#bogachs

♢  — @bogachs said: a final kiss shared while holding your dying lover. (what if i say.... dying Lone, for karma) EXPERIMENT IN PROGRESS: KISS & TELL PROMPTS

MORTAL CREATIONS DIE. That is what they do and that is how the laws of the system that govern this universe run. They are born, they live, and they die. Dottore stares at the crimson staining the ground and suddenly remembers the first creature he ever dissected at a tender age most would deem far too young. It had been a pretty songbird, as yellow as the sun that was clearly not from the desert. It must have escaped its cage upon the wagon of a traveling merchant. It did not know how to survive, its breast stained red with claw marks as it laid upon a sea of sand. EVEN SO, HE HAD THOUGHT IT BEAUTIFUL. Was it not best to appreciate it by understanding it fully? To understand how its feathers worked compared to those of the soaring vultures, or the shape of its beak, how its tiny bones compared to skeletons found in the sands and the muscles attached, what it had ate? He does not know why this ancient memory surfaces now after so many centuries. Pantalone is nothing so weak as a songbird. BUT HE WAS AS AMBITIOUS AS IT HAD BEEN. For that little songbird had flown far, far from where the caravans traveled for Dottore to find it still fresh. It had freed itself and thrived against odds, for it was not heat or being somewhere it was not adapt to that had killed it, but something else. Both laid before Dottore, beautiful in their demise.

But the songbird had sparked curiosity and delight. This sight before him does not.

Something Dottore cannot name is coming into creation in his chest as he tosses his mask aside to clatter away upon carpet and drops beside Pantalone. Something he doesn't know is seething, burning, flares and surging through his system like an intravenous injection of Kannazuka jellyfish venom that continuously floods his system. HE WON'T ALLOW FOR THIS. And if the gods or the shades think they can stop him, then they will be sorely mistaken. Dottore is selfish and he does not give up what he has claimed as HIS. He will not let it be dragged out of his hands or allow for the fragile tie of morality be severed so easily. He won't. He has broken countless rules of this world already, what is one more to his endless list of crimes that condemn him?

" You're not allowed to die, Vincent. " Dottore's voice is calmer than even he expects, but not the peaceful kind of calm. This is an ominous calm, the calm in the eye of a devastating hurricane that is decimating everything in its path, the calm that comes with the fall of a guillotine, of the stillness of quicksand as its surface settles again while its victims perish beneath the surface. CRUEL HANDS TURNED DELICATE ; Dottore carefully, amorously, gathers Pantalone into the security of his embrace as he rests on the ground with him. He cradles his lover's head, fingers curled into soft locks while his other hand applies pressure to the most alarming of the bleeding wounds. ( And all of these little signs whispers that something very bad and very dangerous will happen should the worst come to pass. If the world thought him a monster now, it would be beyond comprehension what he could do in the aftermath. ) IS THIS GRIEF? A clinical part of Dottore's brain cannot stop the quiet recognition of a change in heartbeat, of newfound tension that makes him feel ready to snap. He does not know loss in a way that has ever mattered. Not like this.

He hunches down, hovering over Pantalone's face as he drinks in every detail of him in this moment. " Remember what I told you? " It is a gentle prompting that Dottore seals with a consuming kiss upon delicate lips. They're too cold for what they should be. It was a survival tactic ; the body reduced blood flow to nonessential areas, lips included. He does not care. He kisses Pantalone with a sharp-edged possessiveness that serves as a claim as the memory replays.

It had been one of the rare occasions of a slow nights together, one spent relaxing upon the bed and indulging in the comfort of touch and presence, lamplight bathing the room in warm lighting. In that time, a question had been uttered from serpentine lips that Dottore had not sought to truly reflect on (but had, quietly, contemplated in secret). But he remembers it. He remembers raising his head as the weight of the question hung in the air and moving to cage Pantalone against the backdrop of fancy pillows and silk sheets and blankets, gold eyes staring up at him with greedy enthusiasm. He remembers , he remembers. He remembers the blasphemous scoff, the SNEER on his own lips and the shadows that must have made his red eyes all the more vibrant to the man caged by him - " Who says I would ever ALLOW for you to die? ", faces so close their breaths mingled, lips ghosting across each other with wandering hands trailing over his skin and scars and marks. A threat, A PROMISE. He remembers well the sinful encouragement wrapped in questions urging him to spill his blasphemous plans to ensure PANTALONE WOULD NOT BE A PRISONER TO DEATH. Pantalone had fed a madman as the papers would say, letting silent thoughts be brought into the warm light of their room for the first time. Such acknowledgement made them real in a way they had not previously been, solidified as Dottore shared his ideas between possessive, demanding kisses. He let the possessiveness and the selfishness sweep through the words, laid bared in all its ugly beauty for Pantalone to inspect and know of. HE HAD KISSED HIM THEN AS HE DOES NOW. He says what he had said then.

" I won't let you. " Dottore whispers the words as he breaks from the kiss, lingers close enough the movement of his lips can be felt with his declaration. AH, DOTTORE HAS ALWAYS RESPECTED THE REGRATOR'S FREEDOM. But Dottore is no selfless man. He is a monster that has always done what he wants first and foremost. Pantalone knew what he was and had wanted him all the same. Isn't that such an agonizing thought? It was like a needle pressed into the sensitive TRIGEMINAL NERVE for this to cross his mind now. He doesn't want this agony of feeling what can be taken from him. He doesn't think he would give it up even if the gods groveled at his feet to forget it. Somehow it is this particular thought, of being WANTED, that digs into his chest with the same intensity of a knife wound.

DYING DOES NOT MEAN DEAD.

Not yet.

Blood loss of this degree, Class IV, has a 70% fatality rate. He's wasting time that Pantalone does not have. Dottore lifts the ninth harbinger with ease, ensuring his head rests against his shoulder. The trek as a whole is forgotten other than checking the other's pulse and breathing until they were in the cold halls of the laboratory wing, an area colder still than the already chilled halls of the palace. Which operating theater? THERE IS NO HESITATION ON WHICH TO CHOOSE. He takes Pantalone to the one where the original Dottore had died, silent as Prime had loom ed beside him before calling to the others. Even now, Dottore will not let Pantalone go should he die upon the operation table. It is another thread to bind them together ; to share the same spot of death as if he can steal that way from any other place. HE DOESN'T LIKE THE THOUGHT OF PANTALONE DYING. He is not a fool to ignore the possibility. ( What will he then do? )

✱˚。⋆   ↪   MORBIDCURIOSITY  ...  [REMASTERED] || - (Accepting!)

FOR MONDSTADT, AS ALWAYS. That was the mantra she had chosen to live by. Four distinct words that screamed fealty and devotion like no other, and that lay claim to her very existence in body, mind and soul. Everything she had done, she had done for the city; done for her PEOPLE, and their safety above all else. Most of the time it had been easy enough. Uphold the law, listen to problems, offer a compassionate shoulder in times of need. These were simple things; things that she could do without question and without even a flicker of hesitation. Yet every so often, a situation would arise in which things were more precarious. Situations that required her to make tough and at times unpopular decisions in pursuit of that greater good. 

The worst had been after the Stormterror incident. Dvalin himself may have been freed from the abyssal chokehold that had him ensnared, but it hadn’t eradicated the aftermath of destruction that had been left in his wake. It hadn’t magically caused a year’s worth of crops to spring back forth from once arable land that had been rendered to dust. Nor had it rebuilt the homes lost in the fray, or plucked the devoured cattle from the belly of the now docile beast itself. For a time, the people of her fair nation had almost been on the cusp of starvation and ruin, or at least, that had been the case until the wind had brought an unexpected saviour into her midst. 

Perhaps she had been too naive in believing the best in him; in putting her faith and trust so squarely in a man that dealt in numbers not benevolence. When Pantalone had presented the option of a low interest loan to keep her people safe, sheltered and fed - it had seemed like the perfect solution. A simple, transaction that could undo a tumultuous series of wrongs and restore balance and order to a chaos she had rapidly lost control of. Yet as Jean Gunnhildr had come to learn; nothing in life was ever free - and for once in her life, that blind self belief in the inherent goodness of man, had led her down a path from which she could see no easy way out. 

The loan itself had been simple enough. A fair exchange for aid offered, in the most serious hour of need. Yet that had been before he’d upped the stakes. Before the fiscally minded Regrator had bought up Mondstadt's external supply chains and artificially inflated the price of imports. Hell, he’d even found a way to manipulate the wine market to crash Mondstadt’s primary export in a display of such masterful business acumen, if it weren't thoroughly deplorable she might even call it GENIUS. Yet though this all, the debt had endured, the Gunnhildr’s family fortune poured so blindly into meeting the growing payments, even as the city’s coffers dwindled to nought but scraps. 

Like a secret shame she had tried to hide it. Tried to backtrack and fix the mess of her own making before the day came in which he would be compelled to collect. Yet try as she might, Jean had found herself backed into a corner. Like a half wounded animal, blinded and caged and left with nowhere to turn other than to the hand that had seen fit to feed. 

"You see where you went wrong, don't you?”

It’s unnerving how amicable he can be, when seated across the desk from her. So blasé and content to point out the flaw in her quest for preserving her nation. She knew full well where she had gone wrong. She had foolishly treated a predator like a savior because he offered her a hand when she was drowning. And while it may have protected her  people’s present, she had inadvertently mortgaged their future.

Straight backed she watches him with passive gaze, eyes scanning the angles of his jaw and the unreadable passivity of his face. At least with Dottore she had never been naive enough to forget that he had teeth, but the banker was another matter entirely. So calm and measured, ever the consummate professional as he engaged in political warfare. It took more effort than the Acting Grand Master would care to admit to refrain from squirming under his gaze, even as discomfort took root in the very fabric of her bones. 

❝A gentleman should know better to than to highlight a lady’s flaws. ❞ Although he is no more a gentleman than she is a lady. They are oppositions; adversaries, political heavyweights left at a crossroads in which his years of experience have been met only with the youthful innocence of hope. She should never have trusted him. Never have chosen to believe in the benevolence and goodness of his gesture…when that very belief was the very thing that would have her eaten alive. 

Still, with defeat all but certain, there was nothing else left to lose. Not dignity, not sovereignty and certainly not anything more financially decimating than the fiscal black hole she had thrust the knights into. And so, to that end, she throws open the door to chaos. Leaning forwards ever so slightly, the dandelion knight is cautious but sincere, desperation tempered in the unease of her smile and the fortitude of what she dares to ask of him. ❝How do I fix it?❞

The question is loaded; weighted with the burden of an entire nation and perhaps the knowledge that somewhere out there Grand Master Varka almost certainly wouldn’t approve.

@bogachs said:

❛ how much do you value your life? ❜

Of course, how can he forget that this degenerate likes to play with his food? To think out of all the harbingers possible in this damn encampment it would be Pantalone. Why in the world is Pantalone out and about? From what memories he does have of the guy he was always in the damn palace or busy with financial matters that having to travel wasn't something he had to do all that often. But, he supposes that even Scaramouche didn't know everything Pantalone would be up to or what he would have to do. To Tetsuya's credit he's fairing quite well against him, but it began to become a problem when he took out guns. Why the fuck does he have guns?

Tetsuya looks down at his arm, where the bullet hit and to his surprise it wasn't just one but two. This guy must be quick with the trigger if even he couldn't tell that he shot two bullets at him not one. If he gets hit in the head by one of those then he's going to be out for the count and that's what has Tetsuya so on edge right now. He's not going to die, at this point he's half-convinced he can't do such a thing, but he can get knocked out and a strong shock to the head is exactly what that would do to him, it would knock him out for a while and he'll be out of it. He won't be able to defend himself or know what's going on until much, much later, he would be left vulnerable and he really can't afford such a thing, especially not after making an enemy of the Fatui, after making them his target if only for the sake to get to Dottore. Technically, Pantalone would have been his best bet to get some sort of information on Dottore, because these two are partners, he's sure of that. However the moment the firearms came out then all thought of this being just his lucky day went right out the window, more so when Pantalone actually landed a couple of shots, the two bullets making his arm feel heavy, a huge strain to move and to have listen to him. The pain isn't the problem here, it's the fact that he has to put extra work into having his damaged arm function and listen to his command, already putting him at a disadvantage.

Pantalone's words do nothing short of pissing him off. How much he values his life... he'd think not very much, even if how he acts may say otherwise, may speak a different story in the place of his words. If he's fighting for it then surely he values it to some degree, right? He glares at the banker who more than likely is quite happy with his work. "Quit playing with your damn food," Tetsuya almost hisses at him, "if you're going to shoot then fucking shoot." He curses at him but immediately follows up with a wind blade aimed directly at the banker's neck that should it make contact will make that head of his topple right off of his shoulders as if it were some sort of ball kids could play with and bounce around to their little hearts' enjoyment. Tetsuya isn't planning on staying here like he's some sort of sitting duck, immediately following up said wind blade with another to blind his field of vision, dirt and dust rising from their general area to blind not just one of them but both. He has to fix his arm, he can not fight like this, the self-healing will not fix it quick enough.

   The casino was something that seemed to paradoxically stand out yet blend in to the Liyue landscape.  An exterior design that sprawled the landscape yet kept plenty of the nature in the gardens and fountains, while inside contained grandious architecture from the mere entrance hall that sprawled throughout. It was certainly a FAR cry from the typical gambling house in both luxury and its famous open door policy to all, regardless of where they hailed from. (  All grudges were to be left at the door and no blood to be spilt upon marble or dyed carpets.  )  Undoubtedly such were factors that made it a popular destination, along with a murmur for higher chances of winning.  (  Little did the people know it was naught but a clever tactic. If people won more, they were ultimately more inclined to spend more and more and return more frequently.  )  

♢  — @bogachs said: kissing your lover to show you forgive them + biting their lip amidst a kiss, drawing blood + a bruising kiss full of desperation and urgency (post dottore coming back from death as we discussed hehe) EXPERIMENT IN PROGRESS: KISS & TELL PROMPTS

Dottore is intricately familiar with the CRUELTY OF WINTER'S ENDLESS REIGN after so many centuries in the heartland ; of temperatures so cold even his modified body is left shivering in an futile effort to warm itself ; of wind that felt like blades across the skin. He has trudged through endless pits of snow and ice under clouds and night alike. He has heard its howls that carry through ravines and chase the citizens deep into their homes where fire offers its shelter under burning flames. ( Feed and you will survive. ) Thus it is with resounding confidence that the doctor can say that the harshest of winter days in Snezhnaya pales compared to the coldness of Pantalone's fury. The silence is agonizing, yet even Dottore knows better than to press his fingers in and rupture what delicate healing has been made in the wake of his cruelest act. It is not he who wields authority over the situation ; it is not he who gets to announce when healing has reached a satifactory level. HE DOES NOT HAVE THE RIGHT. That rests solely within Pantalone's claws and it will not be pried or forced out.

Relief comes in the small signs ; that some color has returned to the banker ; that the signs of sleep deprivation had not continued their march with his return. IT DOES NOT SIT WELL IN HIS STOMACH TO KNOW OF THAT. Had he not done better to forewarn? He thought it significant he had learned from the Sumeru incident to include the other in a thorough discussion of his plan and it vexes him like a thorn under the skin to see it had made little difference. It does not change the reality that his plan was cruel. ( Nor does it change the fact that silver- tongued pleas would not have worked even if they had ever been uttered. NOT WITH DOTTORE. To ask would be to deny who he is and his ambitions that burn brighter than the flames around him. ) It does not change that there had been no guarantee of success of his return. Dottore does not know how to amend, other than to try what he can think of to appeal to the other, to place blasphemous claws upon slippery ice and see what is permitted and what is not with the threat of a crevasse growing. He does not ask for funding. If not trying to amend, then the doctor's presence is scarce. Is it better to give space or presence? He does not know. He has no reference to call upon. HE IS IN THE EXPOSED WILDERNESS UNPREPARED. His lack of skills in such matters were rarely something that bothered him, but in this moment, he finds his lackluster skills rather infuriating.

It is a familiar scolding that reminds Dottore of the mask on his face, to pry it off even when he simply places finished paperwork upon the desk. HE DOES NOT EXPECT ANYTHING OF THIS - just as he has not expected anything in the face of his attempts thus far. But this time Pantalone moves. The chair glides back and Dottore stills, tracking his movements with keen eyes. Somehow he still does not register the movement to stand in front of him, of the force driving him back into the wall when lips collide with his.

For a moment, everything fades into intangible nothing. AND THEN IT CRASHES. Dottore has never been so relieved to crash.

Dottore surges into the act to meet the FRANTIC, APOPLECTIC KISS in equal fervor. It's nowhere near enough. It doesn't even come close. His hands flutter ; tugging Pantalone closer even when there is nowhere else to go, then flitting up along the luxurious coat, up further to cradle his face. His mask forgotten, abandoned with indifference to the luxury of one rug or another. HE'S BURNING AGAIN. Only these flames feel like SALVATION rather than damnation. Pantalone's grip is renitent steel ; strong enough that it feels like nothing and no one could tear Dottore from his hands even if it the universe itself should by audacious enough to try. As if Pantalone could covet his bones and all that he is with how they kiss and grasp at one another. ITS STILL NOT ENOUGH. There's a dam breaking ; the skies torn apart and desperation rages. It feeds like fire exposed the oxygen ; HUNGRY MOUTHS AND FRENZIED HANDS. He needs this.

An ardent noise reverberates within his throat as he sinks into the ocean of sensation that engulfs him now with each press of their lips. He needs this more than he needs oxygen ; to part from Pantalone now to breathe would be to drown. They kiss like its the end of the world instead of a reunion. SUDDENLY, DOTTORE HAS THE TERRIFYING QUESTION OF IF THAT IS WHAT THIS SCENARIO IS. A dying mind's last desperate attempt for bliss and peace in its fading finale. Maybe something changes in what he does ; maybe Pantalone knows him well enough to know when his mind is infiltrated with unpleasant thoughts, knows where Dottore's mind might wander. Blood spills when Pantalone bites into Dottore's lips, harsh and delightfully unapologetic. HIS NERVES SING WITH RELIEVED PAIN SIGNALS: this is real. Relief spills out like blood from the jugular. More, more. He wants to swallow it all, or lose himself into this moment. What a terrifying thought that is. HOW UTTERLY HUMAN OF HIM. But that was Pantalone for him. Pulling out the shards of humanity from the disgusting tar of his existence, making Dottore some degree of human again despite how long forgotten and abandoned his so-called humanity was. How Dottore sneered at it when he shed himself of his humanity to wear monster like a badge of pride. PANTALONE WAS HIS SOLE EXCEPTION.

Lips part from his and the absence feels like freefalling ; like divinity stripped from bones only this time it's something he cares more for than divinity. Dottore's eyes flutter open, sickeningly sweet delight trilling at lips stained in his blood upon Pantalone's lips. There's a faint sting when his tongue darts out over his own lips for a moment but it does not register.

" Vincent. " Guttural, raw ; pretenses striped away for this OUTRÉ MOMENT to lay bare the truth underneath. His fingers curl, the desperate fever of his kissing seconds prior an odd contrast to the delicate grip of his hands. Hands capable of so much violence and cruelty cradling with purposeful, delicate care around another just as dangerous in his own right.

DOTTORE DOES NOT APOLOGIZE FOR HIS ACTIONS. It is not the actions that stir anything but rather the unfavorable consequences that have tormented the other. But he can offer this instead. This moment of dropped acts for raw truth like bared muscles below flayed skin. The want - not of desire, but of GENUINE WANT in the grander meaning - exposed and left out in the open with how red eyes take in every familiar detail he's been denied of. He closes the gap again, pressing desperate kisses to his lips, to the corner of his mouth, each one only reigniting the frenzied flame beneath his skin. The need writhes, grows, spills into his action; to feel and have him close again instead of on the other side of a winter's fury. He's finally been allowed to stumble through to the other side.

♢  — @bogachs said: [ approach ] sender approaches receiver at a ball and asks to dance with them + "Don't look so stiff" (you know what i'm sending you another one for Beta because Lone wants to annoy him 😂) EXPERIMENT IN PROGRESS: PROMPTS FOR LAVISH BALLS

It is not Beta's first time attending an opulent event like this, but he can always hope it will be his last. PROBABILITY FAVORS THAT OUTCOME - especially as the centuries have passed and segment numbers have increased. Prime or Delta almost always dealt with scenarios that involved interacting with the public to any degree. If a younger segment was needed, then Theta's more palatable personality made him the better choice. But it seems not even he can fully escape the small percentage of that statistics that bows to the fact that he might have to make an appearance. WHAT HAD HE DONE THAT WARRANTED SUCH A PUNISHMENT?

Contrary to his typical behavior in the lab or otherwise territories determined to be HIS, Beta remains stiff and quiet beath glittering chandeliers. Usually he had a subordinate with him - irritating, loud, but effective for handling the conversations that he didn't want to. The one mercy is he is not forced to engage in conversations like past events. His presence is enough to satisfy the demands of his presence - added to with the white and gold outfit he dons rather than his usual outfit. ( Delta had insisted up on it or else face sabotage to the financial records that allotted for Beta's experiments. ) People are more willing to look at him than Prime. Probably the eyes ; piercing red augmented next to the contrast of his white and black mask. Beta frowns, shoulders impossibly stiff, and deigns none worth looking back at. At least until he sees Pantalone's head turned towards him.

OH NO. No no no. Beta turns towards the nearest exit and makes several quick strides. Ah, but he can't leave too early to it will be bad for Dottore in all sense. He comes to an abrupt halt, coattails fluttering with the spontaneous change in movement until they come to a rest. What, then, is he to do? TOO LATE. Beta can feel the snake coiling around him without needing to turn around. Curse it all! His tongue drags over sharpened teeth before he slowly pivots on his heels to see the regrator standing there, beaming. TEETH AGAINST THE JUGULAR ; like a particularly successful predator after a successful hunt. Why does he even want to interact with him? No one knowingly and willingly bites a poisonous animal. Beta wouldn't be surprised if it had been the others approached with the fair of their usual games ; but him? Pantalone is no fool and yet Beta cannot understand why Pantalone would choose to approach HIM of all the segments.

" Easy for you to say. " Beta scoffs, the comment on not looking stiff only seeming to make the younger segment even stiffer than before. Pantalone thrived in situations like this ; Dottore would rather be most places other than here.

Alert eyes dart down to the hand extended, the request - no, the DEMAND - to dance with him spoken with syrup-y fakeness ; all teeth behind the closed smile. Instinct has him wanting to reject the offer. But there would be grave consequences for taking that path. Consequences he certainly wouldn't like. And he's rather certain this snake would stay coiled around him the entire night until he relented. Beta continues to stare down at Pantalone's gloved hand and then lifts his eyes again with a small huff.

ballroom dialogue prompts.   — (accepting !!) 

The Regrator’s voice was like spun silk—smooth, effortlessly warm, and entirely devoid of genuine humanity. Pantalone stood before her, a vision of sharp Snezhnayan tailoring and midnight-blue velvet, the gold rings adorning his gloved fingers catching the chandelier light with a blinding, opulent glint. His eyes were closed in that characteristic, perpetual smile, a mask far more infuriating than any porcelain beak his colleague wore.

He extended a hand, the fabric of his glove pristine, waiting.

Jean felt a cold, familiar spike of adrenaline hit her chest. Set an example. He phrased it like a request, but the heavy silence that fell over the surrounding diplomats told a completely different story. The Knights of Favonius were already drowning in debt and political pressure; to snub the Ninth Harbinger in a room full of foreign dignitaries would be a catastrophic blunder. He knew it. She knew it.

He was holding Mondstadt’s ledger over her head and calling it an invitation to waltz.