Several bodies jolted and heads turned drowsily when the door creaked and you slipped inside. Most of them seemed relieved at your presence, an odd, unspoken agreement existing between you and them; you cut the lectures short and they respect your presence.

Pierro himself took a moment to notice you, only looking up when you were already several steps inside, hands clasped innocently behind your back.

"You're not allowed in here."

You tilted your head, unable to keep a little smile from your lips as you halted a few feet from Pierro. "But I miss you, you've been so busy this week."

A few of the harbingers chuckled while Pierro kept his frigid gaze locked on you.

"I'll be done soon."

You knew that was a lie. "You said that last time too." You pouted up at him, not missing the way his fingers flexed at his side.

Pierro took a small step closer, knowing exactly how defiant you could be at times. Having you disobey direct orders while the harbingers looked on wasn't exactly befitting of his status. He lowered his voice to a quiet rumble, "go."

Despite knowing exactly what the consequences would be, you stood your ground, hands on your hips and all.

The crease between his brows softened after a moment and he let out a defeated sigh, sinking into his chair and patting his knee.

The meeting hadn't been adjourned. Not yet.

But you'd just been given exactly the tools you needed to ensure it would be.

You perched happily in his lap, wriggling your ass to get properly settled atop the pristine white trousers. One of Pierro's hands clamped down on your waist immediately, calloused palm warm through your clothes. He pulled you flush against his broad chest, probably thinking that would deter your mischief.

He'd begun talking again, something about plans for the electro gnosis.

Instead, it allowed you to easily rub your ass over his groin with just a subtle arch of your back. There was no reaction from him the first time you did it. Nor did he react with anything except a slight squeeze of your waist.

You took great care to be subtle, spacing them out enough that it could be just you fidgeting innocently. After a few times, Pierro's breath caught when you dragged your clothed sex over the half-hard bulge in his trousers.

After stumbling over his word he leaned down, warm breath ghosting along the shell of your ear.

"Careful."

The little hum that left you was far from surrender. One of your hands went to his thigh, fingertips walking along his leg like a little game. Pantalone chuckled, eyes now cracked open and fixed intently on the man behind you.

Pierro's chest vibrated against your back as he spoke, having moved on from whatever lecture from Khaenri'ah he'd been giving to now admonishing the Harbingers. It was pleasant, the low rumble easily lulling you to sleep if you let down your guard. You basked in it for a few heartbeats before parting your legs a little wider beneath the table, draping your legs on either side of Pierro's.

He'd (unwillingly) taught you a great deal about strategy by letting you sit in on meetings like this countless times despite your lack of clearance.

The new angle let you better rub against him, going so far as subtly reaching beneath your dress and tugging your underwear aside, letting a bit of your wetness seep into his trousers. Pierro adjusted his hold without pausing his speech, gloved fingertips digging into your thighs without mercy. But oh was that a mistake. You squirmed atop him, whining his name to make it seem like he was the instigator here.

The Captain looked away.

The Knave cleared her throat.

The Rooster looked one second from exploding.

Behind you, Pierro took a deep breath, silence stretching in a way that was undoubtedly uncomfortable for everyone but you.

A roll of your hips revealed that his length was now fully erect beneath you, but before you could put the discovery to use, your world spun and your cheek met the cold stone table.

"Meeting adjourned." Pierro's booming voice rung out, scattering the gathering of now snickering Harbingers. The Captain picked Childe up by the scruff, the young man's eyes as wide as saucers as he stared at you.

The door had barely clicked shut behind the last of them before Pierro delivered a single sharp smack to your rear.

"You've been glaring at me for twenty minutes, dear." Pantalone's fingers work patiently through the intricate layers of his wife's attire to get her ready for the evening, though her eyes are dimmed and her lips sealed shut in a way most unbecoming for a night of such grandeur. "Must you sulk so beautifully?" he adds in that charming cadence, but fails to hide his amusement which is reason enough for her expression to darken even further.

"My pearls are late." The statement is as clear and sharp as the many diamonds embellished on her dress.

Three months of work. Two merchant houses ruined. One troublesome noble silently removed from the equation. And yet the hairpin and collier she had been promised sit somewhere inside a carriage kept under a mountain of snow, because half of Snezhnaya had decided to freeze solid overnight.

"The roads are buried beneath two metres of snow." Pantalone reasons with much patience while resuming to tie her corsage.

If it weren't for the spoiled thing to go on with her tantrum as her voice rises at first—as it always does before the crash. "I don't care."

Her hair is incomplete, her outfit is incomplete... and her mood? Her mood is becoming increasingly incomplete as well.

"Clearly," Pantalone states too calmly as his accursed little smile makes its entrance while his lips remain busy balancing the cigarette.

"And your disgusting habit is making my gown smell."

How is he able to remain a facade of calm if his delight looks at him with poisonous daggers in her beautiful eyes? Perhaps it's the age difference, perhaps simply the experience he brings along compared to his little ice storm that always leads him to play with her.

"A tragedy, truly. How ever will I regain your favour?" He murmurs before taking another slow drag of his cigarette.

"You won't." Whenever her voice turns hissy, his heart seems to become more alive then ever. Yet the threat she works so hard to implement matters little since she continues to stand in his arms, allowing him to brush his fingers through her hair and down her back.

"You have completed every task I gave you. And on top of that you have also resolved three trade disputes, threatened six merchants and only stabbed a man once."

"Twice."

With her correction, Pantalone resumes his attention back to the bow at her back before finally beginning to tie it into shape.

"Twice," he concedes alongside his acts of service. "Very impressive."

The sarcasm dusting his words in powdered sugar does anything but calm her anger; much rather, it causes her to huff in annoyance. "Still doesn't replace my pearls. Only increases your debt to me."

At that, Pantalone finally leans down and gently cups her chin to guide her gaze. Her dresser awaits her attention, where a hairpin of clearwater pearls shines in cold morning sun and hopes for her approval. Next to it lies a collier of Alexandrite and a shimmering new bodice with the finest Angara Opals embroidered into the transluscent fabric.

"...Those are not the right ones." She all but grumbles as her voice quiets. It's never a good sign whenever she falls silent. Everyone in the palace, in the entire nation probably, knows such.

But here he is, the Regrogator, her husband, playing with his life. "Yet they arrived last night."

Though those were not the terms and rewards they have agreed upon. It is all secondary quality to what Pantalone owes her.

"They are five millimetres smaller and entirely wrong in colour." Her appraisal follows before Pantalone can even finish the sentence, as her glare jumps from the disappointment on the dresser to her husband.

That one smiles again, the adoration for her quick wit causing his eyes to nearly sparkle. "You measured them this quickly?"

Her attention drops once again to the glowing stick between his lips, and, without warning, she reaches across the space.

Curious eyes follow the movement immediately, yet Pantalone would never stop any of her antics this early into the game.

So, her fingers slide up as if to pluck the cigarette from where it rests. For a moment he assumes her to throw it away, maybe cause the curtains to be set on fire. Instead the glow stick snaps neatly in half between her fingers while she holds his gaze. "Of course I measured them."

The ruined remains of his cigarette cause pride and amusement to swell in his chest; unsure if he wants to chuckle or coo at her. Ultimately, his shoulders begin to shake a little as his voice rings close beside her ear. "Oh, that was expensive."

"You owe me pearls," she responds utterly unimpressed and without any remorse. Somebody who breaks a deal deserves to be punished, is what her old tutor always told her.

"The roads are closed." He reasons while smoothing his gloved hands along her sides.

"You owe me pearls."

A sigh is softly exhaled from strained lungs as Pantalone's lips brush along her jaw. "My darling—"

"I don't care."

Nobody in the palace may ever understand how the Ninth of the Eleven Harbingers can find such attitude adorable. And yet here is is, pressing a kiss to the big diamond ring on her finger.

"I know," he muses with a daring look up into her eyes.

He loves her like that, so close to combusting. How could he ever stop adding fire to the fuel when he knows how much she hates physical affection whenever she is mad at him?

"Feofan?" Pantalone's smile widens here, and she also hates it when that happens because it means that he is finding her adorable. For a moment she ruminates, glances away while pursing her lips as the facade of anger threatens to crumble before finally giving him another pointed look and demand. "...buy me better ones."

It is silent then, though not lacking or awkward. The space they share this 'embrace' seems full with secret feelings neither outwardly shares.

"Gladly." His best known expression settles over his face; the one that makes every accountant in Snezhnaya nervous. Though the same gesture causes relaxation to settle in her posture, as if the past twenty minutes have never happened.

"I do believe," he continues softly while taking the broken cigarette from her hand to set it aside, "that all this outrage stems from a lack of praise you deserve."

The real reason for the outrage is, of course, not the missing pearls entirely. Nor is it the delay, nor the snow storm, but the gluttony he spoonfeeds her. Had he prepared a little more, all this could have been avoided, potentially. But where is the fun in that?

"It is not." She retorts immediately, yet the colour is already rising on her cheeks. The rosy red hue blossoms and reveals the best kept secret of the palace.

"It is." Pantalone whispers most smugly while bending forward to directly look into her eyes.

"It is not." She shoots right back, without ever realising that this back and forth argument is what makes Pantalone happier than anything else in the world. He knows very well that the attitude can go on for hours, can result in days of silent treatment and ignorance. And yet, he would never trade it.

"It absolutely is." He leans even closer then and cups her cheek in his palm. He leaves her hanging just a moment longer before finally giving her the conditioned words that usually only come with presents. "You've been very good for me lately. I'm proud of you, my darling."

She doesn't know if she wants to stab him, poke at the stiched up work of the Doctor along Pantalone's ribs, or run away entirely due to how flustered she feels. "I don't like that tone," yet her words would never reveal how funny her stomach feels at his praise.

"No?" Pantalone's smile deepens then because her eyes tell the truth anyway.

"No." She looks away first, which, to Pantalone, is as good as winning anyway.

"As soon as the roads clear, my dear, I will have every pearl in Snezhnaya brought to the palace." He whispers into the top of her head while twirling her braid in his fingers.

At that, she finally leans into him and rests her cheek on his chest to close her eyes. "You should have done that yesterday," barely more than the final bravado before she quiets as tender arms hold her close.

Pantalone's laugh is entirely too smug, and his words are entirely too tender for the show she has just given. "And deprive myself of this performance? Never."

𝑭𝑨𝑻𝑼𝑰 𝑬𝑴𝑷𝑳𝑶𝒀𝑬𝑬 𝑹𝑶𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹: 𝑭𝑰𝑳𝑬 #0014

◆ Name: ■■■■■ ◆ Alias/es: Cień, The Tsaritsa's Attack Dog ◆ Age: 500+ ◆ Nation of Origin: Khaenri'ah ◆ Delusion: Cryo ◆ Official Job Description: Head of the Reserve Covert Operations Corps [ note: Cleanup Assassin ] ◆ Reference/s: Anastasya Feodorovna Snezhnaya

◆ Behavioral Assessment: Cień exhibits a persistent pattern of destructive and volatile behavior, particularly under conditions of heightened emotional distress. Their assigned Delusion is to remain under strict observation and regulated use at all times. Unauthorized escalation, prolonged exposure, or unsupervised deployment is strictly prohibited.

In the event that Cień becomes unresponsive to standard command protocols, immediate notification of the Tsaritsa is mandatory. Do not attempt prolonged disciplinary intervention without direct authorization. Cień has demonstrated a singular willingness to comply with Her Majesty's orders where all other chains of command have proven unreliable.