stronger than the mewling little wretch he used to be. Like forging a sword, he had beaten the impurities out one by one in the heat of his own hatred and the boiling of his blood until only the perfect blade remained. cold. lethal. merciless. He is no quivering weakling that can simply be thrown away. Not anymore. Never again. In spite of his pathetic display last night he would make certain you and everyone else remembers it.
Hi, would you be able to do a fatui harbingers [especially pantalone (*/∀＼*) ] x disabled + chronically ill reader? Reader uses a wheelchair full time, has chronic stomach pains (that come from absolutely nowhere and doesn't really have any triggers), experiences brain fog and fatigue, and nausea that can occasionally lead to them being sick.
No worries if you don't fancy writing this or if you want to pick and choose from my request x
Thank you for taking the time to read this. Have a good day/night (^-^)
Columbina, Sandrone, Pantalone with chronically ill reader
So i only did a couple from your request and added one for me too… sorry, i’ve just lost all motivation to write :( i just wanted to get this out of my drafts; I only did Sandrone, Pantalone, and Columbina this time; but if i get more motivation i may write for the others later on. Sorry again ｡ﾟ(ﾟ´Д｀ﾟ)ﾟ｡ Got carried away with Sandrone’s and Pantalone’s is lowkey horrible <\3 Tw/Cw: Medicine and vomiting mentioned in Columbina’s
Columbina!
Columbina is new to taking care of someone so fragile, but since she loves you this is just is just another day for her. She always reminds you take your nausea medication on time to try to prevent these sick spells, but she’s aware sometimes they just do not help. When the waves of nausea keep coming and you excuse yourself to the bathroom she does not let you go alone. Columbina will hold your hair back as soon as you start gagging. She will try to rub soothing circles on your back and sing softly between vomit sessions to try and soothe your tears and nerves. After you’re done throwing up she’ll help clean yourself up, whether it’s a rag or a bath is up to you; she doesn’t want to tire you out any further.
Pantalone!
Memory problems are one of the many annoying and frustrating things to deal with but Pantalone has helped others with more troublesome tasks than this. For starters every common area you frequent with have little notes written on it to help remind you of your tasks for the day. He’s also created designated areas for you to put frequently used items to make it easier for you to find your stuff when he’s not around. If you and Regrator are talking together about something and you forget what you were about to say next he will softly repeat what you just said to see if you can recall what you were saying. Not only that but he uses his money for a good reason; meaning to use it on research funding for memory loss programs and for personal care/help for his beloved.
Sandrone!
When it comes to you having trouble having issues with walking look no further Sandrone is here to help! One of the first things she asked you when you guys finally got together was if you wanted prosthetics to help you move around better; she took slight offense when you turned her down, but not enough to cause a fuss. Solution A: Unneeded.
Okay no problem! She’ll just have one of her automatons carry you around all the time like Pulonia did with her. That way if you need to reach somewhere up high like a shelf it can just push you up there so you can grab whatever you needed. -> If you don’t want all that fancy stuff, then she’ll just have an automaton push you around in your wheelchair. Don’t worry though she’ll make sure to make her workshops as accessible as possible for you. Sandrone will make sure every ramp is perfectly angled that way it’s not to steep to go up; or to make sure all the countertops and workbenches are at the best height for you to help assist her. During the later hours if you’re still awake she will personally push you in your chair through the Zapolyarny Palace’s garden so you can look at all the exotic flowers and plants. After all it’s no good for anyone to constantly be cooped up the same room all day. It’s good that you’re her beloved; otherwise she would not have gone through all this trouble for you.
Okay that’s all, if you liked consider liking/reblogging, or commenting!
ok. i'm not going to try to come up with a clever name for this one, this is just. part three. please send an ask or a DM if I missed any CW's! been a while.
Pairing(s): Dottore/Reader, Pantalone/Reader
Word Count: 3.6k
CW: NSFW, drugging (painkillers and other ment), rough sex, biting, threats of mutilation (mild. but it's Dottore), yandere themes, noncon/dubcon, AFAB reader, overstimulation, humiliation
Dottore has been on edge lately.
You can tell. You can see it in his jaw when he’s sedating you as you lie on the operating table, eyes burning and dark as he stares through you at something presumably only he can see. You can see it in the way his hand sometimes twitches slightly– which bodes terribly for you– as he makes a small incision into your thigh, or your stomach, or your arm.
Most of the time, you think he just cuts into you simply because he can. Because he likes to watch the blood welling from the wound, dripping down your skin. He’s been doing it a lot more lately, sometimes forgetting to sedate you, sometimes forgetting to give you something for the pain, sometimes cutting too deep.
It feels like there’s a storm brewing that you can’t see; curtains drawn so you can’t look out the window and see the magnitude, brace yourself for wind or rain.
His clones seem to be affected by it, too; usually it’s only ever the younger clones of his that lash out, but even the supposedly older ones are starting to show signs of agitation. You haven’t seen the same test subject twice in what feels like weeks. All of them seem to enter and leave the lab only once– something that should horrify you more than it does, whenever you watch them wheeling the covered bodies past.
It’s this way for weeks. Dottore stalks around his lab like a harbinger of death, practically oozing poison and malice despite the deceptively calm mask he dons.
You find out what it is that’s been agitating him when he opens the door to your cell one morning. Not a clone. Not the occasional trembling Fatuus. Him. His eyes burn into you. You can’t make out the emotion in them, but the complete coolness in his expression makes your stomach sink. You wonder, briefly, if he’s going to finally kill you– would that be a mercy, at this point? Killing you? Perhaps not. Knowing him, he’d draw it out. Make it hurt.
Still, despite the terror that curls its fingers around your throat, you follow him quietly out of the cell and into the lab, staring at the back of his head as you walk and wishing you could read minds so you could at least brace yourself for whatever this is.
The two of you enter the lab and you finally realize what it is that’s crawled under Dottore’s skin, sat at the desk in the corner as though he’s not terribly out of place in the sterile environment.
Pantalone sits comfortably in one of the chairs near the desk Dottore rarely seems to use, smiling as though he’s received a warm welcome and a parade. Dottore, meanwhile, looks palpably annoyed as he strides past the banker and takes a seat behind the desk, motioning for you to follow.
It’s… Intensely uncomfortable, to say the least. You rarely find yourself sitting at Dottore’s desk, considering the doctor usually prefers to be conducting experiments rather than sitting and compiling data; he usually delegates that to his clones, who bitch and moan about the boring task.
So sitting in a chair, next to the two men who’ve each held you captive at different points, as Dottore practically radiates anger… You don’t know what to do. You fold your hands in your lap, avoiding looking at either one, even as you can feel the two of them just… staring.
You feel like you’re under a microscope, worse than any other time before when you’d been laid out on the operating table under Dottore’s invasive prodding.
Pantalone speaks first, breaking the charged silence.
“I take it you don’t mind if I verify that this one’s real,” He says, rising from his chair and smiling at the way Dottore visibly bristles. “After all, I’m paying for this, aren’t I? I deserve that much.”
It takes you a moment to realize he’s talking about you, and the demeaning way in which he’s referring to you as though you’re some object that might be counterfeit is both unnerving and irritating. You’re careful not to let it show on your face as Pantalone approaches you.
“What-” You start to ask, but you’re swiftly interrupted by gloved fingers prying open your mouth, prodding around in search of something that isn’t there. You feel them press down on your tongue, ghost over molars, then press against the back of your throat until you gag.
Somewhat satisfied, the banker pulls his fingers from your mouth and grips your chin firmly with a now-damp glove, turning your head this way and that and ignoring the obvious discomfort painted on your features as the action smears drool on your skin. What is he doing?
You shoot a glance towards Dottore, who is still just watching. He’s obviously pissed– you can see a vein popping in his forehead, belaying his anger on his otherwise blank face.
Pantalone lets go of your chin in favor of grabbing you by the arms, pulling you up from your chair and motioning for you to spin around in a circle. You do, though you’re still confused, unsure of what’s happening as the banker seems to be appraising you like a precious gem. It’s a different type of poking and prodding than Dottore’s usual tests and checkups, but it’s invasive nonetheless. It’s doubly unsettling that this is the first time you’ve seen the banker without his usual smarmy smile.
Hands find your shoulders and stop you again, and you bristle when they trace the curve of your spine, exposed thanks to the open back of the hospital gown. You feel them stop, tap something just to the left of one of your vertebrae, and Pantalone spins you back around to face him, clearly pleased.
You try not to flinch when he takes a lock of your hair in his hands– it’s gotten so long since you’d been brought back to the lab– and brings it closer to his face. His nose crinkles, palpable disgust on his features, and he mutters something about “that vile soap he makes you use”– likely referring to Dottore– before turning around to face the man in question.
“Are you done ogling?” Dottore asks, his tone clipped. You can’t see him around the banker, but you’re sure he still looks as pissed as before.
Pantalone tilts his head slightly, smiling, then glances over his shoulder at you. “Perhaps not yet, but I’m satisfied enough for now. You’ll get the funding for your little… project, and I expect to see this one at my doorstep every other month from now on.”
Every other month? You frown. Is this some sort of… custody arrangement that the two men worked out? You don’t know if you want to laugh or not at the absurdity of it all; like you’re the unfortunate child of two divorced bastards, except this is much, much worse.
“Fine,” Dottore grits out, in a tone that suggests it’s anything but. He gets up to shoo the banker out of his lab, but Pantalone merely tuts and makes his way back over to where you’re standing, confused, and rests one hand heavily on your shoulder.
“One month starting today, of course,” Pantalone continues, “It’s only fair, after all, when you’ve been hoarding my poor pet this whole time. I have to make up for lost time, after all.”
He delivers those words with a smile that only seems to irritate Dottore further, red eyes boring holes into him as Dottore visibly seems to be contemplating murder. Pantalone speaks up again before he does anything, however, offering a hollow consolation: “Of course, I’m not cruel. How about a farewell? A parting gift, to… tide you over while they’re gone?”
You don’t like the sound of that, and Dottore seems to pick up on the banker’s suggestion as you’re spun around once more and ushered towards the exam table you’ve become intimately familiar with for the last several months.
For this supposedly being Dottore’s “parting gift,” Pantalone is awfully remiss to keep his hands– and commentary– to himself.
“Ah, what a cute noise that was,” You hear him coo, a finger tapping your nose with just enough force to startle you so you flinch, “Don’t you think you’re being a bit rough though, Doctor?”
“Quiet.”
You jostle against the table, gripping the edge of it for support as hips snap into yours with bruising force. Dottore’s fingers are gripping your hips so tightly you’re sure they’ll leave bruises– that’s probably the point, honestly; he’s fucking you like he intends for you to feel it for the entire month you’ll be absent.
Pantalone’s comments aren’t helping things either; despite the banker’s comment about roughness, it only seems to have encouraged the doctor to go even harder.
Thankfully, you were given something for the pain, but not from Dottore. Pantalone had pressed a pill into your gasping mouth when Dottore had started, telling you that you were going to need it, and though swallowing was a struggle, you’re glad he did.
Dull pain and sharp pleasure mingle together, and you’ve long since lost track of the orgasms that have been dragged out of you. You’re starting to numb, honestly, overstimulation bleeding into pain, and you gasp into the table with every sharp thrust into you.
“Tsk– don’t pass out now,” Pantalone chides, fingers curling around your jaw and biting into your cheeks when your eyes threaten to flutter shut, and Dottore snarls something about cutting your spinal cord if you do; something you sincerely hope is an empty threat, given the black spots dancing in your vision. “You still have another thirty minutes to go.”
You don’t remember there being a timer set, much less a time limit, but you certainly know you can’t last that much longer. Your knees have already long since given out, and Dottore had to hoist you up further onto the table so he could continue, leaving your feet dangling a few inches above the ground.
You feel weight against your back, heat, smothering you as Dottore leans down to sink his teeth into your shoulder as he spills inside you once more, and you shudder through another weak orgasm in response, your eyes rolling back and your vision blacking out for several long moments.
Pantalone shakes you back awake before you can slip too far, and you sob as Dottore starts to move again. You already know that you won’t be able to walk for the next few days, if not for the next week.
Tears blur your vision, the world spinning around you as a gloved hand comes to rest against your head, petting you in what’s likely intended as a comforting gesture but only seems to frazzle you further, overwhelmed and overstimulated as you are.
It must be Pantalone, because Dottore lets out an irritated noise, sinking his teeth into your skin to leave a new mark as he resumes the harsh pace he’d set earlier. Another hand, this one not gloved, curls around your throat to dig two fingers into your racing pulse as he tries to engrave himself into your flesh through means slightly less violent than cutting you open.
You can barely keep track of who’s doing what– your vision is too blurred and you’re too far gone to fully piece together a coherent thought before it and the breath are knocked out of you by another snap of Dottore’s hips. One of them reaches down to rub circles into sensitive nerves, and you sob as another climax is ripped unwillingly out of you.
You black out for longer this time, shaken awake once more by Pantalone. He’s cooing something at you that you can’t make out, drowned out by the rush of blood in your ears and the sound of Dottore’s ragged breaths mixing in with your own.
It feels like you’re burning up, shivering weakly under Dottore’s crushing weight as the man seems to be pouring every ounce of frustration into his thrusts, and darkness encroaches on the corners of your vision with every movement.
Another shuddering orgasm. You twitch weakly through it, your body registering the sensation more than your mind does.
The world seems to tip, swaying like a vessel rocked by choppy waves before finally capsizing. Your vision goes, and you’re pulled into a sea of static.
It smells like lilacs.
It’s the first thing you notice when you slowly come to, a stark contrast to the smell of bleach and copper that you’ve become accustomed to. You’re also dressed in some proper clothes– or rather, ”proper,” compared to the usual paper-thin hospital gowns you’ve worn since being brought back to the lab.
Opening your eyes, you’re greeted with the familiar luxuries you remember seeing when you were last in Pantalone’s care, and the sight would nearly be a relief if consciousness didn’t bring with it the unbearable ache in every inch of your body. There’s a budding headache building behind your temples, stinging pains from various bites and bruises littering your skin like brands.
It aches most between your legs, but there’s an ache in your thighs and your stomach like you’d pulled every muscle within; you probably did, honestly, but you try to push back the memory invading your thoughts and you sit up in bed.
“You’re awake,” A silky voice drawls from behind you just as you sit up, and you turn around to see Pantalone sitting in an armchair in the corner, one leg folded over the other as he reads a book. He doesn’t look up as he addresses you; he just pats his knee, indicating he expects you to come to him. You’re not sure you can walk…
Climbing out of the soft bed hurts, various muscles protesting the movement, and you’re not surprised when your knees give out on you the second you rest your weight on your feet. Pantalone simpers at you from where he sits, amused, but he makes no move to help you stand up or walk. He just pats his thigh again, smiling at you.
“I can’t walk,” Even talking hurts, evidenced by the crackling of your voice when you speak.
“Then crawl.”
He says it so simply, as though you should have already known the answer. Your ears burn with humiliation. You don’t move.
“Don’t make me punish you on your first day back,” He says, setting his book down so he can properly address you. His tone is disappointed, but you don’t miss the way the bastard’s smile widens at the idea.
Pantalone’s punishments aren’t nearly as severe as Dottore’s are, at least in terms of pain. Rather than physical punishments, he seems to prefer humiliation. You’re tempted to try your luck, but… everything hurts. You don’t want him to decide you haven’t earned the privilege of clothes– or find something equally humiliating and degrading– on top of the pain you’re already in.
Crawling hurts. Every muscle protests the movement, yet again, but you force yourself to ignore the aches, to ignore the humiliation burning beneath your skin at being made to crawl over to him.
When you finally reach him you sit up unsteadily so you can climb into his lap, but you’re surprised when he stops you by pressing a gloved hand firmly against your head to keep you planted on your knees in front of him.
Instead of addressing your confusion, Pantalone merely smiles and takes hold of your wrist, raising your arm to inspect the scars and bruises littering your skin from the months spent under Dottore’s care. His face twists with disgust, shifting into faux sympathy when he addresses you again, “Poor thing. Look what he’s done to you…”
His free hand comes to rest on his knee as he straightens up, uncrossing his legs, and you hear a steady tap tap tap as he drums his index finger against his knee thoughtfully. “Aren’t you glad I’ve brought you back from that wretched place?”
It’s a leading question. You know he expects you to answer correctly, and you get the sense he’s leading into something; a demand. “...Yes.”
“I knew you would be.” He says, dropping your wrist and leaning back comfortably in the armchair. He looks down at you, clearly pleased with the position you’re in. He props one elbow against the arm of the chair, resting his head in his hand as he smiles down at you. “Why don’t you be a good pet and show me just how appreciative you are?”
The implication isn’t lost on you, but whatever hope you’d had that he might mean something else is dashed as he spreads his legs slightly further apart to make room for you between them, and you don’t miss the growing bulge in his dress pants.
Your hands are numb as you reach for his belt, and you barely flinch when his hand rests heavily against the back of your hand as you take him into your mouth.
One cage for another. You’re not even sure you’re relieved, because every part of you still aches from the reminders Dottore had left you with.
His hand presses against the back of your head, guiding you to take him further into your mouth, and you struggle to breathe around his length. You nearly gag as he pushes you down further, pushing back in resistance, and Pantalone clicks his tongue in disappointment but thankfully, lets up. Maybe he doesn’t want to ruin his pants.
“I’ll get you something for the scarring,” He murmurs, fingers curling in your hair as you bob your head up and down his length. “And those garish bruises.”
Whether it’s an insult towards you or Dottore, you’re not sure. You try not to focus on it, instead focusing on the task at hand. You lave your tongue along the base of his shaft, earning a small shiver and a heady sigh from him.
He’s silent for a few minutes as you continue to pleasure him, but you feel him boring holes into the top of your head. You don’t look up at him; you don’t want to. You’re trying to get this over with, and hoping that his silence means you’re doing well.
The hand on the top of your head leaves, and you flinch when you feel him trace his fingers over one of the scabbed over bites left by Dottore, nearly biting down in surprise. You swallow, suppress the urge, resuming your pace even as he traces the outline of every bite left littered along your neck, your collarbone, your shoulders.
Pantalone straightens up a little, pressing his hand against the back of your head again to force you to take more than you already can. This time, he doesn’t relent when you push back, just holding his hand still until you stop whimpering and you manage to swallow back the urge to gag.
“Hush.” He tells you in response to your muffled noises, groaning quietly at the way your throat vibrates around his cock.
You eventually relax, eventually get used to the feeling, and he lets you pull back slightly before he’s pressing down again, repeating until tears are spilling down your cheeks as you struggle not to reflexively bite down each time you gag slightly around his length.
“How would you feel about something… permanent?” He asks, and his fingers are tracing the bites again. You try to pull back to answer, but his other hand stops you and he rocks his hips lazily into your mouth. A rhetorical, then; he doesn’t care for your answer.
You try to blink back your tears as you resume the pace you’d set, sucking lightly on his cock as his hand curls into your hair. It’s hard to focus on what he’s saying as his hand keeps threatening to force you down farther than you can take, and you’re focusing on stamping down the swelling nausea.
“Something- hm-” He hums, and you can tell he’s getting close now, with the way his breathing is starting to deepen, his hand tightening its hold on your hair- “something tasteful. Not like those eyesores he leaves you. A collar is- fuck- too… too easy to remove.”
You don’t like where this is going, but humming your dissent only earns you a pleasured hiss and a rumble of praise spilling from his lips before he’s curling his fingers around the back of your neck.
It’s the only warning you get before he shoves your head down, holding you there as cum spills into your mouth and down your throat. It takes everything in you to relax your jaw, and you pull back gasping and sputtering the second he relents.
By the time your vision clears and you blink back the tears spilling from your eyes, he’s already tucked himself back into his pants and is just watching you struggle to catch your breath. He doesn’t even comment on the mess of cum and drool that spilled from your lips onto the floor.
It takes you a second to realize he’s not staring at you, but rather at the marks left on your skin.
After a minute of tense silence, he smiles again, patting his lap this time in invitation for you to sit, and you ignore the familiar sting of humiliation as you obey. Again, one of his hands curls around the nape of your neck, tracing some pattern into your skin.
“Right here,” He murmurs, though he doesn’t elaborate when your brows pinch together in confusion.
It takes you a second to realize he’s tracing invisible letters across your nape, then another few to realize it’s his name that he’s tracing into your skin.
Something tells you that Dottore isn't going to be pleased to see you again at the end of the month.
hello! I saw that your request status was open and recently ive read your "you fell first, they fell harder" can we get a part 2 of that? (w diff characters, any characters are fine!)
Idk can you?
You Fell First
They fell harder
Ft. Pantalone, Alhaitham, Scaramouche
Pantalone:
He knows all too well how easily emotions cloud one's logic
And he fully plans to exploit that fact
It just amuses him greatly to see how willingly you'd obey him, almost like a pet
Until it started to seem more like you were just a doting master, and he, your spoilt cat
It finally dawned on him when you'd noticed he looked a little tense and offered to massage his shoulders
The more he relaxed into your touch, the less he wanted you to stop touching him
Until he caught one of your hands and brought it to cup his own cheek
Nuzzling said hand before planting a kiss on your palm
Yes, he could definitely get used to this sort of treatment
And you should get used to giving him said treatment or he'll loom over you pretending to be monitoring you
Really just looking for an opportunity to hold you from behind or something
Alhaitham:
Disgusting icky plant man
He probably just didn't realised he was fond of you ngl
Which leads to a lot of "they're just a friend" moments
He's holding doors for you, even doing a lil jog to make sure he gets to the door before you do - very friendly behaviour
Leans his head on your shoulder when you flirt with him - classic friend activity
You're such a great friend for tagging along to help out with all his shenanigans<3
But why are the people he's trying to negotiate getting so...chummy with you?
Now that won't do, he's the only one who's supposed to kiss your knuckles and sidle up to you
"What are you, grouchy, their boyfriend?"
"That is correct, so if you had any semblance of sense left, you'd step away from them."
Scaramouche:
First he thinks it's a joke; you're friends now, friends joke about these things, right?
Then he starts to suspect you're trying to pull a prank on him and break his heart like everyone else dear to him did; very funny, but he's figured it out so please stop
But when you insist it's not? He's still suspicious
It's like feeding a feral cat, you drop the food (your affection) a little bit in front of you and step back so he can inch forward and snatch it up before retreating, getting a teeny bit closer to you each time
He also finds comfort in you patting his head - ruffling his hair and the likes - not that he'd admit to it outright
But you'll find he's more willing to incline his head towards you, especially when you're in need of a little comfort
You'll probably never really notice just how hard he's fallen for you because he won't make it obvious, but know that anything you feel for him, he feels stronger
He scares himself with how much he adores you, how much vulnerability he shows you
And that's really the only way to know you've caught him hook, line, and sinker, because under no circumstances would he let himself be so bare before simply anyone
Taglist[send an ask to be added/removed]: @myluvkeiji @pluvioseprince @aqui-soba @favonius-captain @tiredsleep @raincxtter @gensimping-for-all @irethepotato @almond-adeptus @mx-kamisato @yuzuricebun @chaosinanutshell @heizours @haliyamori @callmemeelah @sadlonelybagel @plinkuro @thevictoriousmoon @mastering-procrastinating @lovers-on-the-eiffel @cxlrosii @miss-fantazmagoria @lychme
☰PANTALONE IS HOT! REGRATOR’S WIFE MODE ACTIVATED!!
┋SO i saw the harbinger trailer and i’m coming off hiatus for five minutes to thirst over this man.
⸝⸝⸝ CW: fat cock alert, pantalone stretching your poor pussy, faux sympathy dom, pet names, daddy/master kink, breeding kink, creampie
LOOK AT HIM
more harbinger thirsts ♡
REGRATOR knows that he’s big. the look on your face when you sink down on his massive girth is enough to tell him that. it’s cute how you stretch your cunt to the max just to hear that little grunt he gives once he’s balls deep. it’s even cuter when he sees the tears threatening to spill down your face at the sensation of being so full. with the tip of his cock pressed snugly against your womb, he knows it’s only a matter of time before you’re rendered his braindead cockslut.
REGRATOR adores how you innocently bat your lashes at him when you want something. most of the time he gives in to your wishes, but if you’re being a little brat about it? he’s going to edge you until you’re screaming for him to fuck you. once you’re at that point, he’ll give you that same innocent look he always wears like he doesn’t know what you’re talking about. “just one more, darling”, he purrs at you as he dips his head back down to bring you to another orgasm.
REGRATOR likes when you call him “daddy” or “master”. you said it once as a joke to tease him, but he became infatuated with hearing the sultry words come out of your mouth. now, you must address him as that whenever you’re alone together. god forbid another fatui member or even another harbinger heard you call him that — he would never be able to live it down. more embarrassing than someone hearing you call him that would be them seeing how hard it makes him. his pants tighten rather quickly when you whisper the word in his ear and he can never put off fucking you dumb for long.
REGRATOR hates wasting. whether it’s time or money, he absolutely despises those who throw it away. more importantly, he can’t stand wasting his cum. why would he want to cum down your throat when you have a perfectly good pussy? obsessed with emptying his balls into your tight cunt, he pretends that it’s all about his philosophy about wasting. it’s not. he doesn’t want to admit that the sight of you stuffed to the brim with his seed makes his head spin. once he’s emptied his load, he’s using his fingers to push any cum that leaked out back into you.
Pairing: Tartaglia, Dottore, Pantalone and Pierro with Fem-Bodied!Reader (separately)
Synopsis: You belong only to them, and how do they make sure you can't escape? Contains bonus NS.FT for every character.
Warnings: MINORS BEGONE | Yandere themes, Manipulation, Dark Content, Dub-Con, Sexual Content, Misuse of Medicine (Dottore), Financial Dependency (Pantalone), Breeding (Pantalone), Kidnapping (Tartaglia), Unhappy Relationship, Pierro's one is vague because there's not much canon stuff about his personality
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.｡.:*♡ It takes no words to know that Pierro is dangerous. He'll tell you about how dangerous the world is, and then he'll remind you that he's worse. You can't run away from him. It's instilled in your very being that no matter where you hide, he will find you and dig his claws deeper and deeper into you. His presence is enough to make you cower in fear of what might happen if you disobey him.
.｡.:*♡ Every time you have sex with him feels like he's devouring you. He's extremely silent, he neither degrades not praises you. He knows what he wants and will take it from you whether you like it or not. He's big and he knows it, he also knows it's painful for you to fit around him, but look into those scarred eyes of his and you'll know he enjoys your pain.
.｡.:*♡ Truth be told, Dottore hates the thought of losing you. You were the most beautiful specimen he's seen, the most detailed book he's every touched. And he wants to keep you to himself, for eternity. So if you find your health rapidly decline, to the point you have to depend on another human being, know it's the Doctor. He'll make you terribly sick and then spend hours tending and curing you. Just accept his thoughtfulness already, not like you'd last a second without another one of his syringes piercing your veins.
.｡.:*♡ Oh how he loves seeing you shiver in his arms from the aphrodisiacs he just gave you. He loves your squeezing your eyes shut and trying to not give yourself in to what your body wants. His grip on your hips were cold and demanding, travelling lower and lower with every single second. He shushed your whines, licking away the sweat collecting at your jawline. He felt excited, thinking about just how adorable you were completely dependent on him. You need him for your pleasure too! And all that excitement was travelling straight down to his crotch. He would cup your ass, whispering sweetly in your ears about how you need to pleasure him first to receive his kindness.
.｡.:*♡ The Regrator is a master tactician. Pantalone knows the exact way to keep you with him, and he had kept his patience and built up to this very moment. The harbinger had been sponsoring your every move, sabotaging any methods through which you could've earned for yourself. He makes sure you feel indebted to him, and worship him for the kindness he shows you. And every time a spark of hesitation shows up in you? He'll threaten to cut off any money he's giving you- He'll remind you of your family who won't be able to provide fir themselves in this snowy land. He loves you to the depths of abyss, and being your sugar daddy both helps you out and keeps you bound to him.
.｡.:*♡ Pantalone loves seeing your tearful eyes as his dick is rearranging your guts. He loves how you're unable to complain as your simply paying him back. He scolds you for not being used to his affection yet, considering how many times you two had sex. He promises to fill you up- and he'll say that as if he's doing you a favour - and he'll tell about how you don't have to worry about the expenses of having a child. After all, even if you dared to leave him, you're not heartless enough to abandon a child, are you?
.｡.:*♡ Tartaglia never understood why you seem to be scared of him. He thought you were fragile, so he took his time to be protective of you. What do you mean that man wasn't threatening you and he needn't kill him? Soon after one point, he was getting tired of you trying to shove him away. He simply decided to take you to his homeland and keep you safe in his quarters. He silenced all your pleas and cries with affectionate kisses, raking his fingers through your hair as you sobbed on his lap.. Snezhnaya was a little harsh to newcomers- but he was sure you'd adapt in a few weeks. But this nation also helped him in a way- you'd never be able to escape without the help of Fatui. And which Fatui would disobey a harbinger?
.｡.:*♡ He loved tying you up. There was something that made him feral seeing you struggle against your bonds. He felt proud of himself for finally making you his. There was no where you could go to now, and nothing could possibly hurt you- except him, that is. He had promised you that he'd always entertain you, and he proved so with his dick. But strangely, he'd always ask for your consent first. A little something that made it feel like you still have an ounce of freedom left. Though it's hard to ascertain if it has any ulterior motive or not.
.｡.:*♡ (Bonus) Tartaglia was like a lovesick puppy. Though he kept you locked, he'd always beg for your affection. He never forced anything on you. He'd sit down beside you and tell you about all the hardships he has faced in his life, and sometimes he'd even borrow your shoulder to cry on. It like... He wants someone to give him time, and since no one in his childhood did, he forced that responsibility onto you- in exchange for keeping you 'safe'.
