SAKURA (#1 Sandrone Fan!!)

Busted!

Pantalone x !femreader

tw: suggestiveeee 👀 the Tsaritsa catches yall trying to freak it up

also sorry if it’s not proofread or written well I’m tired and I needed to post

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You had never expected that Regrator’s room would be so…small.

You stood in the middle of the room, inspecting the architecture. It was three times as small as the bedroom you shared with Pantalone back at the mansion, decorated with deep velvety purples and mahogany pillars. A huge expanse of window covered up the wall facing the outside world, covered by indigo curtains fringed with golden tassels. The nightstand were barren of any fancy perfumes or candles, and the entire room smelled like firewood. Two fatui soldiers moved a box in to rest by the fireplace, marked with about a dozen “FRAGILE” notices.

“We can leave that there for now,” Pantalone told them, standing in the doorway with his hands politely folded in front of him, “you are dismissed.” The two bulky oprichniki tromped away, shutting the cedar door behind them. Pantalone sighed and settled into a large cushioned seat, shedding his coat. He cast a longing glance at the pack of cigarettes on his nightstand, looking torn.

“Aren’t you going to smoke?” you question, gesturing towards the lighter in his pocket.

“It would be unbecoming of me to smoke in Zapolyarny Palace, especially on important business matters.” Pantalone answers curtly, crossing his legs.

A long, dreadful silence stretches between the two of you, gnawing at your heart. Yesterday, the Tsaritsa summoned all remaining harbingers to her palace to discuss the future of Project Stuzha, as well as hold council for any government officials involved in affairs. On such a short notice and with no idea of how long the meetings would last, Pantalone had no choice but to bring you along. Another minute of silence passed, and finally you broke the calm.

“If you’re away in meetings all day…am I just going to be here by myself?” Regrator looks up, regarding you serenely.

“Why, of course not. You’ll have soldiers to accompany you into the city, if you so wish. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll arrange dinner for you someplace nice. Would you like that, my dear?” This just made your heart drop deeper into your stomach. What would the people think if they saw you surrounded by Fatui? What if something happened to Pantalone and you weren’t there to help? What if the soldiers couldn’t protect you and someone hurt you? Your head ached at the notion of being alone in an unfamiliar city. You felt as though you might vomit.

“Sweetheart? What ever is the matter?” Pantalone sits up, striding over to you and taking your face in his hands. You’re acutely aware of something wet on your cheeks when he wipes them, as well as a sting in your eyes. Sweet Tsaritsa, it’s not even your first hour here and you’re already in tears. You dread what you’ll do when Pantalone leaves.

“I-I’m…I can’t stop stressing about tomorrow, and the day after, or however many days we’re going to be here. What if something happens to you and I’m not there? Everything I love is back at home…my books, my photos…I’m not going to have anything tomorrow,” you confess with a broken voice, holding one of his hands up to your heart. Pantalone wipes another tear away from your eyes, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“My love, I can promise you that nothing is going to happen to me or to you. The council hall is full of armed soldiers; the same soldiers who will be your escorts into the city. There exists no safer place in all of Teyvat,” he lowers himself onto one knee, pulling you in for a kiss on the cheek. The softness of his gloves press pleasantly into your softness and you giggle, sniffling a tear away.

“Do you promise?” He smiles, laugh lines creasing his face, “I promise.” Outside, the snow has begun to fall again. The moment of stillness has ended. Pearly flakes flutter onto the window, leaving crystalline clouds fanning out across the glass. You hardly register Pantalone taking your hand and leading you over to the bed. The texture of the covers are the same as the ones back home, smooth and velvety, with a lovely soft mattress underneath. He runs a gloved hand across your chest before slyly moving it underneath your blouse, smirking. You gasp, propping yourself up on the pillows.

“W-wait..! If someone hears us…” your heart skips a beat, anticipation creeping up your spine and settling in the back of your neck.

“It’s alright,” Pantalone breathes, “the two rooms next to us are empty, and everybody else is down the hall,” you groan softly when he begins to unbutton your top, running his hand down your collarbone, “will you let me have you?” His voice is husky, almost low enough to be a growl. Violet eyes bore into your soul, searing through your heart. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this desperate, although you can’t really blame him, considering the massive workload he’s going to be facing for the next few days.

“Yes,” you gasp, leaning back to let him undress you, “yesyesyesyes, please.” Pantalone chuckles low in his throat and a rush of need floods your body, suddenly acutely aware of how warm you feel. Your beloved leans down close to take off your blouse, and you reach over to undo the buttons on the back of his tight fitting top. He tosses the shed clothes to the side, pressing his chest against yours and locking you in a desperate, needy kiss. You giggle into his lips, hands pressing against his chest. It feels like forever since the two of you have had the time to make love…feeling his lips along your chest has become a rare blessing. Pantalone helps move you up closer towards the pillows, his fingers digging into the ground plushness of your stomach as he continues to kiss you, moving down your chest, pressing worshipping kiss after worshipping kiss to your softness. You stretch, a silent tease. He watches you shift your hips, but he doesn’t pull away from your waist.

“Pantalone~,” you purr, lifting one leg over his shoulder, “won’t you be a dear and undress me the rest of the way?”

“Oh!” The new voice is so unexpected that you both jump. In the doorway, a slim, tall silvery woman stands, looking rather shocked. She holds one gloved hand up to her mouth, icy blue eyes blown wide. You know exactly who you’re looking at.

“Your Majesty!” You shove Pantalone off of you, grabbing a fistful of the covers to hide your exposed chest, “w-we were just-!” Your words die on your tongue. There’s no excuse for this. Pantalone looks flushed with shame, his cheeks red and his brows knit. The Tsaritsa takes a moment to recover, she drops her hand back into place in front of her, bowing slightly towards Pantalone. She observes you for a second before bowing to you as well.

And then she smiles.

She smiles and chuckles.

“Your Highness, I am-“

“I never in all my years would have thought that one of my harbingers would use my Palace as a lovemaking ground! How sweet.” She laughs, louder this time. It seems that all her worries about Project Stuzha have been forgotten now that she’s caught the two of you in the act.

“Your Majesty, with all due respect, aren’t you…upset?” You squint, looking for any signs of anger, but she just laughs again and shakes her head, “Upset? I haven’t laughed this hard in centuries! I’ve forgotten how cute humans are! Thinking the archon of love would be disrespected when she finds one of her harbingers and his lover copulating in her palace!” She chortles again, bringing one hand to cover her mouth, although her smile is hard to hide.

Pantalone sits up straighter, giving her a quizzical look. You have no idea when she might have walked in, nor why she bowed to you, but her smile is too bright to ignore. Clearly, she’s unoffended. Perhaps having a couple make love in her home is a sign of respect, or success? You’re sure nobody has tried it before, or perhaps they were just better at being quiet.

“I told you someone would hear us,” you frown at Pantalone, narrowly missing an amused look from the Tsaritsa. You blink at her. “Uhm, do you mind…” you gesture towards the door.

“Oh! Of course, I’m terribly sorry! My Regrator, although these are awkward circumstances, I do hope you two enjoy your night. Ta-ta!” With that, she bows once more, and shuts the door.

Silence.

Pantalone snorts. Then he begins to laugh. Hard.

You can’t help yourself. You giggle into his shoulder, shyly avoiding his gaze. You snuggle into his side, his body still warm from all of your kissing. “I don’t even feel like lovemaking anymore,” you snicker, sitting back onto the pillows. Pantalone kisses your forehead, gently leaning back with you, murmuring an agreement.

“It’s alright,” he promises, “we can finish up tomorrow when I get home.” You nod, resting on his chest.

“Nobody is going to believe us.”

Goodbye, Zandik…

૮(◞ ‸ ◟ )ა

Today is a very special day.

Although the segments have no need of a birthday celebration—nor do they care enough to do much—you have prepared a gift for each of them. But the real star of the show, Zandik himself, has yet to wake. Even so, the lab is abuzz with motion. Eighteen is reading through old funding records, Forty-five is sorting through various herbs imported from Sumeru, and Thirty-five (or Omega, as Zandik calls him) is working on another vial of the Elixir of Immortality.

It’s interesting to watch them work. They hardly ever talk. All communication is done in the hivemind. Sometimes you wish you could listen in on their conversations. Based on their responses to each other, you can gather that Eighteen has done something awful to Eight, Forty-five is wanting to ask about being removed from errand duty, and something must have happened between Sixty-five and Omega.

Speaking of Omega, he’s now gliding towards you with his usual smirk, one hand up in the air as a motionless wave. He joins you on the couch, sitting cross legged.

“Hello, Thirty-five,” you greet him lightly, using his “professional” name rather than his given one. He must be in a good mood today, because he lifts one of your hands and raises it to his lips, pressing a gentlemanly kiss onto it. You giggle shyly, letting him hold your hand for a minute more before settling it back on your lap.

“There’s no need to be so formal,” he purrs, “I trust you know what today is?”

You nod. This is, really, the one thing that all Zandiks share. Sure, they all come from the same specimen, but is it really the “same” if they all act so differently? They’re more like brothers than they are segments. They tease and fight and bully, but at the end of the day they are coworkers, and they have to forgive.

“I, that is, the original “me”, should be waking up any minute now,” Omega moves closer, testing the waters. You tense slightly, unsure if any other segment is watching. They must be. Wherever Omega is, they follow. Partly because he’s the strongest of the lot, and also because leaving him alone for extended periods of time never ends well.

“I-I should probably go,” you manage, face warm with bloodrush. You wiggle out from under Thirty-five and skip out of the main lab. You don’t dare look back to see if anyone is still watching you. Someone in here, the original Zandik is waiting. Or sleeping. It could be any of the two. Ever since he made the segments, he’s had quite a bit more time on his hands, most of which is spent sleeping in. Not that the segments mind all that much. They have no need for sleep.

Tap.

The echo of something sharp against the marble floors resonates across the hallway. You perk up, listening intently.

Tap. Tap.

You follow the sound, narrowly avoiding crashing into Eight, who blinks up at you and mutters a tiny greeting. Turning left one last time, you find yourself in the “Segment Creation and Preparations Lab”. Zandik, the original one, stands in front of one of the incubation tubes, bubbles of teal liquid popping in and out of existence inside. He leans on his cane, adjusting the temperature of the substance within. A stack of red papers are tucked under his arm.

“My love,” you call, “how are you?” Zandik turns, watching you hop over to stand next to him.

“Tired,” he complains, “my chest has been aching as of late. Perhaps I’ll have Sixty-five inspect me.” You murmur an agreement, linking your arm with his.

“What are you doing in here? I thought you were through with making segments.” You gesture to the incubation chamber. The last time you were here, it was to welcome a very wet, very confused Sixty-five into the world.

“I am,” he assures, “I am just reminiscing.” You nod in understanding, staring at the tube. You’ve watched each segment walk out of here, damp with fluid, covered with a towel, and stumbling over their still numb legs. Perhaps one day, another segment will be nurtured inside, floating serenely around in the heating liquid. You can easily imagine Omega creating a new one.

“Come on, I’ve been waiting for you to wake up. I want you to see the cake I got you.” You tug on him and he turns towards you with a grunt of reluctance. As you turn, Eighteen walks in, beelining for a test tube rack on one of the desks. “I almost forgot! Happy eighty-fifth birthday, Zan—“ he nearly brings you down with him, careening backwards into the floor. His papers scatter across the ground, like pools of blood flowing from his head. He tries to say something, but all that comes out is a strangled growl.

“The original!” Eighteen cries.

“Zandik!” You scream, kneeling down to look at him. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, dry gasps bringing in tiny bursts of air. He’s shaking too, maybe seizing.

Omega is the first in the room, walking towards the original without a care in the world. The others gather quickly, surrounding him like vultures, curious and eager.

“Omega,” you desperately grab the segment, “I was going to take him to the kitchens to see his cake and he just collapsed! I think he’s having a heart attack, or some sort of stroke! Do something!” The segment seems wholly unbothered, circling slowly, his gait relaxed and smooth. You feel an aching in your stomach. Why is nobody doing anything? Why isn’t Omega answering you? Why are they just letting Zandik suffer?

“Forty-five,” you plead, turning towards him. Isn’t he supposed to be the most “doctorly” of them all? The segment just stares at Omega. “One of you, anybody! Do something!”

Omega stops. He turns to you, smiling breezily as if Zandik isn’t heaving and choking on the floor beside him. You feel a shiver of hope as Thirty-five opens his mouth.

“Sixty-five, why don’t you take our beloved back to her room. She’s had a very, very long day, hasn’t she?”

“What?” You cry, frozen in place. Sixty-five pins your hands behind you, his grip powerful and firm. “No! No, no! Can’t you see? He’s suffering! Help him, help Zandik!” You fight against the segment’s grip, trying to get back to your lover’s side. Sixty-five doesn’t even flinch. You scream, helpless. On the ground, Zandik’s movements grow weaker. “Omega! Do something!” Omega just waves, smiling.

Sixty-five drags you, motionless, back to your room. Tears are streaming down your face, but you don’t have the energy to make noise. All that comes out are dry, desperate sobs. The older segment opens your door, gently dropping you onto the bed before shutting the door. Instantly, you jump up, rattling the doorknob. Nothing. It doesn’t turn an inch. He must have locked it from the outside. You pace, still crying, before shakily sitting down on your bed. You feel distant, like all of today has just been a dream, but your wrists ache from where Sixty-five grabbed them, and your eyes are stinging with tears.

The room is completely silent, the inside of the walls are padded with soundproof insulation. It’s impossible to know what’s happening outside. You don’t know if the silence is worse than whatever is happening to Zandik right now. Exhausted, you settle into bed, fresh tears staining the pillowcase. Sleeping seems like the only acceptable option. It’s not like you can do much else. You cuddle up to your pillow, tucking yourself in. If you close your eyes and think hard enough, you can almost pretend that you’re sleeping on Zandik, but the pillow is far too soft and puffy. It’s more like sleeping on Twenty-five, but you don’t want to think about any of the segments right now.

Maybe it’s best not to pretend.

Aftercare w/ Pantalone

(ᴗ˳ᴗ)ᶻ𝗓𐰁

Outside of your bedroom, the silvery light of the moon cascades through the sleek curtains, enveloping your bedroom in a soft ethereal glow. The plush of the mattress beneath you feels cool, a stark contrast to just ten minutes before, when the stifling heat had felt nearly unbearable. You swallow, throat dry with exhaustion. Your husband, ever the observant type, gently lifts the prepared glass of water from the nightstand and holds it to your lips, careful not to splash you.

“Pantalone—“ you whine, panting. You’re shaking. You want him to hold you. To tell you it’s okay. To curl up around you and never let go.

“Shhh,” he croons instead, briefly leaning in to brush against you, “just stay here, I’ll be right back.” You make a noise of protest when the mattress rises once relieved of his weight. He leaves the door open, but you can’t tell if it was intentional or not. You listen to him scuffle around in the bathroom before turning on the sink, the sound of the downpour making you thirsty again. Within seconds, he’s back, a wet washcloth in his bare hand. He presses it to your head, then your collarbone, before dragging it down the rest of you.

“Look at you,” he praises whilst cleaning in between your thighs, “you did so wonderfully.” Your breathing is still uneven, body scrambling for air after the intensity of your workout. Even so, you manage to get out a weak “I love you”. He smiles and presses a kiss to your stomach, lips still wet from your lip gloss, which has since been smeared across the pillowcase. You settle back, exhausted. The red lamp is still on, casting a deep crimson glow across your body. Pantalone looks exquisite in the red light, even with his chest slick with sweat.

Your eyes droop with sleep, blinking slowly before resting your head on the pillow behind you, allowing your body the privilege of going slack. Pantalone laughs at the sight, moving back to his side of the bed so he can properly hold you. Somewhere outside, the train whistles.

“Do you feel alright?”, he questions softly, “would you like for me to fetch you anything?” You shake your head, already sinking into sleep. The gentle push of his chest against you every time he inhales just lulls you further. Barely conscious, you watch him reach over for the pack of Marlboros on his nightstand, lighting one and setting it haphazardly in his mouth. A long strand of smoke rises from the butt, stinking up the bedroom.

“Stop that,” you scold, “you’ll ruin your lungs.” He scoffs and holds it out, exhaling dryly. He smoked one just before dinner as well, and before he left for the bank. You don’t even want to imagine how many he had while at work. You’re worried about his respiratory system. He doesn’t need another surgery. He glances at you again before putting his cigarette out and tossing it into the bin beside his spot on the bed. You murmur a soft approval and settle back onto his chest, curling up underneath the fancy silken covers.

“You know I’m only looking out for you,” you assure him, snuggling up closer. The scent of his vanilla hand lotion is now suddenly overpowering now that the smell of sweat and intimacy has begun to fade.

Pantalone settles one hand on top of your head, “I know, my dear,” he croons, peering at you through downturned eyes. He leans over towards his nightstand to shut off the red mood light. In an instant, the once crimson-lit room is cast into darkness, the only light coming from through the closed curtains. You murmur softly into his chest, already drowsy.

“I love you,” you repeat, enjoying his warmth. Pantalone lifts one of your hands up to his lips, planting a determined kiss onto your palm. Your breathing has slowed, now a constant pattern rather than the heaving gasps from before. He enjoys the nights like this, the ones where you two get to sit in bed until noon of the next day. This week has been utterly exhausting. Perhaps he’ll take you out for dinner tomorrow, or go walk with you in the gardens. He knows how much you’ve been wanting to get away from the house and back into the city.

“I love you too, beloved,” Pantalone purrs lowly, hugging you closer to him. You respond with a sleepy mutter, listening to the distant screech of wheels on train tracks. Snezhnaya is always far more peaceful once the dusk settles. Although, of course, the nights tend to be chillier than the day. The thought of the frigid landscape outside makes you shudder, curling up even more to keep warm. “It’s alright, my dear,” your husband croons, nuzzling against you, “I’ll stay right here.” He places a protective hand on your back, feeling across the dips in your muscles. By the looks of it, you’re already asleep, still bathing in the afterglow. Tomorrow he’ll have to make sure you feel well enough to walk, although he’s sure you’ll want to stay in bed at least until noon.

“Sweet dreams, beloved,” he sighs, pulling the covers up to your nose, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Despite your exhaustion, you smile.

Pantalone Proposal (⸝⸝> ᴗ•⸝⸝)

Pantalone has been planning this day for months.

He wants it to be perfect. He cannot stand for anything less than extraordinary for his soon-to-hopefully-be-fiancée.

He’s set it up as a late birthday gift. It’s a week after the party. Late enough to be disguised as one last day together before he heads back to work, suspicious enough to keep you on your toes. It’s late, a layer of darkness already settling over the city. He leads you over to one of your favorite restaurants. He’d spent hours agonizing where the ideal proposal spot would be. Now, with the ring and case stuffed in his coat’s back pocket, he feels a fizzling happy feeling deep in his chest.

The crowd is denser than usual. Not by mistake or coincidence. He had some of his recruits gather people outside as a gathering of witnesses. This proposal isn’t for publicity, or attention. It’s about getting people out of his hair. For years, men and women have not-so-subtly followed him around the nation, eager to give meaningless gifts in an attempt to make themselves noticed. Hopefully, this public, open proposal will finally prove to the masses that he’s made his choice with you.

“My darling,” he stops, brushing your forearm, “before we go in, I have something I’d like to ask you.”

You beam, completely unaware of what’s about to happen, “of course, what’s going on?”

He smiles sweetly, getting down on one knee and reaching behind him, holding the purple velvet case out beseechingly. A collective gasp sweeps across the crowd. He hardly hears it over the sound of you crying out in shock, hand reaching up to cover your mouth in disbelief.

“Will you marry me?” The ring box clicks open, revealing an expensive-looking, diamond studded ring, topped with a beautiful sapphire, twinkling charmingly in the dim city lights. It’s as if the whole of Teyvat has gone silent, the Gods themselves waiting with bated breath for your reply, stopping the wind and freezing the moment into a memory to be displayed until the end of time.

“Yes,” you say it so quietly the crowd hesitates, unsure if you said anything, but Regrator already has his arms around you, spinning you around in delight. He knew. He knew from the moment you first saw the case that you were going to say yes. He knew from the way you smiled at him every morning, from the way you fell asleep on him after long days out in the city, from the way the skin around your eyes crinkled at his sweet words. He knew, point blank, that there existed no rift wide enough to silence your agreement.

He gently tilts your head forward so he can kiss you, enjoying the softness of your mouth, tinged with cherry lip gloss, rose red smearing onto his lips and nose, matching with the panicked blush on his cheeks. He pulls away, slipping the sapphire ring onto your finger. The deep blue jewel looks exquisite against your skin, reflecting the moonlight onto the diamonds around it. A halo of silvery light glowing atop your ring finger.

“I’ve been waiting quite a while for this, my dear,” he admits, giving one of your hands a comforting squeeze. You nod, a silent mutual agreement.

The crowd has begun to disperse. Many reporters remain, snapping pictures of the two of you, one daring enough to move past the burly Fatui bodyguards and getting a closeup of the ring before being dragged backwards. Before long, the newspapers will be flooded with headlines like, “9th Harbinger OFFICIALLY Engaged, and what it means for YOUR Insurance”. You have a feeling that he won’t let his excitement get into his Harbinger duties. He’s far too stable for that. You’re going to have to set a wedding date though, and find a venue, and plan the honeymoon, and try to convince the Tsaritsa that Pantalone is going to need a few more days off…

You’re interrupted when you feel his hand across your back, gently guiding you into the restaurant. You’d nearly forgotten all about it in all that excitement. It’s nice that he still took you out to eat. By the looks of it, the entire eatery has been reserved solely for the two of you.

“My love?” You stop at the doors.

He smiles down, “yes?”

“For the venue…would the Tsaritsa allow us to hold it inside Zapolyarny Palace?”

———————————————————————

“So! You’re sitting around buying flowers while I’m dealing with the fallout of Dottore’s latest failure?”

Sandrone stood livid in the doorway of the florists’ shop, her gloves singed and smelling faintly of smoke. She was bent at an angle, her chest puffed out in an impressive display of sheer fury.

“Marionette, you’re an attentive young lady. I’m quite sure you remember the news of my engagement.” Regrator reminds, admiring a pot full of cecilias. Sandrone doesn’t respond. She meanders over to a small plot of Lumidouce Bells, taking one rotting leaf and crushing it in between her thumb and pointer finger. He’s got her now.

“I’ll make something for the party if you help,” the Seventh persuades, eying him warily. He hesitates, unsure. Miss Sandrone’s skill in engineering is nearly unmatchable. If she made something for you…

“Very well,” he chirps abruptly, “I want something soft and complex by the twenty-eighth.” Pantalone stands, clapping demandingly.

“Soft,” Sandrone shrieks, “soft? Perhaps my humor receiver is set too low. You’re asking me for something soft? Say it again so I can properly take in how absurd you sound.”

“Miss Marionette, I’ve seen the things you make for the ladies.” Sandrone turns towards him so fast a bolt nearly flies loose. Her brows twitch, lips curled in a wicked sneer.

“Quiet.”

Period Comfort w/ Pantalone >◡<!!

They usually aren’t this bad.

Another violent wave of nausea careens against your throat, ramming against your skull like a tsunami. You try to swallow it down but it just rises back up. A soft, sad whine escapes you, a sound so foreign that you don’t even realize it came from your mouth until you feel the pressure in your throat. Another cramp squeezes around you and tightens, sharp and painful.

“Shhhh,” a gloved hand reaches down to pet your head, scratching nicely against your scalp and moving down towards the small of your back. Your breathing is ragged and cracked from crying, eyes burning with unshed tears. Everything feels so horrible. The pad you replaced just an hour ago is digging into the inside of your thighs, irritating the already sensitive skin and sending you into hysterics. The air in your room is too hot, your clothes feel too tight against your neck, and your vision is still blurry with nausea.

Pantalone places his free hand atop your head again, the other still masterfully balancing the checkbook records he’s supposed to have turned in by midnight. “Just a few minutes more, sweetheart, I promise.” You swear he said that ten minutes ago, but you’re too exhausted to take on the task of remembering anything.

At last, he sets his checkbook down on the nightstand and snuggles up to you, moving one hand down to knead against your aching stomach. You sigh in relief, the pain lingering faintly, but far less severe than before.

“Pantalone—“ you gasp, instinctively moving towards his warmth, despite the smoldering, sickly heat that seems to radiate off your very being.

“Shhh,” he urges, “you’re all right. It’s okay.” Oh, his voice. It curls around your chest and squeezes hard, seeping into your bones and soothing you instantly. You relax, too tired to keep talking. Your eyes flicker shut. You want to stay awake, to listen to him talk just a few minutes more…but the pressure and exhaustion from earlier is too strong.

“That’s it,” you hear as you drift off, “you sleep as long as you’d like. I’ll be right here once you wake up.”

⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔

Bathtime w/ Pantalone ꉂ(˵˃ ᗜ ˂˵)

♡ : Pantalone loves bathtime. He loves picking you up and burying his face into your chest. You’re so soft, and you smell nice even without all of his fancy body washes and perfumes.

♡ : He prefers baths over showers. He’d much rather sit down with you and snuggle rather than stand the whole time. The bathtub in his personal bathroom has built-in heater jets, so the water will never cool down. His bathroom has all sorts of fancy stuff that regular citizens could only dream of having installed. It’s a shame that you hardly ever use most of them. Perhaps he’ll install something tailored to your simpler taste.

♡ : Oftentimes, when he’s combing conditioner through your hair, or rubbing body wash across your back, you’ll fall asleep on him. Your eyes will droop, blink slowly, and then you’ll rest your head on his shoulder, cuddling up to him unconsciously. It’s so cute :( he’ll let you rest for a while while he finishes preening himself. Afterwards he’ll pick you up and carry you off to bed.

♡ : Pantalone absolutely adores sleeping nude with you. He curls into a ball and squeezes you, enjoying the rise and fall of your back against his stomach. If you happen to wake up, you’ll flip over so you’re facing him, leaving tiny kisses all across his neck and on his hands. He always smiles at this. Well…smiles wider than he usually does, anyway. He just loves you so much :( you’re so precious to him. If only you could see yourself the way he sees you.

⏔⏔⏔ ⏔⏔⏔ ⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔ ⏔⏔⏔ ⏔⏔

Pantalone thoughts… (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ

♡ : Contrary to popular belief, Regator does not, in fact, wake up at six o’clock sharp. No matter how much work he has to do that day, he’ll always find time to stay in bed, even for just five minutes more. Not even you, his lovely spouse, can get him out of bed before his alarm goes off.

♡ : On the weekends, if he’s lucky enough to get out of work early, he’ll take short, hour-long naps with you. If he had one too many meetings, he’ll strip himself out of his clothes and cuddle up with you in bed. He loves seeing you bare. He loves the feeling of your skin against his. He loves the warmth of your lips against his collarbone. He loves you.

♡ : Every night, before the two of you settle down into bed, the ever-stoic, heartless Regrator will carry you into the bath, his pale, calloused hands massaging fresh vanilla-scented soap across your back, the pads of his fingers dragging against your spine to make you gasp. Here in the dim light of your shared bathroom, he doesn’t look quite as scheming as he usually does. You wonder if any Fatui agent has seen him like this: gentle and caring, his hands soft against your shoulders. He’s so sweet as he carries you to bed, your head resting against his chest, the softness of his robes making him impossibly warm and fluffy.

♡ : Pantalone is the richest man in Teyvat. He owns the largest banking empire in the world. He could buy the entirety of Fontaine six times over and still have enough to take you out for dinner. And yet, despite all of this, he still fears that one day he’s going to lose it all and end back up on the streets. He still feels the crisp Nod-Krai air on his skin at night, still feels the roughness of the cobblestone alleyway beneath his palms. On these nights, all he can do is cling to you and wait for sleep to come for him.

⏔⏔⏔ ⏔⏔⏔ ⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔ ⏔⏔⏔ ⏔⏔

Enamored!Rerir who always tries to wake up before you do so he can look at you for as long as possible. The opposite is also (tragically) true. He just can't fall asleep. Your sleeping figure is just so beautiful!

Enamored!Rerir who was so excited during your wedding that he nearly forgot how to dance. You had to gently guide him while also making sure nobody noticed that the groom was missing steps. Afterwards, he tried to feed you a cupcake but dropped it because of how happy he was. He also cried when you walked down the aisle.

Enamored!Rerir who has dozens of pictures from your wedding on his nightstand. He loves looking at them, trying to sear the image into his brain. He has backups of backups too, just in case he happened to tear one by accident. He values those pictures more than his own life.

Enamored!Rerir who has called you every single positive synonym ever. Magnificent? He said that just last week during dinner! Beloved? That's his personal favorite. He says it nearly every day! Impossibly beautiful? He said it yesterday, while you were trying on a dress!

—————————

cw: none idk

word count: 959

Khaenri'ah was a cold, cold nation. That was simply the way things were. It was immensely difficult to import cloth, cotton, or mattress material from other nations, so many lower-class households were left with a cold stone slate to sleep on. You would think a nation so technologically advanced would find artificial fabrics. Unfortunately, Ms. Rhinedottir had already tried and failed a multitude of times.

You and your husband lived in one of these less fortunate homes. Although you were fond of the smallness of it, you did sincerely wish that you had a warm mattress to sleep on. Rerir, your beloved, had made numerous attempts at consoling you before figuring out that it did no good. Sometimes you complained not for help or words of affirmation, but the adrenaline.

On one of the colder nights in Khaenri'ah, you were snuggled up as close as possible to Rerir, curled up into a ball to further enjoy the blessing of body heat. Your eyes stared plainly at his chest, trying to curl up just a bit more. Each movement sent a thrum of cold throughout your body, stone digging into your palms. You had lived in this house for years, but tonight, for some reason, the freezing cold annoyed you more than usual. Perhaps it was the headache you’d had that afternoon, or your monthly cycle coming around again? Whatever it was, it caused you to burst into sobs, tears rolling down your flushed cheeks.

Rerir woke up quickly, disoriented but ready to help. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes, resting one hand on your back, rubbing slowly.

“What happened,” he asked softly, “what’s the matter?”

“I h-hate it here, Rerir,” you sobbed into his chest, snaking your arms underneath his to properly hold on, “I do-don’t w-want to live like this anymo-more.“ Your husband glanced up at the walls, seemingly deep in thought as he stroked your back. The two of you lay like that for a long time. Perhaps an hour. At some point, your sobs had ceased, and your arms had loosened in exhaustion. Rerir pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, inhaling the sweet scent of your hair.

“I'll keep you warm until daybreak,“ he hears himself say, eyelids weighing heavy with sleep, “I swear it.“

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The next morning, you woke up having completely forgotten last night’s breakdown, pleasantly surprised by how sweet Rerir was being. He was unusually clingy, holding you hostage in bed until the clock showed seven. He had not forgotten about your complaints, and he was deadset on making you as comfortable as possible until a more permanent solution rounded the corner.

He needed to find you a mattress. Stat.

He flipped through all possible locations that he could walk to in under five minutes. The furniture shop on Main St. was closed, but if he continued for another ten minutes, he’d reach another, far pricier shop. He had only seen it a couple times, while walking down the street with you. If there was any place to buy a mattress, that would be it. Now, he was faced with another problem: money. Obviously, as the king’s hand-picked executioner, he made enough to get by by himself. But if that salary could pay for a mattress, he would have to wait and see.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

That evening, Rerir was somehow acting even stranger. He had an odd expression on his face, as if he were trying not to smile. Whilst you did the dishes, Rerir stood rigid behind you, occasionally casting an anxious look back into the bedroom. Was he planning something? The moment you set down the last clean plate, Rerir grabbed your hand and eagerly tugged you away towards your room, eyes lit up.

“My beloved,“ he explained, “I have a surprise for you.“

“Rerir,“ you scold, “it best not be anything dirty.“

“No, no, never. It's for both of us,” he shakes his head so vigorously, his hair falls in front of his face, smooth and silky. He gently clasps his hands over your eyes, steering you into the bedroom, you hear him giggle as the door closes behind you.

He removes his hands, moving them onto your shoulders. It takes you a moment to process what you’re seeing. A sleek white mattress has replaced the bare stone of your bed, spotless. The sight is so mesmerizing, you’ve nearly forgotten what it used to look like. Remembering, you gasp, hands flying up to cover your mouth, turning towards your husband in awe.

“Oh, Rerir!” He readies himself for a singular, powerful kiss. Instead, you pull him onto the bed with you, pressing kiss after kiss to his already flushed face. Clearly, you are overjoyed.

“Alright, that’s enough..! Stop, stop, that tickles! Not before dinner!” He gasps through your attacks, his protests broken up with laughter. You’re laughing too, snuggling into the softness of the mattress, blinking sleepily. You look so beautiful like this, a sweet smile creasing your features, hair fanned out across the pillows. You curl yourself into a ball, tugging the covers over you, basking in the warmth of your new bed. Rerir snuggles up next to you, rubbing circles into your back. For a while, the two of you sit there, all squished up into one. Your voice breaks the silence.

“I love you.“ You mean it with your whole heart. Even now, a fizzly passion pounds in your chest, resting against where your fingers meet his chest. You've known it for a while now: you’ll never love anyone as much as you love Rerir.

TW: shirtless you, you're sick haha, implied fem reader

You’re sick.

You’ve been sick for two weeks now, each waking moment is agonizing. Rerir has been doing his best to help. He presses cold washcloths to your forehead, helps you take off your shirt, fetches fans and humidifiers. The temperature spikes are the worst of it all. You’re always either too cold or too hot. It’s been particularly awful as of late. You don’t speak much, you can hardly open your eyes, you gag at the taste of water. Tonight, he’s helping you take off your shirt, which is proving quite difficult, as it is sticking to your skin from all the sweating you've been doing. He tosses it in the pile in the corner. You don't want him doing all the work around the house, so you made him keep the dirty laundry out so you can do it when you feel better. If you feel better.

“’m sorry, Rerir.“ Your whine is so soft and weak he hardly hears it. He does not respond right away, instead, he presses a kiss to your forehead, directly below your washcloth. “I must be such a burden on you right now.“ He shakes his head.

“Don't say such ridiculous things.” He murmurs patiently, one hand moving underneath you to unhook your bra. He can’t help but notice how loose it’s gotten since you’ve stopped eating. He’ll have to take you out to eat once you get better, it’s unsafe to have lost so much weight in just two weeks, surely. He tugs the covers up over you, fingers briefly lingering over your nude breast, waiting for the promising thrum of a heartbeat. There.

It's soft. Hardly noticeable beneath the rest of the noise in the room, but there nonetheless. His hand skates away, nails gliding easily across your collarbone. His hands look dark compared to the newfound grayish-blue your skin has taken on.

“Would you like me to stay tonight?“ He asks despite knowing the answer. He's asked the same question for two weeks.

“Yes.“

“Very well.“ He lifts the covers up, wriggling into bed with you, careful not to touch you without permission. For a moment he admires you, eyes dragging down across your shape before your weak plea to take off a cover or two rings through the air. You must be exhausted. He tosses a blanket off the bed, watching it land. Immediately, your body goes slack with drowsiness, a sigh of contentment escaping your chapped lips. He knows it won’t be comfortable for much longer.

Rerir yawns, the weight of sleep hitting hard, like a brick through a window. He curls up behind you, arms wrapping tight around your waist.