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Pantalone has eyes and ears everywhere. He may rarely leave the comforts of his lush life in Snezhnaya, but still, his gaze is everywhere at once. That should mean good things for you—that should mean he does not have to leave you alone at all in order to do his dealings.
Except it doesn’t.
The last time he spent a proper night with you was three weeks ago. The last time you shared a meal together was possibly longer. You’ve about reached your limit, too—you don’t even bother knocking when you enter his office.
Pantalone’s assistants have long since learned not to question it, and he himself is far too occupied to chide you for it today. The door closes softly behind you, and you immediately spot him at his desk—perfect posture, gloved fingers adjusting his glasses as he reviews a thick stack of documents, pen gliding across the page as he does his careful calculations of every number.
Typical.
It has been three weeks of this. Three weeks of him drowning in report after report from his subordinates for whatever it is his newest project entails. Three weeks of his damned office becoming his new home, completely forgetting about the one he shares with you.
You love him, you really do. But sometimes, you wish to strangle him.
But you choose mercy today. With a theatrical sigh, you flop onto the velvet couch in the corner of his office, limbs sprawled without the faintest care for decorum. You roll onto your back dramatically, hoping the rustle of your movements is loud enough to be noticed.
It isn’t. His pen simply continues to scratch across the document. Then the page turns. Another note is written in his elegant script.
You groan loudly—still nothing.
“…Pantalone,” you finally cave, drawing out his name in an agitated little huff.
“Mm,” he hums, noncommittal—he acknowledges your presence, but does so without looking up. The audacity.
You sit up, glaring at him even though he doesn’t look at you. “It has been three weeks, you know,” you announce, crossing your arms. “Three. Entire. Weeks. Three weeks since I have even seen you. You could have been dead for all I know!”
“I trust Her Majesty the Tsaritsa would not grant me such little acknowledgment should one of her faithful Harbingers die,” he says without missing a beat, “my death would surely not happen in silence.”
“I could have run off with another man in this time, and you wouldn’t have even known!” you try, instead. His quill does pause this time—just for a moment. And then he continues his steady rhythm as he writes once more. A lesser man would at least try to look apologetic. Pantalone simply looks focused. You lean back again, flopping against the cushions. “You’re ignoring me,” you accuse, though you know very well he hears every breath you take.
“Hardly,” he replies smoothly, still not lifting his gaze from his work. “I am simply preoccupied. There is a difference.”
“You haven’t given me real attention in ages,” you huff. “You’ve not kissed me in weeks. I have slept alone the entire time. No one has even given me a gift and said ‘Lord Harbinger Pantalone wishes for me to deliver this to you, my lady’ either!”
His lips twitch—just a faint curve, the ghost of a smile he’s trying not to indulge. “You are spoiled, my dear,” he says mildly.
“And whose fault is that?”
This time, he actually looks up briefly, his eyes cutting toward you with amusement before returning to the papers on his desk. “Mine,” he admits without hesitation.
You perk up, triumphant. “So then you should fix it.”
“After I finish checking these calculations.”
“How many more calculations?”
“Hm.” He flips a page. “Several.”
You groan again, louder this time, throwing an arm dramatically over your face as you slump back. “Oh dear, Pantalone. I have really bad news—I think I’m falling ill. You should come check to see if it’s serious.”
“Tragic,” he murmurs. “Shall I have a physician sent for you?”
“No,” you huff. “I need you.”
A quiet laugh that escapes him is his only answer—low, warm, and terribly fond. But he keeps working.
You slump deeper into the cushions, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in thought. Stewing, plotting, cataloging every weakness you know he has. If he will not come to you willingly…then you will simply have to pry his attention from him by any means necessary.
“What are you working on?” you pout, tilting your head to feign interest. “If you are so busy, then it must be important.”
“It is important,” he replies without looking up.
“What makes it so important?”
He huffs a soft laugh. “Do not ask questions where the answers will only bore you, my dove.” Finally, he looks up long enough to give you a perceptive, amused glance. “I will arrange for someone to bring a few gifts to occupy you in the meantime. Surely that will suffice until I am finished.”
Your mouth falls open. Gifts. As if you are a troublesome little pet that needs a distraction from time to time. Absolutely not. You sit up straighter, indignation simmering.
“You think I am so easily appeased? That I can be distracted with just a few lavish trinkets while you bury yourself in your projects?”
“Yes,” he answers, too smoothly. “Past instances would prove this to be true.”
You narrow your eyes. “Well, I am not.”
“I see, I must be mistaken, then. Of course you’re not,” he agrees, though he is clearly lying.
You whine, a little more pitiful this time. “Pantalone.”
He sighs—long-suffering, but still patient and still endeared despite it all. “Yes, my dear?”
“If you truly believe the topic will bore me,” you say sweetly, “then surely you can explain it to me quickly. Unless, of course…you think you cannot explain it in a way I would understand.”
His eyes lift. Slowly. Sharply. A direct hit.
“Is that what you think?” he asks, voice lowering.
You nod innocently. “You never were very good at keeping things concise, were you? It can’t be helped, I suppose. It’s only your nature, my love.”
Another hit. This time, his lips twitch, but he stays silent.
And as a final nail in the coffin, you finish with, “But I heard Lord Second has had a hand in your little…project, darling, so perhaps I can always ask him. What with that brilliant mind he has and all, I’m sure he would be able to explain in terms that I would—”
His pen is set down with a deliberately calm hand. His gloved fingers intertwine with one another as he folds his hands together. And then—finally—he gives you his full attention, those familiar eyes you love gleaming with a glint that says he’s absolutely taken your bait.
“Darling,” he says with a soft, dangerous smile, “I assure you, I am more than capable of explaining any of my work to you in simple terms. I am a very well-spoken man, you know.”
You beam triumphantly. “Oh? Then explain.”
“Very well,” he murmurs, voice dropping into something smooth and professorial, “then allow me to enlighten you, since you are so very eager to hear.”
“I am,” you nod.
“Well, you see, my dear,” he starts—and you are certain this is the beginning of quite the lengthy tangent, but you are only human. You have festered in the absence of his attention (attention he typically spoils you with just as generously as he does with his riches) long enough, and now you’ll take anything. Even just hearing him spiral into a long rant about something you hardly understand. “Mora is a form of currency created and controlled by the Gods, yes?”
“Well, of course,” you mumble, a little confused about where he intends to go with his question. It’s common knowledge that mora was once created by the God of Geo. A god that Pantalone had once turned to with pleading prayers on his tongue and little food in his stomach. He was just a child then—smaller and frailer than most his age.
In the beginning, it had shocked you how easily he could tell you about his troubles as a child. He does not seem like the sort of man who enjoys being vulnerable, nor the sort of man who would willingly share the more-than-humble beginnings that contrast so sharply with the life he leads now. But Pantalone is not ashamed of his past. He is not ashamed to tell you of the injustices he endured. He is not afraid to speak the truth of the Gods and their little regard for the destitute who gaze up at statues of the Archons with hope in their chests and hunger in their bellies, pleading for the gaze of a God and a path to change.
“With that in mind, I have intentions,” he continues, “though one could call them a bit…ambitious of intentions, if you will. And I have more than enough experience in climbing toward my objectives to know that beginning with something small is the wisest and most inconspicuous path to achieving larger ends. Therefore, I conducted a minor experiment—well, I should say I enlisted some assistance to conduct a minor experiment for me.”
You furrow your brows. “What sort of experiment?”
“An experiment demonstrating that we mortals do not require the indulgence of the divine in order to create, let alone manage, our own currency. The Fontainian prison—have you heard of it? A fascinating institution, my dear.”
You shake your head. “It’s a prison,” you shrug. “We have one too, darling. Surely you weren’t so invested in a prison from another nation these past few weeks?”
“But this prison is different,” he says, a slow, delighted grin curling across his face. Pantalone revels in moments like this—in explanations and theories and the chance to demonstrate the breadth of the knowledge he once could only dream of possessing. There was a time when he could not afford his next meal, when education was as distant a luxury as warmth. But now…now he is wealthy not only in coin, but in information. Information that, in his hands, is as valuable as any other asset of his.
“The Fortress of Meropide,” he continues, “is an autonomous region within Fontaine. It is formally recognized as the official prison to which all convicted individuals are sent once their trials have concluded and their sentences are declared. However—and this, my dove, is what makes it truly remarkable—neither the official government nor the Archon herself holds any authority over the very institution to which they consign their citizens. The Fortress governs itself. Entirely. You could call its association with the Fontanian government a sort of partnership rather than a direct branch.”
Huh, you think. That is, admittedly, a bit fascinating. And he can see the spark of interest in your eyes. He never misses such things, and seeing you take an interest pleases him—that much is obvious. So, with a touch of boldness that you’re certain he will excuse, you rise from the couch and cross the room, slipping onto his lap as if you belong there. (You like to believe you do, in fact.) Your arms curl around his neck, your warmth pressing into him as much as his does to you. He allows you to settle yourself in his arms and interrupt him a bit longer because his own hands settle protectively on your hips, pulling you closer.
“That does sound like a fascinating place,” you hum, brushing a kiss along his jaw. “Won’t you tell me more? I promise I’ll listen.”
“Sweet words used to disguise a bargain are tactics I know exceptionally well, my love,” he replies, lifting a brow. His tone is dry, but you know him—he is amused, not offended. “Surely you would expect nothing less from a businessman of my stature?”
“Of course,” you grin. “But I miss my darling lover, and he is busy with his work. So what better compromise is there than him granting me his presence while he discusses that very work? It sounds perfectly agreeable to me.”
“Very well,” he chuckles, the sound low and warm as he presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “Then allow me to continue.”
“I would love it if you did,” you bat your lashes innocently, giving him a cheeky smile.
He only chuckles again, rolling his eyes as he says, “For context, the prison of Fontaine is underwater—”
“Underwater?” you gasp. “For what purpose? That is quite an odd location, don’t you think?”
“That is a lesson for later,” he huffs. “Pay attention.”
You soothe his frown with a small, chaste kiss—your silent apology for interrupting. “Okay, okay, tell me later, then. Continue.”
That does its part in softening him, and he hums as he resumes. “Well, being a prison of all things, and located so far from Fontaine’s main city, inmates do not enjoy the same luxuries as those in, say, Snezhnaya’s prison might be privy to. And I’m sure you can imagine that being an autonomous body only heightens their struggle when it comes to funding and budgeting.”
“Hm, makes sense,” you nod. “Perhaps they should consider allowing the government to annex them, then, if they are in such trying times.”
“There is no need for all that,” he says with a wide grin. “You see, I heard of the issue—and I thought to myself: hm, there must be a better way. And then it occurred to me—in a place like a prison, where gold and mora hold no value for inmates who have been stripped of their riches, it only makes sense to give them… something else to value, no? A perfect opportunity to see how the implementation of man-made currency might serve. So I gave them credit coupons. An entirely artificial currency. You see, my dove, value is nothing more than collective belief. If you hand a man a pouch of mora he cannot spend, it becomes a paperweight. But give him a slip of paper that can buy him an extra hour of curfew, a better meal, a warmer blanket, a trinket from the shop—then suddenly he is willing to work.”
He grins broadly, eyes clearly delighted as he savors the memory.
“And work they do, my dear. I am sure by now you have heard that Fontaine is known for their Clockwork Meka? Well, production of their parts is a tedious, complex, labor-intensive ordeal. Fontaine adores their little mechanical toys, and the Fortress can produce them in mass quantities if they utilize the number of hands they have idle with nothing to do all day. If the inmates put in the labor, then the Fortress can trade the meka with Fontaine for raw materials and essentials. In return, the inmates receive coupons valuable only within those walls. Do you see? A perfect cycle. Self-sustaining. Efficient. An entire economy built from the ground up—and without the meddling of the Gods.”
His voice grows more animated the longer he speaks, hands gesturing with enthusiasm.
“That is possibly the most beautiful part of it. A currency backed by no divine power—yet it is worth everything there. I have, in essence, fashioned a fabricated economy with its own rules, its own incentives, its own hierarchy of wealth. Is it not marvelous? A perfectly successful experiment in man-made economics…and one with rather promising implications. Such positive results only further prove that we do not need the likes of the Gods to dictate this world or its wealth. I can create a heart, right here in Snezhnaya—a heart that pumps prosperity to every part of Teyvat equally. And to think that it all would stem from nothing but the brilliant mind of a mortal.”
You listen to him as he finishes, his voice tapering off with a pleased sigh at himself. Most (if not all) of Pantalone’s colleagues think he speaks in nonsensical circles about the same thing. Over and over again. A loop that he makes his way around without ending. You, on the other hand—when you can make sense of what he says, of course—fall for him all over again when he speaks.
The first time Pantalone reveals anything of his past to you, it is in the quiet after your first night together. The room is still warm as it lingers with the scent of your intimacy, and the sheets loosely cover your bare bodies. Moonlight catches faintly on the curve of his cheekbone as he turns to you, lying beside you, his expression unguarded in a way you suspect no one else has ever witnessed. Your hand is rubbing slowly into his bare chest when he speaks of where he came from.
He says it so simply then, like he is merely stating a fact: that he grew up with nothing. That he learned hunger before he learned ambition. That survival was not a given for him the way it was for others, but rather, a question he asked again and again with no guarantee of an answer.
There is something so vulnerable in the way he admits it—not with shame but with the tired, defeated familiarity of a scar he has long since stopped trying to hide. A childhood spent with cold rooms while in a world that offered warmth only to those the Gods had seen fit to bless. His life, like so many others born into scarcity, had been shaped not by lack of talent or effort, but by a divine hierarchy that claimed fairness while choosing favorites. The Gods will acknowledge those who earn their gazes, he’d told you bitterly, as it turns out, a child nearly starving to their death is not worth looking at.
It becomes clear, then, why he pursues his ambitions so relentlessly. It becomes clear, then, that in his mind, the cruelty of the world was never a tragic accident, but rather, the result of a broken design that is manufactured by those who hold enough power to never let it break in the first place. A design that allowed some to starve while others thrived simply because fate willed them to do so. A design that sometimes even rewards those who hardly care for the Gods before it does the ones suffering as they plead their prayers to the divine.
Pantalone does not always speak in long, tireless tangents. Sometimes, he speaks enough to make up for a child who has never been heard. A child who suffered the cold that bit his fingers, the hunger that hollowed his ribs, the knowledge that his life had been deemed lesser before he’d even had the chance to live it. A child who yearned to prove that the hands of mortals—clever, resourceful, stubbornly resiliant mortals—could build a world that offers more than the one shaped by the whims of pathetic Gods.
So you listen. You watch him as he basks in his own triumph, and then you tilt your head and smile before you say, “That’s really a very impressive experiment, darling.”
Your voice does not hide the admiration laced within it, and oh, it hits him like a blessing straight from the Gods. A blessing they have never granted them—but you…well, you grant him many, many blessings. His spine goes a little straighter. It’s subtle, but unmistakable. His expression remains that perfectly controlled and refined picture of a businessman…but his eyes? His eyes brighten like a man who’s just received a valuable present wrapped in expensive silk.
“Is that so?” he asks, tone perfectly calculated to sound as if your praise is merely an interesting piece of information—but the faint upward curl of his lips betrays him completely.
“Mhm,” you continue lightly, fingers playing with the baby hairs at the nape of his neck. “You made a whole currency system out of nothing but your whim. That’s pretty genius, you know.”
His breath catches—and then he clears his throat causally to smooth over the sound. “I suppose,” he hums, “one could characterize it that way.”
You grin. There it is. That elated tone he only gets when you think he’s done well. “There’s no need to be humble about it, you silly thing. I wouldn’t say it was impressive if it truly weren’t.”
He fails to hide it this time. His arms pull you closer, the corners of his eyes warmer, every part of his expression just a bit too pleased. “Well, I suppose your approval is… appreciated,” he manages, clinging to his dignity quite stubbornly.
You grin. “You’re rather adorable when you get excited.”
He draws himself up, scandalized. “I am not—”
“Oh, absolutely, you are. You’re practically wagging your tail.”
“That is not true—” His voice cuts off in a flustered huff as he digs his fingers lightly into your hips, a warming little squeeze meant to look reprimanding but landing as nothing short of playful. “Don’t act so smug,” he scolds firmly, which would convince you better if his eyes weren’t sparkling like he’s having the time of his life.
You laugh, wriggling away from his hands. “Must you make an argument out of everything?”
“I am not arguing, I am merely correcting a grotesque mischaracterization of my behavior.”
“That you’re adorable?”
“I am not. I am dignified.” Another squeeze to your hips. “Very, very dignified. I am very skilled at maintaining standards.”
You raise a brow. “Of being adorable?”
“Of having composure,” he corrects sharply. “Something you clearly lack.”
You gasp in mock outrage. “How dare you? When have I ever lacked composure?”
“Hm.” He pretends to consider it. He gives you a devastatingly knowing smile. “Perhaps when you practically dissolved into the cushions. It’s painfully undignified how childlike you can pout.”
“You—!” You swat at his shoulder, glaring. “How could you have seen me pout? You didn’t even spare me a glance to notice that!”
“Oh, I noticed,” he says with a soft, infuriatingly smug hum. “Quite thoroughly.”
“Then you admit you were watching me, and you still chose to ignore me?”
“I was simply aware of my surroundings.”
“So then you ignored your surroundings!”
“You were being quite distracting,” he gives you a tired, burdened sigh—it’s hardly a sincere one. Anyone with eyes, even the Gods that have turned their back to him all his life, would notice how fond he is. You could never exhaust or burden him.
“But you love it when I am,” you wink cheekily.
“I tolerate it,” he insists, even as his thumb drags slowly across your waist. “Reluctantly.”
You laugh, breath warm against his cheek as you press a satisfied peck into the skin. “If you’re so reluctant, why are you holding me like this? And if you’re so dignified, shouldn’t you be immune to distractions?”
“That is a tragically misguided assumption,” he says, voice dropping to a low, deep drawl, “tell me again how undignified you think I am.”
“Very undignified, Lord Ninth,” you whisper.
His hand slides from your waist to your jaw, and his fingers curl just beneath your chin as he turns your face toward him. The gesture is gentle, but there is nothing soft about the intensity or the hunger behind his eyes.
“No,” he murmurs, gaze dipping to your mouth, “I am not.” His thumb strokes once along your bottom lip. “If I were undignified, then I would have already done this.”
He doesn’t give you time to question what he means. Or breathe. Or think. Or even register what he is doing until he’s done it.
His mouth claims yours in a kiss that is nothing short of searing—hungry and impatient and desperate all at once. You conclude from the kiss alone that Pantalone has missed you just as much as you have missed him the last few weeks. That he has barely held onto his restraint and self-control, and you being here is the single thing that can unravel his composure.
His other arm stays wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him—which is almost impossible, considering how close you already are to begin with. You gasp into his mouth, and he swallows the sound greedily, deepening the kiss as his tongue invades your mouth and swipes against your own. You reward him with a low moan, melting against his chest as he hums, pleased.
When—and only when air makes it necessary to pull away, does he allow for there to be a gap between you both. Only then does he let there be space between you as he admires the way your lips are plump and glistening with his saliva and the way your eyes are hazy and unfocused. Despite taking his time away for his recent project, Pantalone is a diligent lover. A very doting and dutiful one who loves the feeling of spoiling you rotten. When you are sat on his lap, begging with your eyes for something only he can give to you, you know the answer will never be no, regardless of how busy he is.
“You did do that, though,” you refer to his earlier statement and the kiss that followed, “so that makes you undignified after all.”
“You—”
“And I think we can be undignified together right here if you would spare me a few minutes,” you interrupt.
“Well,” he chuckles, “what’s a few more moments now that you’ve stolen so many from me, anyway?”
His fingers slowly wander along the hem of your dress before he carefully lifts it up your thighs. It’s an expensive little thing—delicate and hand-stitched from Liyue. Pantalone likes you in dresses from there the most, you’ve long gathered. He spends a hefty sum of mora importing them all the way to Snezhnaya just for you, and when you are in particular need of something from him, you make sure to wear one.
Just for a little luck in your favor.
“Did you wear this just to see me?” he hums. Like he knows. (He does.)
“Of course not,” you huff. As if you aren’t aware that he can see right through you. (You are.)
“Hm, my dear, you always have been stubborn,” he murmurs, and then, his fingers move between your thighs as he shifts you on his lap, expertly moving your panties to the side and slipping his fingers into your cunt.
You’re wet. Already have been the second his lips molded against yours—he takes a greedy amount of pleasure in it. Pantalone is not a greedy man when it comes to mora. He does not hoard wealth with the goal to keep it long term, and he does not seek to accumulate more than all around him. Most have improper assumptions about your lover. Pantalone is only wealthy now as a means to his goals—goals that will one day ensure that all of Teyvat has an equal sum of mora and a fair share of opportunity.
But he is only human. A mortal before he is anything else. There is still greed in his heart, and that greed comes in the form of you. He is greedy when it comes to your body, and your affections, and your loyalty. He is greedy when it comes to your pretty little head and all the thoughts he is able to occupy in there. He is greedy when it comes to your slick cunt and how quickly you can prove that you want him. Need him.
You let out a sharp gasp as his gloved fingertips sink into your wet heat, the cool leather and the cold band of his rings grazing your skin as he presses them all the way in. You shiver at the coolness of the metal against your walls. He gives you a smug, satisfied grin as your head falls to his shoulder and your fingers dig into his arms for something to hold onto.
“My, my,” he coos, “I’ve hardly even done anything, you know. Already tucking yourself against me so helplessly?”
“You—!”
You can’t even finish your sentence. Not with the way his fingers begin moving, curling into you and scissoring you open with his digits and brushing against every sensitive spot you never knew you had. Pantalone is good at finding hidden gems that make him a success. He’s good at finding places in the back of your walls that you've never reached, pressing his fingertips against them and watching as you unravel.
“Ah,” he murmurs, “I see. You’ve been irritable because I’ve not been there to touch you, is that it? This will surely ease your temper some.”
“You think so lowly of me?” You gasp, “That I would seek out your touch before your company?”
He thrusts his fingers into you again, and the heel of his palm drags along your clit. You whine, letting out a soft mewl of pleasure, and he gives you a knowing look.
“No,” he murmurs, “you’d never.”
It’s true—if he had taken this time to simply hold you as you spoke through hushed words in his office, you would have happily taken that. You would have taken his company over his intimacy if that was all he wanted to offer you today.
But Pantalone is a generous lover. A doting one. A one who would spoil you easily.
He angles his fingers into your folds to brush against that sweet, delicate spot in the back, mercilessly bullying them into you over and over again and finding that exact spot. And when his lips move to brush against your neck, nipping and sucking at the skin there as his fingers work you loose, you can’t help but make those helpless noises that make him even greedier.
“You’re holding back, my dove,” he notes. “You’re never this quiet in our chambers, now are you?”
“P-people could hear,” you hiss, “don’t be—oh—don’t be purposely dense.”
He laughs when you cut your sentence off with a moan. If anything, it makes him more determined to make you sing louder. And louder you are when his fingers work faster, moving in and out of your cunt as it tightly clenches around him and welcomes him in with every thrust of them. It has you absolutely keen to roll your hips into fingers with your own matched pace, making him drink up the sight of you.
“Worried about people hearing, are you?” He whispers, “I suppose if you have such a stubborn sense of dignity, I’ll lend you a hand.”
His hand cups the back of your head, bringing you closer until his lips press into yours firmly. It’s a hard, heavy kiss, his teeth nipping and tugging at your lips in between every soft moan you pour into his mouth and let him drink up. And soon, his fingers against your sensitive walls and the drag of his palm against your swollen clit have you helplessly twitching in his hold.
He swallows the sounds you make, humming in pleasure as your walls flutter and constrict around his fingers tightly, coating his gloved fingers with your release. The rings are warm by now—the once cold metal has now taken in your body warmth and brought about heat instead of coldness. You can still feel the smooth, hard press of them against your skin, though. And every movement of his fingers as he works you through your orgasm does not allow your senses to forget that they are there.
“Fuck,” you curse, hissing as the last few waves of your high crash over you. To his credit, Pantalone is generous enough to keep going. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pull away as soon as your walls stop their fluttering and call it a day. He keeps moving until it’s almost too sensitive to feel him any longer. “S’too much,” you gasp, “p-please—”
“Oh, alright,” he hums. “I suppose I’ve had my fun.”
“And now that you’ve indulged in your fun, I suppose I will leave you to your silly numbers,” you sigh theatrically. But you’re pleased. That much is obvious in your voice as you move to climb off of him and adjust your dress to make it presentable enough to walk out of his office.
Except that never happens.
His arm is tight around you, and he lifts you in a fleeting moment, making you gasp as you wrap your arms quickly around his neck for stability. Before you can even comprehend what’s happened, he’s easily swept his papers to the side, making room to delicately place you on top of his desk and loom over you.
“I said I’ve had my fun,” he says lowly, “I never said I wanted it to end. Don’t tell me you intend to leave me like this?”
He leans over you, pressing his forehead to yours as his hand grabs your own and moves it to press against his bulge. It’s warm and hard under your touch against the expensive fabric of his pants. You can feel a small, damp patch of fabric from his leaking precum, and a soft drag of your palm along his crotch has him closing his eyes and shivering.
A soft groan rumbles through his chest. Your pupils dilate at the sound, and suddenly, you’re no longer satisfied enough to simply leave anymore. You want more, all over again.
“Will you fuck me over your desk, then?” You ask cheekily, “Is that what you’ll do?”
“Yes, it appears I have few options when faced with a distraction such as yourself working your devious little plans,” he says dryly.
You giggle. And then, you tilt your head to plant a kiss on the corner of his lips as you whisper, “Consider it not a devious plan, silly. Consider it…a celebration of sorts. For your very successful little experiment.”
That makes his eyes brighten in both pleasure and amusement. And with a quick unbuckling of his belt, he’s pulled his pants and underwear down enough to free his length.
He brings a gloved finger to his lips—the same one that was buried into your wet cunt just moments ago, and bites at the tip of the fabric to pull it off of his hands. Pantalone’s hands are not as smooth and polished as the rest of him. They are rough and callused things that have known the hardships of labor and demanding work.
Work that kept him fed and alive at such a young, helpless age.
You take the bare skin of his palm into your hold, pulling his hand to your own lips and kissing along his fingertips. He shivers at the feeling of such soft, gentle worship. Such delicateness that was once nothing but a distant dream for a man such as him.
“Not a bad way to celebrate,” he murmurs softly, “with a little dove such as yourself.”
“I’ll celebrate with you every time, you know,” you hum.
He chuckles. Gently brings his hand back and grabs his swollen cock, giving it a few strokes as he lets out a low hum of pleasure and lets his eyes flutter shut. “Surely your offer has some self-interest laced in there, dearest.”
You reach over, replacing his hand with your own, wrapping around the warm, thick girth of his erection, slowly stroking and squeezing at the base the way you know he enjoys. He lets out a soft moan, bucking his hips slightly at your touch. You swipe your thumb along the tip, watching as he bites his lip and trembles over you.
“Hardly,” you huff playfully, “I merely enjoy spoiling you, you see. How else will I spoil a man who has everything?”
He eyes you for a moment. Then, he grabs your hands and pins them above your head on his desk, teeth grazing your neck as he nips at the soft skin and murmurs, “Yes, I do have everything, don’t I?”
The way he says it, coupled with the way he squeezes your wrists in his hold, makes you shiver—but when the blunt head of his cock is nudging between your legs, pressing into the opening of your folds and slowly sinking in, you let out a full tremble, gasping as the first few inches of him slip in.
Everything. The way he says it feels so….delicate. So soft and sweet, and it makes you wonder if perhaps the Gods had shined their graces on your lover, what man would he be today? What sort of individual would he be if he were not in the position he is now, ranked as the ninth amongst some of the most powerful people in a nation—perhaps the whole of Teyvat.
You can’t dwell on it too long.
Before you know it, he’s bottomed out and pressed every inch of himself into you, buried and curved inside the deepest parts of you like he was made to be there. If there is one thing the Gods may have done for him, it’s make sure he has you. You, who was made to mold against him perfectly. You, who was made to love and admire him even when he makes it difficult with who he is.
He moves his hips back, almost pulling out of you entirely, before sinking back in, a sharp, precise thrust that has your head angling back against the hardwood of his desk. He groans as he feels the tightness of your walls wrap around him, squeezing and urging him deeper. Your hands make quick work to bury themselves in his hair, tugging gently at the strands as his hips move a little faster than before.
“Please,” you beg—though, you’re not entirely sure what you’re begging for. It’s the default you tend to fall to when you are at his mercy. When your pleasure is in his hands, and every string attached to your body is his to pull.
Pantalone responds to your pleading happily, rolling his hips fast and hard into your tight cunt. Your head spins from the friction, from every ridge and curve and vein of his that drags along your walls and brings you nearer and nearer to the end. He’s still not satiated, however, just by the sound of you or the look of pleasure sketched on your pretty features.
No.
Instead, he takes his opportunity to plant his lips everywhere he can. Your neck and collarbone—and eventually, after tugging the neckline of your dress downward and freeing a breast, around your nipple. He sucks, rolling his tongue over the hardened bud as his cock bullies past your folds at a proper pace.
“F-fuck,” you gasp, “th-that’s…oh!”
“Is that all the words you know when I fuck you?” He chuckles, pulling away from your breast and pressing a kiss over the small mark that’s starting to bloom there, “What charming display it is, indeed, seeing you so helpless, dove.”
“No need to be so smug,” you huff, defiant even as you are stuffed full of him, so deep he may as well be in your throat.
He takes it as a challenge—of course, he does. He takes it as a challenge to see how much he can silence your words while also pulling those pretty little noises out of you. Pretty noises that shoot straight to his cock and make him twitch inside of you as he drinks in the soft whines of pleasure you gift him with.
“That’s it,” he shivers, “k-keep making those sounds for me—you can do that, can’t you?”
“Yes,” you whimper.
You like pleasing Pantalone. Spoiled little thing you are—you like it when he’s happy and pleased with you because it means he’ll reward you better. You know just how to get what you want, and it’s by giving him what he wants first.
So you pull him close, bringing your lips just by his ears and whispering words that only he should get to hear. Soft mewls and whines that make his breath hitch. Gentle praises of how well he fucks you, how deep he is, how full he makes you feel, how perfectly he fits you. Every word makes him tremble over you more, as though the words alone are what bring him closer to his end.
They might be, in fact. After all, he is weak to the joys of being seen, of being recognized.
It’s not long before you’re both close—a few more sloppy, sharp thrusts from his hips, and you see stars. The first orgasm was a slow, delicate buildup. But your second one hits you harder, crashes over you in harsh waves that drown you underwater. Every sound is muffled, and every word he coos into your lips as he speaks between kisses is difficult to decipher.
Precious thing. My darling. So pretty.
That’s all you make out. That’s about all you can pinpoint as you throw your head back and cry out his name as that familiar coil snaps in your lower belly. And when your walls flutter around him in tight spasms, it only spurs on his own end. You can just faintly make out the low, helpless groan he lets out before warmth floods you. Thick, hot, sticky release that he fills you up with as his cock twitches inside of you.
“Mmh,” he lets out a low, shaky hum of pleasure, and then he kisses you—a wet, messy kiss that is only to muffle his sounds and let you swallow them in. “So good,” he rasps softly, “you are always so, so good.”
With that, the last few waves of his own pleasure fade away until he is slumped over your form and panting into your neck. Your fingers are buried in his dark strands, a little damp from sweat, while you mindlessly twist them along your fingertips and rake your nails along his scalp.
Pantalone exhales a quiet, helpless laugh against the crook of your neck.
“Well,” he murmurs, voice warm and still slightly unsteady, “that was…an unexpected deviation from my very tight schedule. You are indeed rather spoiled, dearest.”
You smile into his hair as you kiss the side of his head. “And that is still your fault.”
He huffs, the sound far too fond to match his words. “You have an uncanny talent for shifting blame, my dear.”
“You’ll find it is a helpful trait when doing business dealings,” you say cheekily, “a most beneficial skill when it comes to bargaining.”
“Oh, I am sure,” he laughs. And then, you feel him shift, giving you a still hungry look as he says, “Just to practice, why not bargain for my attention one more time?”