ଘ(੭ˊᵕˋ)੭* ੈ⋆˳

He is a cruel lover, really. There is always an underlying threat beneath his kind smiles and honeyed words, the knowledge that you are dependent on him for pleasure. And there is no better way to affirm that than to edge you until you are begging him for sweet release.

Most of the time, it’s easy for him to seduce you. As for your “ungrateful” moods, he can simply slip an aphrodisiac into your food. The latter is done in small doses to make you think that your body naturally craves him despite your mental resistance. With each meal, your internal conflict becomes more severe and amusing to watch.

And when you finally crack? Pantalone will wait for you to approach him first, and only then will he help you. You poor thing, what can he do to alleviate your discomfort? He could summon a doctor though it will take—oh, you can’t wait? Then what do you want him to do? You need to spell it out clearly.

Even then, your verbal confession isn’t enough to satisfy him. Upon reaching the bed, you hesitate at the sight of a familiar pair of shackles. Calm down, darling, he won’t lock you up this time. This is merely a precaution against your lust-ridden state. Now lie down and let your husband take care of you.

…He’s too slow. All you can do is writhe against the chains as your lover “prepares” you. His foreplay is pure teasing—sultry whispers, feather-light touches, love bites over your sensitive spots, deep kisses muffling your pleas for him to just put it in.

And it only becomes worse once you’re finally connected. From his shallow thrusts to his torturously slow pace, every action leaves you desperate for a climax which never comes. And you know that he is doing this on purpose.

After what feels like eternity, Pantalone decides to undo your restraints. That is when you snap, pushing him down and straddling him. Frustrated, you can only cry and bounce on his lap with the single-minded intent of chasing your own pleasure.

It’s not like you have any dignity left to spare.

⬩

“My darling.” Pantalone blinks up at you, registering your flipped positions. “Did I say you could—”

“Stop teasing me!”

Tears blur your vision. You rock your hips, placing your hands on his chest to steady yourself, but it does little to ease the burning ache between your legs.

How much longer must you be at his mercy?

He is still observing you. His passivity is another insult to your shattered dignity, and you resist the urge to provoke him with the shackles. Already, your thighs are trembling to hold your weight up, stained with a humiliating mix of sweat and arousal.

“You’re…you’re too slow,” you whimper between moans. “It hurts so much and you’ve only made it worse. Are you even trying to help me?! I…”

Cruel. Your lover is so cruel.

Yet the sight beneath you only intensifies your lust. His startled expression, his loose ebony hair splayed out on the pillow, his bare skin twinkling with scars and your own tears…

He is absolutely beautiful. And in this moment, you want him more than anything.

“P-Please.” You’re delirious now, gripping his shoulder with enough force to leave marks. He will punish you for the blemishes later, but you don’t care. “Only you. I need—”

A gentle sensation cuts you off.

The Regrator lifts his hand to wipe your tears. The metal chill of his rings soothes your flushed skin, as does the softness of the gesture. You can’t help but lean into his touch.

“My precious jewel,” he sighs. His eyes are alight with amusement. “How do you expect me to know what you want when you insist on remaining silent?”

You wince as his other hand grips your hip, holding you in place. A gloved thumb traces over the fresh love bites.

“You never respond to me,” he continues, “almost like you’re trying to drown me out. Yet the second you demanded my assistance, I set aside everything for you. Mind you, I will need to work overtime tomorrow because of this.”

His previous remarks come to mind: Needy, helpless, ungrateful.

You close your eyes but the guilt is inescapable. Neither can you ignore the scent of your lover’s perfume, a heady fragrance which makes his presence all the more overwhelming.

“I…I didn’t—ah!”

A sudden thrust makes you see stars.

“Doesn’t that sound unfair?” he whispers. He sits up and leans closer, lips ghosting the curve of your ear. “Don’t I deserve a ‘thank you’?”

You blink back tears. “I…”

Another breath is knocked out of you as he lifts your hips and slams you down onto his cock. The smile he gives you is sinful, angelic, so divinely beautiful that you can’t look away.

“Use your words, darling. You are the one who asked for this, after all.”

⬩

In the end, you’re always too weak to refuse his aftercare. You can only give in to the Regrator’s affection as he cleans you up and tucks you into bed, his dulcet voice lulling you to sleep with praises and lullabies. His goodnight kisses are always pleasant.

Hush now, darling. You can rest for as long as you’d like.

Tomorrow, you can return the favor.

♡

ASKSNINS9KWNS PAK U PANTALONE!! WHY MUST YOU BE SO PRETTY AND EVIL YET HAVE SUCH AN UN-MOANABLE NAME—

*holds head in hands* Special thanks to @diodellet for giving me the mental fortitude to to write this and to uncensor the word c*ck. This isn’t one of my best works due to my inexperience with writing smut, but I hope you all liked this and suffered from hornii :’>

♡ In your defense, you had no other choice. Born to an elite family in Liyue, you had enjoyed a life of luxury until your parents squandered their fortune. After a failed attempt to flee to another nation, they were murdered and you were told to repay their debts lest you meet the same fate. It was a hopeless situation—you had no assets to pawn off and even then, your remaining days would be spent in poverty. So when you recalled the local stories about the demon who deals in prosperity, you were desperate to summon him.

♡ It is difficult to find authentic records of his summoning ritual, but you manage with what little time you have left. There is an illustration of his sigil, to be copied on the floor with blood from your own palm. A table is arranged with incense, gold coins, freshly-brewed tea, a mirror, and the dagger used to extract your blood. Once everything is in place, you clasp your bloody hands together and utter the sacred incantations.

♡ As soon as Pantalone’s true name leaves your lips, the incense sticks emit a dark fragrant smoke. The summoning circle glows violet and within it, a brilliant figure emerges. Dark horns, adorned with silver, curve back along his raven hair. His garments are styled with violet jewels, serpentine motifs, an iridescent cape embroidered with a scene from the Garden of Eden. He is beautiful, so beautiful that you feel unworthy when his bespectacled gaze meets yours.

♡ Before you can look away, he is already onto you. In a polite voice, he introduces himself and asks for your name. Next, he tells you to disable the barrier of the summoning circle; he prefers civil negotiations. It takes some reluctance on your part but eventually, the two of you are seated together at the table. There is a critical look on his face as he surveys his offerings and explains his contract in detail.

♡ Aside from the general rules, there are clauses specific to Pantalone’s pacts. He can only be summoned twice a week, and never on Sundays. Contracts with other demons require his permission. Any attempt at breaking the pact will incur severe consequences. All of this is said with honeyed words and a kind smile.

♡ So perfect is his facade that you fail to notice an undertone of condescension. A glimpse into your soul was all it took for Pantalone to regard you as a hopeless fool hindered by your worldly upbringing. But that is fine—fools are easier to deal with, and you’d make a pretty addition to his collection of souls. Plus, it was only yesterday that his previous human died, and he is always quick to move on to the next pact. With that, Pantalone tells you to make a choice.

“A fair exchange, don’t you think?” he asks. The smile on his face is deceptively angelic. “In return for your soul, I will provide you with wealth, prosperity, everything your heart desires. Do you believe it is worth the price, ______?”

♡ You say yes. That is when Pantalone takes off his rings then his gloves, revealing multiple scars slashed across his palm lines. Gracefully, he picks up your used dragger, draws a new line, and clasps his wounded hand in yours. Then he wraps the same hand around your neck, staining it with a mix of your blood.

♡ There is a burning sensation followed by a burst of pure ecstasy. Once the euphoria subsides, Pantalone lets go of you and holds up the mirror. The front of your throat is branded with his sigil while a diamond pattern encircles your neck. It glows violet before disappearing altogether, a sacred collar invisible to mortal eyes. Thus, the pact has been formed.

♡ The next few minutes are calm. Pantalone’s scars are concealed once more. The two of you finish your tea. He takes a coin from his offering, now magically engraved with his sigil, and explains that you need only flip it to summon him. Then he offers one last smile, says he will look forward to your partnership, and disappears with the remaining coins.

♡ In the morning, you wake up to find bags of coins and jewels on the table, the exact amount needed to pay off your debts. Once the money has been given, you eagerly summon Pantalone to thank him. He merely smiles, leads you to your parents’ office, and tells you that the next step is to rebuild your family business. After all, while he can create material riches out of nothing, a mysterious source of wealth may attract the suspicion of your fellow humans.

♡ Soon enough, the company is flourishing under “your” authority. In reality, it is Pantalone who instructs your decisions and eliminates competitors. During meetings with clients, he attends in his invisible form and whispers to you the necessary responses. With success comes your return to high society, and Pantalone is all too happy to escort you to galas as your plus-one. His human form attracts several admirers, but his attention remains on you.

♡ He is also pleasant company. You can’t help but summon him often—your house feels empty without your parents. As for friends, you refuse to trust anyone after they turned their backs on you during your financial crisis. Pantalone is always nice about it, listening to your woes and participating in your hobbies. Once in a while, he will activate your pact mark and comment on how needy you are.

♡ He even fulfills your carnal desires. Over the months, Pantalone has toyed with your physical attraction towards him, teasing you with light touches, seductive whispers, sinful smiles…and a deep kiss when you shyly proposition him. That kiss is soon followed by heavy makeouts, long nights in your bed, physical marks all over your body. Greedy as he may be, he always makes sure to repay the pleasure you’ve given him.

♡ One night, you ask him about his divine nature. He confirms the popular belief that all demons are fallen angels; in his case, he was created for the Ninth Order, the lowest rank in the angel hierarchy. For the first century of his life, he could only settle for the inferior powers and duties assigned to his status. Neither could he enjoy the freedom which humans were born with.

♡ Thus, he set his sights on Hell. For angels are not created equal but demons can earn their powers through individual efforts. But leaving God always comes with a price, and Pantalone’s was paid in blood and tears.

⬩◈⬩

“Is that how you lost your wings?”

In the dark, your demon’s scars remain apparent. A pair of rough, featherless, ugly lines which you are careful not to touch, lest he flinch—from pain or shame? During your first night together, Pantalone refused to talk about it and you took the hint.

Even now, he flips over in your bed to hide his imperfections from you. When he answers your question, his voice takes on a light tone.

“Yes. It was God who ripped out my wings, and He even had the ‘mercy’ to cast them out of Heaven after me. But that was a long time ago, and I’ve since put my old feathers to good use.”

His capes, he means. They are his signature accessory, all crafted with sheer fabric, tiny jewels, and iridescent embroidery. Each cape is its own masterpiece, bearing fantastical images of God’s creations. It was during a casual conversation that Pantalone told you the threads were sourced from his old feathers.

He looks past you, and you know his gaze is on the coat rack. Tonight’s cape depicts a celestial paradise filled with winged figures. Beneath Heaven, separated by dark clouds, demonic figures descend into a fiery sky.

“Still, it must’ve been painful,” you tell him. Hesitantly, you add, “I mean, you didn’t only lose a body part that day. You also lost your former appearance, your ability to fly, your siblings—”

At that, a smile makes its way to his face. A large, genuine smile that isn’t directed at you.

“My former brethren were not dearly missed,” he replies. He sits up, combing the strands of hair tangled around his horns. “After I landed in Hell, I was taken in by an older demon. Let’s call her Jiejie, since she does not appreciate needless declarations of her true name. She is the one who treated my wounds, the one who cared for me using her own resources, the one who welcomed me into her home with open wings. And for that, I am eternally grateful.”

A soft breeze rustles the cape, threads glittering in the moonlight. Some threads, however, lack the iridescent quality of Pantalone’s feathers. Instead, they are prismatic shades of black and gray.

His tone softens. “I will confess that I had an easy start in Hell thanks to her influence, as did Scaramouche who fell before me. But everything else—my contracts, my current status—are the fruits of my own labor. Perhaps someday, I may even reach Jiejie’s level of power.”

“I see…” You look into his eyes this time. “So what do she and that Scara demon specialize in? They sound nice; am I allowed to form pacts with them?”

“No.” He says it firmly, with no room for argument. Bare hands pull your body closer to his. “Even speaking as their brother, that sounds very unconscionable. Don’t get too greedy now.”

“Oh, I…okay!” you squeak. A faint violet light takes up your peripheral vision—your pact mark? “I’m sorry for asking. I’ll remember that.”

“Good.” His hand moves to your throat, tracing your sigil. When your eyes meet, his are bright with desire. “Never forget, you are mine first and foremost.”

⬩◈⬩

♡ In the following years, Pantalone grows more fond of you. Gifts begin to appear in your hands, from violet jewels to stylish garments. He accompanies you to more meetings with your fellow humans, his arm wrapped around your waist in a possessive gesture. His physical affection intensifies. On a few occasions, he even visits you despite not being summoned.

♡ It’s a nice change, but an overwhelming one. As time passes, you meet new friends and suitors, only to reject them after Pantalone claims to have glimpsed malice in their souls. Neither can you summon other demons, not when he is confiscating your demonological texts under the pretense that you’re too “impressionable” for another pact. And who can forget the time you were caught looking for information on the Tree of Life?

♡ It wasn’t your intention to seek a way out of your debt. It was by pure coincidence that you ran into the heretic who sold you the grimoire with information on Pantalone; and the conversation naturally shifted to the topic of your eternal damnation. Unsurprisingly, many humans have attempted to go back on their deals; and according to your “friend,” the best solution is to become immortal through the Tree of Life. You only asked them to contact you if they ever find the mythical tree, but that was enough to anger Pantalone.

“Do not lie to me, ______,” he snaps. His smile appears calm, but his tone sounds absolutely venomous. “I glimpsed your memories of last night, and I know you tried to violate our contract.”

“I…” You fearfully shake your head, only to cry as your throat constricts. It hurts, as though his sigil is burning your flesh, and your knees hit the floor. “I didn’t mean to…”

Your voice trails off. A gloved hand tilts your head upwards, forcing you to meet his death glare.

“Speak up, darling. My time is precious.”

♡ After that, you apologize and make no attempt to evade your fate. The next time Pantalone becomes angry, you at least have the luxury of not being the target of his emotions. It is a seemingly normal day, and you are served tea by a long-time servant. Suddenly, Pantalone appears and pulls you away from the individual, not bothering to hide his true form. When he tells the servant to “drop the act,” there is an indigo glint in their eyes.

♡ And that’s how you learn that the Puppeteer specializes in demonic possession. The servant’s body falls to the floor, unconscious, and it is Scaramouche’s turn to make himself known. He has asymmetrical horns, a single skeletal bat wing, and an expression which is far from friendly. A prismatic black-and-gray feather dangles from the brooch pinned above his heart.

“Tell me, Scaramouche, what are your reasons for spying on my precious jewel?”

“Hmph, as if you need to ask. I just wanted to see if your little pet is worth Nee-san’s blessing. If you still desire them when that time comes, you’re on your own.”

♡ You don’t understand what they’re talking about, but it’s clear that you have no part in the conversation. After a few insults, Scaramouche leaves, but not without telling you to “know your place” in the future. That is when Pantalone sighs, pours a cup of tea for himself, tells you that it is none of your concern. Don’t worry, darling, he has it all under control. So just sit down, drink your tea, talk to him about anything under the sun. You still have a long life ahead of you, and he shall give you Heaven on earth until the day your heart ceases to beat.

♡ And perhaps if you are good enough, he will act on his desire to keep you as his pet in Hell. It’s been centuries since Pantalone has tortured a sinner, but he does know the best ways to break your mind. And is eternal suffering in his home not preferable to another demon laying their hands on you? At any rate, it’s not like you have any other choice.

“In the name of love, I will respect the contract between us and the fate you put in my hands.”

♡

More Church AU here!! Dottore ๑ Capitano ๑ Arlecchino ๑ Pierro ๑ Dainsleif

Note:: Please do not send me any Church AU asks/ requests involving characters or dynamics not included in my masterlist.

Aahhh I hope y’all enjoyed my take on Demon! Pantalone!! He ended up with the most tame + lore-heavy fic, and I swear that the character of “Jiejie” will make more sense when I write the remaining stories for Church AU. Also, fun fact, Pantalone’s capes are inspired by Rusly Tjohnardi and Hieronymus Bosch’s triptychs~

Moving on, thank you to @diodellet for beta-reading this and supporting me through every step of writing hell. Now if y’all excuse me, I’m must avenge myself and whack Pantalone with the biggest cross I can find o(^▽^)o

You added the last flower and closed your notebook.

All of the flowers were for him, to be enclosed in your next letter—assuming that his mission had to be extended. Your gift would make for a nice reminder of Snezhnaya.

Of you.

The flowers were still fresh on the night of the messenger’s arrival.

✿ ⚘

You don’t believe it.

This must be a joke. Another betrayal, even.

As usual, your guard speaks to him first. But when they come inside, the messenger’s hands are empty of letters and parcels. You are asked to take a seat on the sofa.

The messenger repeats what he told Cyane.

“The Captain has departed from this world.”

No.

You stare at him, eyes wide.

Despite his mask, his sorrow is evident. He doesn’t stop there, rambling about battles and souls and a god who presides over death.

Capitano…someone like him wouldn’t go down without a fight.

There is the sound of glass shattering—are the servants listening in? Cyane stands next to the messenger, a grim expression on their face.

He won’t stop talking.

Why is he saying that your husband sacrificed himself? That death is the end he had been trying to reach all along?

No, no, no. He wouldn’t do such a thing. Not when he has you. Not when he knows that you’re here, waiting for him to come home.

Your vision blurs.

The room closes in on you.

The messenger’s mouth is still moving, but you can no longer tell what he is saying. There is a different noise—your own voice?

But what makes you think you are more important?

“My lady!” Cyane rushes to your side but you slap their hand away.

Dizzily, you stand up. You rush past them, out of the living room, through the front door.

You have to leave.

How long has it been since your husband’s sacrifice?

Which direction is Natlan?

The sky is dark.

There are no flowers in sight.

But there are traces of the messenger’s footprints, leading the way out of the woods.

In your haste, you trip and fall into the snow.

Cold. It’s so cold.

Hands wrap around your upper arms. That is when you panic and struggle in the grasp of your unknown assailant, fear overriding all of your thoughts.

“Don’t touch me!”

“My lady?” It’s one of the Fatuus who guards the estate. Private Herkyna tries to help you up but you flinch nonetheless.

Cyane runs outside. “Unhand her! Lady ______ is not to be—have you forgotten the orders of the late Captain?!”

The late…why are they already calling him that?!

Private Herkyna lets go of you. Now she is bowing and apologizing profusely. You don’t see the messenger anywhere—is he still in your home?

Cyane walks over to you and crouches to your level.

“Lady ______, please.” The pity in their gaze is unbearable. “Come back inside.”

“N-No.” Your voice comes out in strained whispers. “You’re lying. Let me go. Let…”

Cyane holds out their hand but you turn away. The snow is numbingly cold yet you grip it with both hands, if only to ground yourself to something physical.

When you look up, the sky is empty of stars.

“Let me see my husband!”

This can’t be true.

Yes, that’s it. This must be a dream, just another nightmare crafted by your fears and memories. Soon enough, you’ll open your eyes and see the stars in your husband’s gaze. And when that happens, he will comfort you, pull you into the warmth of his embrace, tell you it was all a dream that will never come true.

✿ ⚘

Ideally, you’d be in Natlan by now.

But there is only so much authority you hold as the wife of the First Harbinger, so you are still awaiting approval. From who, you don’t know.

Until then, you refuse to believe in the rumors.

You have to see Capitano with your own eyes. Only then can you believe that he is truly gone.

In the meantime, you are incapable of waiting.

Time passes slowly in the manor. It has always felt too big, too quiet in Capitano’s absence. But back then, you could sustain yourself with the promise of his return.

Come to think of it, did he say anything about coming home?

He always made that promise, before his missions and in his letters, but on the day he left for Natlan…his last words to you were a prayer for your everlasting happiness.

It’s not just that. The servants have gone into mourning. They don’t know how to act around you, with their piteous gazes and fruitless attempts at comfort.

You don’t talk to any of them. You keep to yourself, drowning out their words, drifting from one room to another in a disoriented haze.

A family portrait hangs in the living room, depicting you and Capitano. He’d kept his mask on, of course, to conceal the abyssal rot consuming his body. As for you, your lacy gown made you look like the princesses in your storybooks.

His face is still vivid in your memories, along with his loving expressions. But when you stare at your husband’s painted imitation, all you can see is the black void of his mask.

✿ ⚘

Three days later, Cyane brings you to Capitano’s office.

“Cyane,” you whisper, “why are we here?”

They speak carefully. “When I was selected for this job, the Captain gave me access to special documents. I was told to only open them if we received news of his…absence.”

Absence. That is the word they use around you these days.

Well, they aren’t wrong. From what you heard, your husband is still in Natlan.

Cyane unlocks the door, stepping aside so you can enter.

The office is familiar. In the past, you avoided that room and only went there if Capitano called for you. But later on, you became a frequent visitor of your own volition.

The desk is empty. So is the chair behind it. On the days he worked from home, Capitano would be here, signing documents and speaking to subordinates. Whenever you visited, he’d adjust his sitting position so you could make yourself comfortable on his lap.

Cyane walks over to his desk and takes out a set of keys. They unlock the leftmost drawer.

Inside is a leather folder engraved with Capitano’s insignia and two names—yours and Sergeant C. Naiad. That, too, has to be unlocked.

It is filled with several documents written in familiar handwriting. A few words catch your eye, and that is all it takes for you to step back.

“What…what is this?”

“I opened it as soon as we received the news,” Cyane explains. “The Captain left this behind to ensure your welfare in the event that he died in battle.”

Died. But he technically isn’t…

“Cyane.” Your voice comes out in a deathly whisper. “Did you know?”

Just how long has he been planning this?

They shake their head. “I knew nothing. When the Captain gave me the key to this drawer, he phrased it as a contingency plan, not…an inevitability.”

Cyane explains the documents to you. There is a signed will. A pension that ensures all of your needs will be met for the remainder of your life. And many other considerations.

One document provides options for your living situation. If you want, you can stay in Capitano’s estate; you have sole ownership. Otherwise, you can return to Mondstadt or relocate to another nation entirely. Wherever you go, the Fatui will permit it and your servants will follow you.

It’s funny, really. Had your captor died a few years ago, you would’ve felt relief. Joy. Freedom. But at this moment, your chest feels hollow.

Has Mondstadt changed?

It should be safe, seeing how Capitano brought justice upon your tormentors. Mondstadt Library will still be there, though you doubt that your coworkers missed you. As for the meadow…it was never yours to begin with.

You have nothing to return to, really.

How can you return to your days of barely living? What is waiting for you in the nation you once called home?

The last document is a sealed envelope.

Cyane gives it to you. “I didn’t read this. It’s for your eyes only.”

Wordlessly, you accept it. The envelope is thicker than any of Capitano’s previous letters. Your name is written on the back, the handwriting still familiar.

With that, you leave the office before Cyane can say another word.

You don’t read the letter, however. It is slipped between the pages of your notebook, joining the flowers you’d saved for your husband.

✿ ⚘

The condolences are insufferable.

Thankfully, you don’t receive any visitors or official summons from the Fatui. But sympathy gifts begin to pile up in your estate, all from your husband’s colleagues.

You’ve overheard the servants predicting a funeral in Zapolyarny Palace. It will likely happen, seeing how all of the Harbingers gathered to “mourn” La Signora.

Hopefully, you won’t be invited. From what Capitano told you, the meeting will only be a clash of egos, insincere pleasantries, formal discussions in which your husband’s death will be referred to as a necessary step in the grand scheme of the Tsaritsa.

There are also rumors that there is more to Capitano’s plan than his sacrifice. But you’ve yet to receive any official confirmation.

There is a vase of lilies from a long-forgotten acquaintance. A maid asks if you’d like to preserve it, and your response is a blank stare.

The flowers are left to wilt.

✿ ⚘

Your hobbies are your only distraction.

A week later, you continue your morning strolls. Cyane escorts you as usual, but there are more Fatuus in the distance. They are likely here to stop you from running off to Natlan.

…Snezhnaya feels colder. At this time of the year, most of the flowers have shed their petals and returned to the earth. Those that remain are all picked and passed to Cyane.

You can give them to your husband when the two of you reunite.

To think that the last time you walked around the woods, you were picking flowers without a care in the world. Though your morning strolls are more enjoyable in Capitano’s company.

The rosebush is still there. But its flowers are gone; all that remain are frost-covered thorns.

A year ago, you learned that the rosebush was artificially planted in the estate. It’s just like your husband to perform these quiet gestures for you.

Back then, you were still afraid of him. Nonetheless, he remained patient with you.

Your hand wraps around a barren stem.

The thorns are sharp, just the way you remember them. Capitano always told you to be careful when handling the roses. He’d even offer to pick them and remove the thorns for you.

He was gentle with you, too, the first time you pricked yourself on these flowers.

But it’s different now. These thorns are pricking your palm in different places. There are no white petals to absorb the blood. It is Cyane’s hand that catches your wrist, their urgent tone that breaks the silence. It is a healer, not Capitano, who treats the wounds.

Later, you flip through your notebook. Capitano’s last letter included several Natlanese flowers. Even during his most important mission, he’d taken the time to pick them for you. It was always your favorite gift, not just the flowers but the knowledge that he was constantly thinking of you.

Cyane hands you the flowers you’d picked earlier, newly thawed.

Your notebook has run out of blank pages, but you refuse to get a new one. You stack layers of flowers and parchment paper between the final pages, then you slam it shut and press down on the cover. The flowers flatten.

Still, your notebook won’t close fully.

✿ ⚘

These days, you hide in the library.

In the beginning of your captivity, there was a single stack of books in your room. As the months passed, it expanded to a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, followed by a personal library. Your husband had always been supportive of your hobby, so long as it wasn’t used “as a means to avoid him.”

The entire library is yours. Every time you receive a new book, you write your name on the front page and place it on a specific shelf. Unlike the books you handled as a librarian, your books are arranged according to your own system of classification.

A week before the messenger’s arrival, a set of books was delivered to the manor. In addition to sequels, there were new titles which you expressed interest in but never mentioned to Capitano. You assumed that it was Cyane who told him.

One of the books was written by a Snezhnayan author, but he’d purchased a translated edition. Thus, you were able to read it on your own; there was no need to wait for Capitano’s return.

The Snezhnayan titles take up their own bookcase. Unlike their newest addition, the books are all printed in their native language. As such, you couldn’t read them without Capitano’s help. By now, your proficiency has improved but you haven’t touched those books ever since he left.

What was the last book he read to you?

It was a love story about a cursed dragon and a captive princess. In the end, the dragon’s curse was lifted with true love’s kiss. And they all lived happily ever after.

But that was an adaptation of a fairytale. The original story ended in tragedy.

✿ ⚘

One night, you dream of your husband.

In your dream, you reunite with him in a meadow of dandelions and Inteyvats.

He wears a pristine uniform with an eight-pointed star over his chest. His mask is off, revealing a face free of scars and abyssal rot.

His cursed appearance had never bothered you, at least after you got used to it.

His eyes are the only part of his body which remain the same. And yet those deep blue stars are gazing at you with indifference. The same emotion that you’d seen, time and time again, in the eyes of your foster family and caretakers from Mondstadt Orphanage.

He doesn’t acknowledge you. Is it because he doesn’t recognize you?

Perhaps that is it. After all, just as Capitano’s old body has been preserved, so has yours. Every inch of your skin is covered in old bruises and wounds, along with the pain of each memory.

Your voice is audible, restored to its original state before you began speaking in whispers. When you call out to him, there is no pain in your throat.

But he doesn’t respond. Behind him, you can make sight of a war-torn battlefield.

You run towards him but the meadow stretches, widening the distance to him. Capitano turns around and walks in the direction of the battlefield, leaving crushed flowers in his wake.

Is it because he doesn’t know you? Or has he simply tired of protecting you?

In the end, even this imaginary version of your husband didn’t hesitate to discard you.

✿ ⚘

Your trip to Natlan is finally approved.

A group of Fatuus, including Cyane, make preparations to escort you. An official report confirms that you will be welcomed by the Captain’s remaining soldiers stationed in Natlan.

You don’t pack much. You are only traveling to reunite with your husband, after all.

This is different from the trip you had in mind. Before, you’d envisioned Capitano bringing you to Natlan for a vacation after his victory. He only had good things to say about the nation.

It was a year into your marriage when he told you about his battles in Natlan, his previous life in Khaenri’ah, the souls he’d carried in his heart for the past five hundred years. What he didn’t tell you was the sacrifice required to grant salvation to his fallen comrades.

Sometimes, you forget that he has lived a whole life before you.

It’s nothing to be jealous over, not when the same can be said for you.

But in those moments…it became clear that you were only a short chapter in his life.

You tell the servants to prepare clothes suitable for Natlan’s climate. When you check your luggage, you are pleased to note that they didn’t pack mourning attire.

You still wear your wedding ring, with its little flowers sculpted from gold and jewels.

There was no romantic proposal or wedding. A few weeks after your abduction, Capitano simply slipped it onto your finger. From then on, he began calling you his wife.

It was a perfect fit. Capitano had his own ring, and you rarely saw him without it.

Similar to him, you wear it around your ring finger. Other times, you hang it from a necklace chain, keeping it close to your heart.

✿ ⚘

In Natlan, you introduce yourself with Capitano’s family name.

Until now, you aren’t used to hearing a surname after your first name.

In Mondstadt, only your first name is registered in official records. When you were part of your foster family, you had no opportunity to use your new name; you only know that “______ Maier” was written in adoption papers long reduced to ashes.

In contrast, your name is registered with Capitano’s family name in Snezhnaya. And when you began accepting his love, you were all too happy to use it in introductions.

It was a significant decision. To him, who had lost his family in the Cataclysm. To you, who never had a family before him.

You also know about Capitano’s true name, though you rarely use it out of respect for his past. But whenever you dared to call him Thrain, his reaction was one of affection.

Now, in Natlan, you hear his true name spoken in reference to a legendary hero. But you don’t ask for those stories, and instead focus on your husband’s soldiers.

They are visibly somber, eroding what is left of your hope. Worse are their thoughts of you.

Prior to their mission, you were mainly known as the mysterious wife of Il Capitano with your frail countenance and melancholy gaze. But now there is a different tone to their whispers.

“The Captain’s widow is here.”

“Was her gaze always this dim?”

“Poor thing…you can tell that something has broken in her.”

Rotchev brings you to a monument honoring those who lost their lives in the war. The Captain’s image is sculpted on it, and it isn’t just his soldiers who visit it. An elderly man named Munay offers to host you in his home, out of gratitude to him.

…The nation seems lovely, and you can see why it never left your husband’s memory. But grief plants persistent seeds of resentment, and you have little reason to enjoy Natlan in solitude.

In the end, you are introduced to Ororon, the Natlanese hero who worked closely with Capitano.

He is awkward around you, if not surprised by the revelation that the Captain was married. He does recall a few instances when he spied on him picking flowers; when he gives the names, you recognize those flowers from his last gift.

He agrees to bring you to him.

✿ ⚘

Here he is.

Your husband sits upon a throne surrounded by dark ice. A stairway leads up to him.

He looks like a character straight from a fairytale. A dignified ruler. A lonely warrior distanced from those he saved. Or perhaps even a sleeping beauty waiting for his beloved to wake him.

Cyane guides Ororon away from the Throne of the Primal Fire, far enough to give you privacy but close enough to come to your aid if anything happens.

With that, you walk up the steps. You don’t stop until you’re right in front of him.

Up close, your husband looks the same. His chest rises and falls with steady breaths.

Your voice is barely above a whisper. “Capitano?”

Silence. He remains seated.

You reach out to him. “It’s me, ______.”

Cold. His body is so cold.

Still, you don’t let go of his hand. The muscles are relaxed and when you check his palm, you find his wedding ring under his gauntlet. But the warmth of his touch is gone.

You look up. “I’m sorry for making you wait. I tried…I really did try to come here as soon as possible.”

The silence is stifling.

Carefully, you kneel on the space between his legs so you can face him. Up close, you can peer into his mask. But no stars gaze back at you, only darkness.

Why would he do such a thing?

“This…isn’t the end, is it?” You speak louder, as much as your voice permits. “You didn’t get the Gnosis, after all, and the Tsaritsa…there must be another phase to your plan.”

Why did he save you if he knew your story would only end in tragedy?

Your vision blurs.

“Please. Tell me you aren’t gone.”

Blinking back tears, you shake him by his shoulders. But the only sounds you hear are the clink of chains, your unsteady breaths. The cracking of your voice.

Why have you been holding on to false hope?

Desperately, you tilt his head and bring your lips to his.

…They’re just as cold. Unresponsive.

When you pull away, he remains asleep.

“Thrain, wake up!”

What made you think that life would play out like a fairytale?

That is when you give up.

The tears won’t stop.

It’s so hard to breathe.

“Could…Couldn’t you have at least told me?” you shout. Your voice breaks again, coupled with a familiar ache in your throat. “Why…?”

What is left of your future?

How could the gods be so cruel as to deprive you of love time and time again?

For once in your life, couldn’t you be less selfish?

You cover your mouth but incoherent noises continue to spill from your lips. It’s too loud, all distinction lost between your words and your sobs. So noisy.

But Capitano’s response is nonexistent. This body doesn’t hug you; neither does it carry you out of this horrible place. It remains still, cold as a corpse, indifferent to your grief.

You bury your face into his coat and continue crying.

✿ ⚘

At some point, you cry yourself to sleep.

When you wake up, the sky is dark. You’re still clinging to Capitano’s body but a blanket covers you—did Cyane check on you? Nothing else has changed.

By now, you’re exhausted. Your voice has reached its limit, and your tears have dried. Numbly, you change your position so you can sit on your husband’s lap.

For the next few minutes, you just stay there. Taking in the silence, the familiar shape of his body, the ambience of his final resting place.

Here, the sky is foggy. There are no stars in sight.

Finally, you turn around to face him.

“Thank you for everything,” you whisper. Your throat hurts but you force out the words. “Capitano…I’ve missed you. I hope—”

I hope you come back.

But you dare not say it, thinking of your time in Mondstadt Orphanage when such words were a cruel wish. Back then, goodbyes meant that someone was leaving for a happier place. Why would anyone want them to return—discarded, faded, like you?

So you don’t say it. Your husband has suffered enough.

Instead, you take your notebook out of your bag. “Here, this is for you.”

You flip to the final pages. Then you take out all of the flowers you’d preserved from the beginning of his mission—the Natlanese flowers from his gifts, the Snezhnayan flowers picked since the day of his death.

You slip each flower into his coat pocket, close to his heart. When you touch his chest, you feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Well, there’s no denying that he loved you. Not as much as his comrades, but enough that he made room in his heart for you.

You stand up and fix the creases on his clothes. Another kiss is given but again, no reaction.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be back,” you tell him. A ghost of a smile makes its way to your face. “I still have so many flowers to offer to you, after all.”

With that, you walk down the stairway. Before you head in the direction of the exit, you turn back to look at your husband.

…He looks tranquil. Preserved in death, just like your flowers.

Wherever it is, may his soul rest in peace.

✿ ⚘

Cyane says nothing when you approach them, eyes red and voice hoarse.

Neither does Ororon, though you can tell he is resisting the urge to ask questions. Before you go separate ways, he asks if you are leaving soon.

“...No,” you whisper. With the pain in your throat, you are barely audible. “I’d like to stay longer. I still have so much to tell my husband, after all. Thank you for showing me the way.”

Cyane brings you to the Fatui encampment. The soldiers look even more concerned when they see you, but you walk past them and enter your husband’s tent.

It’s still furnished. When you go through his things, you find your letters, including the last one you sent him. A locked box containing every flower you’d gifted him. Reports written in Cyane’s handwriting. A Withering Purpurbloom that didn’t make it into his letters.

The flower is added to your notebook. You can give it to him when it is fully preserved.

Sighing, you lie down. Now that you’ve seen your husband…what’s left to do?

There is the matter of your future. You don’t want to move out of Snezhnaya; the manor has too many memories you can’t let go of. Maybe you can arrange for regular visits to your husband’s body. You don’t know if it’s grief or hope that makes you unwilling to leave what remains of him.

For now, you might as well honor his wishes and read his last words to you.

You wrap yourself in his blanket; if you close your eyes, you can pretend the warmth is from his embrace. Then you take his letter out of your bag and open the envelope.

…There are so many pages. A past version of your husband awaits you, preserved in paper and ink. And this certainly won’t be the last time you read his message—you’ll read it again and again, as with his other letters, until you can memorize it by heart.

“My beloved flower…”

✿ ⚘

The night before your husband’s departure, you stayed awake to enjoy your remaining time together.

He told you not to force yourself but you were stubborn. This would be his longest mission and for just one night, you wanted to spare him of the voices within his heart.

You helped him pack his bags. Capitano read one last Snezhnayan story to you, then he shared anecdotes from his past. The two of you went outside to view the stars and when you found none, you turned to him and said that his gaze would suffice.

Before dawn broke, the two of you cuddled in bed.

“Will you miss me?” you whispered. This time, you didn’t hold back your yawn—you made Capitano promise to wake you up in a few hours.

By now, that question had become part of your routine. His answer was always the same.

“I will.” He pulled back to look at your face. But his arms were still around you, caging you in his embrace. “From the bottom of my heart.”

There was a soft light in your eyes as you met his gaze, committing his face to memory—his scars, his abyssal rot, his loving expression, those deep blue eyes that held the stars.

Your hand moved lower to his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat. “I’ll miss you too.”

His kiss was warm. He felt your smile against his lips.

With that, you closed your eyes and fell asleep. There were so many more things you wanted to tell him, but you decided to save it for another day. For your future letters. For your inevitable reunion. For the happy future in your delusions.

As for Capitano, everything had already been said and written.

“May you thrive in the peaceful world I leave behind to you.”

 ♡

Happy Ending coming someday!! ヽ(；▽；)ノ

…And then Capitano got resurrected and they lived happily ever after hahahaha /deranged. 

Fufufufu so what did you think of this tragic ending?? *evil laugh* Like I said earlier, I’m not into angst but I had fun writing this fic. I even slipped in a few parallels to Herbarium for eagle-eyed readers. Also, a big thank you to my long-time beta-reader @diodellet <3

Lastly, I want to say thank you to everyone who has expressed their love for CapiDamsel!! Capitano and Damsel will always occupy a special place in my heart and don’t worry, this isn’t the last you’ll see of them. For now, do share your tears and reactions with me >:’3