#pantalone centric

[fic-prompts-feel-free-to-use]

Back on my baizhu shit again

Pantalone is Baizhus older brother. His brother was constantly hanging off him, barely left him a minute of peace; but he was born sickly and his family was poor.

So he left home early to pursue fortune enough to take care of his brother and family; and baizhu was left mostly bed bound and alone while his parents worked tirelessly to make enough mora for his medicine.

By the time the village is struck with disease, Pantalone has joined the fatui and Baizhu forgets he had a brother in the first place, unknowing of the money his brother sent home every quarter. From this point, the story progresses as normal. Baizhu joins the traveling doctor and Pantalone only knows his family is dead. He rises through the ranks, having nothing left to him but work and Baizhu enters the contract with Changsheng.

It's only after the Rite of Passing, when Childe and Signora head back to Snezhnaya with the gnosis when he hears of a doctor that looks almost exactly like him.

Does he disregard it, married to his work as he is now? Or does he start to silently worry again, remembering the sickly child who hung off his every word?

[musings-of-miss-j]

no rest for the wicked (nor the foolish)

part nine: in which the Doctor calls in sick and Her Ladyship graces your doorstep

a harbingers x gn reader series!! (includes dottore, childe, arlecchino and pantalone x reader. the rest of the harbingers will not be romantic interests)

notes: slowburn, uh idek what to describe this as anymore!! introspection-heavy chapter, signora and dottore centric this time, Menaces Think About Feeling and Give Themselves a Headache

series masterlist

author's notes: *bleeding from an array of stab wounds varying in depth and size* h..hey everyone... sent in my college applications the other day and i've been feeling sick to my damn stomach every since. also graduated haha! salutatorian..! kill me! at least i got to give a speech and make my mum proud ig. anyway enjoy this chapter!

word count: 4902

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Despite how dazzled Childe might have been by your passable archery, Dottore was decidedly unimpressed when your return to the lab was so overdue.

“And just where have you been?”

“I could ask you the same, Doctor,” you replied pointedly when you recovered from your start at his sudden question. He clicked his tongue, impatient.

“My dear student, this is far from a suitable day to challenge the status quo. Tell me where you were.”                                                                                                               

The Doctor was hardly one to wear his heart on his sleeve, and the barely-there edge to his voice would’ve escaped you if you weren’t so familiar with the careless tenor he usually adopted; paired with the slight raspiness it almost made it sound as if he was… sick?

“Have you fallen ill?” You asked with a frown, stepping forward and scrutinising what was visible of his face for any observable changes. He always looked deathly pale, though, so it was difficult to ascertain any physical symptoms.

“I don’t fall ill,” he hissed, turning away from you with a scowl. “Answer my question.”

Oh, well. Might as well let him interrogate you.

“The archery range.”

“The archery range,” he repeated, tone dripping with contempt. “Rather than contributing to scientific advancement, you chose to play with bows and arrows. Extraordinary.”

“Whoever usually spits in your coffee supplied extra effort today, I see,” you mused under your breath, heading back to your work station and tightening your gloves as you walked.

“The sheer cheek-”

“And there’s my proof that something’s amiss,” you smoothly interrupted, looking through the row of test tubes on your work bench. “I implicitly called you an imbecile earlier this week and you didn’t bat an eye, but now a little throwaway comment is so easily setting off your volatile temper?” You shot him a pointed look over the rim of your glasses. “No point in continuing yesterday’s experiment if you’re sick, Doctor. You’ll contaminate the Petri dishes beyond salvation.”

Dottore pinched the bridge of his nose with a long-suffering sigh, pivoting on his heel and preventing you from taking a peek at what the rest of his face looked like with the mask slightly tilted up. You were insufferable, with your overly astute observations and your deceptively mild tone with the hint of sarcasm just strong enough to make him raise an eyebrow. You were maddening, all narrowed eyes and furrowed brows as you pored over what he assumed to be an anomalous result (you only ever hunched that closely over your work when something had gone wrong. He knew it was an old habit from before you’d started wearing glasses, when any mistakes could easily be fixed simply by eliminating the issue of poor visuals.) You were unbearable, intelligent enough to challenge him and prove him wrong, all without even raising your voice a single decibel. He wished your secrets were the kind that could be uncovered by a scalpel and a swipe or two of disinfectant.

“I do believe I’m the doctor, dear student. You’re hardly qualified to throw diagnoses around.”

“Well then, Doctor, I think you’d best go ahead and diagnose yourself with a common cold, and recommend yourself some bedrest while you’re at it.”

He grumbled incoherently under his breath, tugging at the collar of his shirt. Probably a fever, you thought with a touch of gratification. When he moved in the general direction of the incubator, you called out at his receding back.

“Do not touch my cultures. This is the fourth time I try to test this medium,” you added, mostly to yourself.

“Worry not,” he replied, voice practically oozing sarcasm. “Your subpar agar plates couldn’t be further from the top of my list of priorities.” 

You rolled your eyes, stacking the sheets of paper you inevitably accumulated at the end of every lab session and resolving to leave the Doctor and his more-annoying-than-usual attitude to finish your work elsewhere.

“Stay,” he instructed without turning around when you headed to the door. “I’ve yet to hear the details of your thermodynamic stability tests.”

“I’ll have the complete report ready tomorrow,” you pointed out, continuing to make your way to the door.

“Stay,” he repeated, just barely more forceful. “I’d like to hear about it now.”

You stopped in your tracks, sighing internally. It would be senseless to put so much effort into making sure you didn’t anger the Harbingers only to directly disobey an order and let all your posturing go to waste, so you spent the next few hours chattering extensively about your experiment, perhaps being more long-winded and going into more detail than necessary as a form of petty revenge. Not that the Doctor seemed to mind, making the occasional noise of acknowledgement and asking questions that allowed you to delve deeper into the specifics of your methodology.

By the time you’d finished off your spiel with a cursory “and then I’ll recrystallise the product so there’s a pure sample ready for another round of testing”, it was well into the evening and you’d wound up in the inevitable position of sitting on one of the workbenches thanks to the utter lack of any chairs in the lab.

“It is a well-designed procedure,” the Doctor conceded, breaking your absent-minded train of thought about whether or not you could somehow drag a comfortable loveseat inside.

“You must really be under the weather if you’re offering me a compliment on a silver platter,” you replied with a raise of your eyebrows. “Not even a backhanded one. Truly astonishing.”

Dottore rolled his eyes behind the mask. “The only cause for astonishment is your inexcusably meagre supply of respect.”

“There’s the Doctor I know,” you said with a huff of laughter, pushing your glasses to the top of your head and rubbing your eyes. “…Don’t overwork tonight,” you added after a non-negligible period of deliberation. “I need another set of hands for tomorrow’s follow-up. So…” you gestured vaguely at him with your hand, hopping down from the workbench. “Rest, if only for an hour or two.”

You weren’t quite sure if the Doctor’s silence made you feel more or less awkward, but you brushed it off to the best of your ability and left with only with the vague sense of mortification you’d get from showing a little more kindness than usual to someone who was probably more accustomed to your scorn.

Dottore, on the other hand, was more confounded than he cared to admit. You’d always been careful not to say too much; every one of your words was precisely measured and deftly presented, with no room to spare for emotion. Which was sensible of you, all things considered; he was a Harbinger, and you were in alone in a foreign country working with an organisation that veered on the wrong edge of morality, where integrity was a politely dismissed formality at best and an openly mocked concept at worst. Impassiveness would help just as much as openness would hurt. The occasional times you slipped up, the only feeling that bled into your voice was annoyance; crisp and sharp and a sight to behold, especially for a scholar such as himself who toiled against the laws of nature countless times with innumerable different methods to procure something new, a tangible result.

He marvelled at himself for thinking of you as such, an immovable law, a force of nature, then he returned to the puzzling dilemma that was your parting statement. Rest, you’d told him. You never said anything that could belie concern, or worry or weakness, yet you’d expended an extra syllable or two for the simple word, directed at him. To every rule an exception, he thought with no small measure of satisfaction at finding a way to categorise your behaviour yet again, and filed the abnormally uncertain cadence that your voice had displayed, however briefly, in the corner of his mind.

The night was still young and many of the recruits you shared a wing with loitered in the corridors, talking and smoking and looking rather exhausted. One of them, a girl with red hair so bright it could’ve replaced the floating lanterns that littered the palace, offered you a cigarette as you walked past. You declined with a nod in her direction and continued on your way, the strap of your heavy leather satchel digging uncomfortably into your shoulder as you approached your dorm. After a moment of fumbling with the chain on your belt for the key, you all but collapsed inside with a yawn, running a hand through the stray hairs that had escaped throughout the day. The fire crackled in the hearth, definitely courtesy of Anya, and you gratefully warmed your hands in front of it before unclasping your cloak and hanging it in the wardrobe along with your bag.

“You’re late, sweetling,” came a voice that was becoming alarmingly familiar- ever so slightly gravelly, with an undercurrent that always left you guessing whether its owner was amused or displeased.

“Fashionably so, I hope,” you replied, turning to face Signora with a smile that veered on the wrong side of playful. You couldn’t help it; everything about her demanded obedience, and small defiances were the only thing preventing you from feeling like a well-trained pet with not an ounce of dignity to spare. Either way, she didn’t seem to mind, judging from the exaggerated, lenient eye roll she sent in your direction. You marvelled at the companionable silence as you unpacked. Lady Signora fit seamlessly into the puzzle that your everyday belongings shaped, yet commanded attention all the same; like a swath of unblemished silk draped over aging furniture. Her first few visits were an uncomfortable experience. It had felt more like an intrusion, really, being forced to entertain an unwanted guest with your limited capacity for small talk (mortifying) and a different tea blend every time served in teacups with a painted rim that matched her lipstick (because despite it all, a part of you still wanted to impress her).

You carried out the same routine, teapot, cups and saucers, and even went so far as to open a new tin of biscuits for Her Ladyship. The eyes of Her Ladyship in question remained focused on you, half-lidded yet nonetheless penetrating as ever, as you went through the motions of pouring the tea and handing her the cup.

“Chamomile? It’s quite unlike you to forego caffeine.”

You sighed, taking a seat across from her and melting into the dips of the chair. “The Doctor was in an awful mood. If it carries on until morning I’ll need every minute of sleep I can get to deal with him.”

She clicked her tongue, lifting the cup to her lips. “That man possesses no emotional stability whatsoever. It’s a wonder you’re both still alive, especially when your temper is hardly mild either.” This last remark she paired with a wink, and a smile spread over your face.

“Right as always, my lady. Too often a day spent in the lab feels like my last.”

“Ah, Tsaritsa forbid!” She waved a hand in your direction, the simple black rings on her fingers catching the low light. “You have to live until the gala at least, sweetheart. I won’t have you tragically perishing before then; you owe me a dance, after all.”

You dejectedly rubbed your brow. “I do wish you’d pardon my absence from that gala.”

“Absolutely not,” Signora declared, crossing one leg over the other with an air of unbearable gratification. “You wouldn’t break my heart so callously, now would you?”

“Anything but Her Ladyship’s heart,” you replied dryly.

After a moment of shared laughter, a comfortable quiet fell across the room, punctuated by the crackling fire and the muffled groan of the building as it settled for the night. Your eyelids grew heavy, and staying awake was rapidly looking like an unnecessary effort you had no interest in making. Signora watched you drift off with an oddly contemplative expression, her eyes unfocused yet present all the same, as if simultaneously observing you and something far beyond. You had become a frequent visitor in her dreams, instantly recognizable by that shrewd look in your eye and the stubborn line of your mouth, one she could never resist trying to coax into a smile; and sometimes when she succeeded and the light hit you just so, she could swear that she glimpsed Rostam’s face within the shadows of your own. Then she’d blink and the illusion would dissolve, leaving behind only your sharp eyes and stern mouth, so unlike the gentleness she so clearly remembered in his.

But now, with the fire casting wavering shadows every time your lashes fluttered, just barely asleep, and the muffled silence that always seemed to accompany snow calming her mind, Rosalyne found comfort in the fact that your face – the slope of your cheek, the curve of your nose, the crease of your eyes – was entirely your own.

Something banged against the door and you started awake, half-certain you were dreaming as your eyes struggled to focus in the dark. The noise came again, louder and more insistent, and you detangled yourself from a blanket you didn’t remember falling asleep in before stumbling off the couch and towards the door, rubbing your eyes and too tired to even question who would call on you at such an ungodly hour of the night.

Bang bang bang-

“Heavens above, would you stop-”

You forcefully yanked the door open, already preparing to fix whoever was on the other side with your most withering glare. Dottore peered back at you, almost glowing in the inky blackness of the corridor. You blinked, then groped blindly through your pockets for your glasses. Upon hastily shoving them onto your nose, it became clear that it wasn’t Dottore at all, rather one of his segments.

“Omega?” You squinted up at him, then scowled. “Bastard. What exactly are you hoping to accomplish by breaking my door down?”

“I’d break down much more than just a door if it meant having a chance to see you.”

“Shut the hell up,” you hissed, feeling more enraged by the second. “You have thirty – no, twenty seconds to explain what you’re doing here before I dismantle your logic core.”

He grinned, completely unconcerned. You hated to admit it, but his lack of reaction was probably justified; the Rudimentary Mechanics of Sentient Machines course you took in your second year left you ill-equipped to go through with your threat. That didn’t mean you couldn’t simply swing a hammer, though, and you silently communicated the fact to Omega with a glower that could probably light a torch.

“Alright, alright,” he relented, shifting his weight to the other foot. “Prime’s fallen unconscious.”

You levelled him with an unimpressed look. “I fail to see how that’s my problem. There are seven of you, all with highly developed medical faculties. You can handle a little oopsie-daisy.”

“Well, of course we can,” Omega replied with a barely restrained snort. “It isn’t a lack of skill on our part, that I can assure you of. Prime coded us all with a total inability to touch his person.”

There was a pause during which you picked out a rather distasteful array of words you would’ve liked to call the Doctor. “Archons above, that man is the most imbecilic genius this timeline had the displeasure of housing.” You rubbed the bridge of your nose, already half-resigned to your fate. “And I suppose any real doctors within the building are utterly forbidden from laying a hand on His Majesty’s body, too?”

“Nope. They haven’t been given explicit instructions not to do so, but they’re all too scared out of their wits to breathe within a five mile radius of him anyway,” he replied cheerfully.

“I’m going to mix all his blood samples together,” you muttered heatedly under your breath, turning to grab your cloak and pushing Omega out of your doorway before he could start looking through your dorm. “Move it, Omega.”

“Fine, fine,” he grumbled, letting you shove him towards the barely-illuminated staircase.

The lab was just as, if not even more poorly lit than the corridors, with only a single lamp set to the dimmest possible glow; the feeble light was barely enough to see by, and you could make out the Doctor’s slumped-over form by the indistinct shadows it cast over the workbench. Despite the eeriness of the scene, you didn’t feel nervous; it was difficult not to feel at ease in a room you spent so many hours of the day in. You could probably navigate the lab blindfolded and drunk, so picking your way through the boxes, stacks of paper and books on the floor might as well have been a walk in the park. Still, you wondered why the floor was so cluttered in the first place; it was never so populated with scientific miscellany when you were working there.

Approaching the Doctor, you took note of how his mask had fallen slightly askew where his face rested against the marble, revealing a sliver of his cheek, flushed an unusual red, and the dark circles beneath one of his eyes. Your spine tingled with trepidation. Even while unconscious, the Doctor emanated danger, embodied peril; the simple act of reaching out to touch him felt like a surefire way to spell your own doom, but despite your wariness you slowly extended your hand towards his face to check his temperature.

You barely made it a few inches before he grabbed your wrist, snapping upright and staring straight at you.

“Oh,” he muttered hoarsely. “It’s you.” Then he went limp again, collapsing back onto the marble surface as you recovered from the start he’d given you.

“What in Teyvat is the matter with you?” You demanded in a whisper after a moment’s surprise. “Omega dragged me here saying you were unconscious. You can’t possibly keep denying that you’re sick, Doctor.”

“Don’t you tell me what I can or can’t deny,” came a muffled grumble in response. “Go away, dear. Omega is a meddling pest who needs his cerebrospinal fluid replaced at best and a full reformatting at worst. Nothing he says can be trusted.” His words slurred together in a most concerning manner, and you could hear the faintest Sumerian accent that wasn’t usually present in his voice from the way he rolled his r’s.

“Why would a robot need cerebrospinal- no, don’t answer that. Just”- you gestured at his hunched form, not that he could see- “Go to bed, please.”

“I can’t possibly waste time on something as useless as sleep,” he snapped, finally lifting his head. “I’m one concordant result away from a breakthrough, I swear it.”

“And I’m one stupid word from your mouth away from knocking you out properly,” you griped under your breath. “Doctor, please. I bet if I tried to take your temperature I’d lose a couple of fingers to third degree burns. Just rest, whatever breakthrough you think you’re on the verge of can wait.”

He let out a bark of wry laughter, turning to face you fully and lay the full weight of his piercing glare on you. “Aren’t we hypocritical? You once spent fifty-one and a half hours straight in the lab inhaling toxic fumes from a genetically modified mushroom’s spores because you were convinced the cure to Eleazar was within reach. You wouldn’t let a revolutionary advancement in your research wait either.”

“That is completely beside the point”- you blinked, processing his words. “How the hell do you know about that? I stopped researching Eleazar in my third year and I only have one publication on the topic.”

“I have my ways,” he replied, a self-assured grin stretching across his face.

“So you’re a stalker, too? Was the list of atrocities you’ve already committed not long enough to appease your wicked soul?”  You deadpanned.

“Stalking? I prefer to call it data collection.”

“Yes, of course you would,” you quipped, patience growing thinner by the second. “Get up, Doctor. You’re getting eight hours of sleep tonight whether you like it or not.”

“Don’t be so frivolous,” he scorned. “Three is already excessive.”

You were growing more and more aggravated by the second; if you scowled any harder the lines of your face would probably become permanently etched in that position. Steeling your nerves, you grabbed him by the sleeve and hauled him upwards. Surprisingly enough, he actually got up, although that was more likely because you caught him off-guard.

“I’m too tired to exchange witticisms with you all night. We both know you’re not going to make any more progress, and you’ll be useless in the lab if you can’t even discern silver from iron.”

You picked your way unsteadily through the mess on the floor, cursing Omega for disappearing when he could’ve made himself useful. Dottore let you pull him towards the door that led to the completely unused bedroom, still mostly out of surprise that you’d dared to lay a hand on him in the first place. He had to commend your bravery; anyone else would’ve been left with a broken wrist by now, if they were lucky. The reasoning behind your special treatment made the unpleasant pounding in his head quickly become unbearable, so he decided to drop that train of thought. For the time being.

You kicked open the door and shoved him inside the untouched bedroom. Just from taking a brief glance around you were immediately certain that no one had stepped foot in it since it had been furnished, let alone made use of it for sleep. Every surface from the dresser to the shelves mounted on the wall was completely empty save for a thick layer of dust, the bedsheets had become yellowed with age and the spider web cracks starting at the window and ending at one of the corners were tightly clustered with the tiny, jasmine-like flowers that littered the rest of the palace. The Doctor swayed slightly on his feet, and you quickly moved to catch him before he fell. A frown crossed his face. He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about being so reliant on you all of a sudden. Whatever he felt about the matter, it couldn’t have been positive; every time you touched him his fever seemed to rise a few degrees.

“Well, isn’t this ironic,” you mused to yourself, guiding Dottore to the bed and pushing him down onto it. “The doctor becomes the patient and the apprentice becomes the master.”

“Do not flatter yourself so,” he bit back. “You’ve a long way to go before surpassing me, dear.”

“I see a little cold isn’t enough to knock some humility into you,” you sighed, busying yourself with trying to force the window, which hung ever so slightly ajar and let in gusts of freezing air, to fully close. Dottore watched you from the bed, wondering what you were thinking in that moment. As far as he was concerned, it was a miracle you’d managed to force him anywhere without snapping his incredibly fragile patience, and now you were even going so far as to trade jabs with him that were quite a few degrees of familiarity higher than the ones you usually let loose during the day. And you’d told him to rest earlier that night, advice he’d blatantly disregarded, but it had still been a deviance from what he’d come to expect from you. Overall, he decided, both of you were exhibiting remarkably odd behaviour, and as much as it pained him to admit it he was too tired to think further about the matter.

Upon finally forcing the window shut and sustaining a shallow nick in the palm of your hand as a result, you walked past him and back into the lab with a mumbled curse on your lips which quickly devolved into a wide yawn. Of course you’d be tired. He tended to forget, sometimes, how it felt to have a body that wasn’t modified to be as close to perfection as possible; but catching even a glimpse of your very much human exhaustion brought back distant memories of his own fatigue, before he had taken a scalpel to his own skin and remedied the limitations of his own body. Still, he mused, watching you return to the bedroom with a pot of steaming tea (where in Teyvat did you get that? Did you keep it in the lab?) with half-lidded eyes and a disgruntled frown on your lips, a part of him filled with satisfaction at the opportunity to analyse an expression of yours he hadn’t seen before. He studied you intently as you turned your attention to the tea, eagerly filing away every detail of your countenance as he always tended to do when you showed him a new side of yourself, whether intentionally or not. You bent over a little to pour the tea, and he took in the curve of your spine, normally held upright in an example of perfect posture. Your hair slipped and hid a portion of your face, and he marvelled at how soft it looked, how effectively you usually kept it tied back for it to never get in the way. You rubbed one of your eyes, dislodging your glasses, and he watched as you plucked them from your face and stowed them in the pocket of your coat, thoroughly wrinkled along with your blouse to the point where he suspected you’d fallen asleep in them. You’d never let yourself get in such a state of disarray otherwise. Your gloves remained on your hands, though, he noted. You silently offered him a cup of tea, and cast a curious, searching gaze, the one you adopted when tasked with a particularly tricky experiment or stubborn calculation, across his face. He’d long since acknowledged the sheer gratification that came with you regarding him like a puzzle to solve or a code to decipher, and now was no different. Dottore internally preened at being the subject of your curiosity.

“That mask can’t be comfortable,” you finally said, taking a sip from your cup. “Does it not impair your breathing at all?”

He stared down at the cup you’d given him, catching sight of his own reflection in the surface of the amber liquid. “Quite a poor attempt to convince me to remove it,” he remarked, sending you a bemused, slightly mocking smile.

You rolled your eyes, dragging a worn chair to the side of the bed and crumpling into it. Swirling your cup around thoughtfully, you continued to survey him through narrowed eyes. You probably couldn’t see him very well without your glasses, he realised with some amusement as he finally lifted the cup to his lips. He was pleasantly surprised; it seemed your unbelievable caffeine intake was justified, if every pot of tea you made was of such high quality.

“You’re going to get up and continue working the second I leave, aren’t you?” You said, breaking the silence. Dottore drained his teacup before answering. Some damn good tea right there.

“Unless you’ve spiked this tea with a sedative, yes.”

“Damn, I should’ve done that,” you muttered regretfully under your breath. Then, after eyeing him shrewdly for a moment, you conceded, “Well, at least you’re getting some rest now, if nothing else.”

Yet another thing about the whole situation that was confusing the hell out of him. Why didn’t he just disregard you and go back to what he was doing? Why was he sitting in this practically-antique bed in this practically-abandoned room, drinking tea and making conversation with you instead of finishing what he started? What in Teyvat was it about you that was so compelling he found it so easy to disregard the work he thought he’d choose over everything else? Not for the first time, he wished that your enigmatic nature was something he could decode like an ancient scripture or unravel like the tangle of ley lines that held the world together. So few things were a mystery to him anymore; there was so little he’d left undiscovered, yet you had managed to make it onto such a short list seemingly without effort. Even now, while you were completely still and silent, your unfocused eyes looking somewhere out the window, his full attention was captured by the way you rested your cheek on your fist, the way your eyelids fluttered periodically as you struggled to stay awake. Damn you.

You dozed off just then, teacup slipping from between your fingers. He caught it before it could shatter, then nearly crushed it to pieces himself when he realised his urgency in preventing it from hitting the floor was because he didn’t want to wake you. And that maybe you liked this particular teacup, and would mourn its loss. And fuck, why would such things cross his mind? Frustrated, he glanced back up at you as if your sleeping form would hold the answers to these infuriating questions that plagued him, and instead was left with an even greater sense of wonderment at how much the peacefulness of sleep softened the harsh lines of doubt and suspicion in your face.

He carefully set the cup down. If his grip tightened any more he’d break it in his fit of vexation. And despite not knowing the reason why, he didn’t want to upset you.

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taglist (omg there's so many of you now i'm gonna cry):

@viridian-coffer, @vvzhyxx, @darifes, @whore-of-many-hot-men

@aenishas, @lovel3tter, @randomidk-123, @autistic-deer

@luvenus702, @zoriaisasimp, @ra404, @crownohomo

@diamondcookie45, @steadybreadbluebird, @reapersimps

@lockandkeys, @lacunaanonymoused, @tyt42, @blackcatpandora

to be added or removed please reply to the masterlist post, bold means i'm having trouble tagging you :(

[localplaguenurse]

Boss makes a dollar yadda yadda nine hour shift today SO here are the crumbs of a Fatui-centric Wild West AU I might hopefully one day actually do something with that isn’t daydreaming vividly

Pantalone: Initially made his fortune as an oil man, then opened the Northland Bank once his new social status had been secured. Carries two pistols on his person for any poor son of a bitch who tries to square up thinking he’s some sort of soft rich boy, or when debt collecting isn’t going as smoothly as he thought.

Dottore: His reputation as Il Dottore Corvo, a serial killer boogeyman who dissects and mutilates his victims beyond recognition, precedes him. He’s a travelling doctor though no one knows if he’s licensed, not that it matters because he knows his stuff anyways. He’s actually albino in this AU, so instead of his iconic mask, he wears tinted sunglasses to protect his eyes as well as a large hat.

Capitano: Town sheriff who’s never seen without his hat or the bandanna over his face. People talk about him the same way people used to talk about Chuck Norris in the 2000s-2010s (“he’s so tough he smokes gunpowder instead of tobacco!”) Rumour is he was the last man standing in his platoon, and his face was mutilated in the battle that killed his comrades. That’s why people sometimes call him Captain, it was his rank.

Childe: Farmboy with a violent streak who wants to be a rough and tough cowboy. Sort of living that dream while doing community service with the Sheriff as a punishment for shooting but not killing a certain oil man... Whether or not “that asshole’s had it coming a long time” is still debated. (He kind of did but no one wants to be the one to say it.)

That’s all for now. Will expand if not dead.

[boundinparchment]

Ngl I kinda wanna try to outline and ponder a Pantalone-centric fic…

[eluxcastar]

ALL GENSHIN IMPACT POSTS

🩸 — scenarios

🃏 — harbingers

guide to surviving the harbingers

fatui harbingers with someone else's child

the harbingers while drunk

harbingers with vampire s/o

harbingers with a tsundere s/o

harbingers receiving flowers from their s/o

fatui harbingers with a child god

🃏 — pierro

papa pierro fluff

s/o with sleeping troubles (pantalone, il capitano, pierro) 🩸

papa pierro doing more papa pierro things

papa pierro birthday headcanons

even more papa pierro doing even more papa pierro things

the little brotherfication of pierro

pierro with lowkey unhinged elf reader

pierro-centric domestic fluff

🃏 — il capitano

s/o with sleeping troubles (pantalone, il capitano, pierro) 🩸

capitano with a short s/o

reader with capitano’s pet nether beast 🩸

the little brotherfication of capitano

opening up for the first time (pantalone, dottore, capitano)

🃏 — il dottore

sick dottore 🩸

soft dottore and his cold assistant 🩸

s/o with asthma (pantalone, dottore)

the little brotherfication of dottore

dadtore with his adopted child

opening up for the first time (pantalone, dottore, capitano)

dadtore with his germ-ridden adopted child

dottore with porcelain doll reader

dottore giving child reader a checkup 🩸

dadtore and his increasingly more mischievous child

🃏 — columbina

clingy reader (columbina, sandrone, la signora)

yandere columbina blindfolding her s/o

🃏 — arlecchino

arlecchino relationship headcanons

arlecchino comforting her crying s/o 🩸

arlecchino and her sick s/o 🩸

arlecchino with a fiesty s/o

arlecchino chasing around a kunikuzushi'ed reader 🩸

a guide to surviving the house of the hearth

arlecchino being comforted by her s/o 🩸

the little sisterfication of arlecchino

arlecchino and harbinger reader 🩸

🃏 — scaramouche

the little brotherfication of scaramouche

🃏 — sandrone

clingy reader (columbina, sandrone, la signora)

the little sisterfication of sandrone

sandrone receives a crumb of love

🃏 — la signora

yandere pantalone and signora sharing a s/o

clingy reader (columbina, sandrone, la signora)

the little sisterfication of signora

🃏 — pantalone

pantalone's obsessions

yandere pantalone and signora sharing a s/o

you're not used to losing people (pantalone) 🩸

s/o with sleeping troubles (pantalone, il capitano, pierro) 🩸

more pantalone angst 🩸

s/o with asthma (pantalone, dottore)

the little brotherfication of pantalone

opening up for the first time (pantalone, dottore, capitano)

loverboy's first kill earning pantalone's approval 🩸

🃏 — tartaglia

little brother childe

✎ ─ works in progress

dadtore but the 1930s psychological experiment kind

columbina with favonius nun reader

the little siblingfication of columbina

pantalone/loverboy

please do not edit, plagiarise or repost my work to any other sites without permission.

[ao3feed-dilucnkaeya]

the mind electric

Read on AO3

by Kapps_Locke

“We rescued you from Mondstadt. Captain Alberich had his claws all in your mind.” The man raised his hand, his Hydro Vision glowing brilliantly. Water droplets formed in the air, making a small projection of a man with long blue hair, an eyepatch, and a cape falling off one shoulder. He saw Diluc’s conflicted look and raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you remember?”

“Kaeya Alberich is the man who killed your father.”

What? Diluc frowned as his headache grew worse. He ignored the red. The red? The red eyes. His red eyes. Diluc stumbled out of his bed, waving off the man as he staggered his way to what he could only assume was a bathroom. It was, thankfully.

Diluc grasped the porcelain sink in his hands, eyes shut as he breathed heavily. He wasn’t going to be sick… yet. He was just in Mondstadt, right? Or at least… he was in his dream. It all felt so real. Diluc turned on the faucet, splashing water on his face. He shakily opened his eyes, looking up and making eye contact with himself in the mirror. Messy red hair. Pale skin. Bloodshot blue eyes. Not red. Blue.

Diluc sighed in relief. It really was just a bad dream.

(Brainwashed Fatui Harbinger Diluc)

Words: 2151, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: 原神 | Genshin Impact (Video Game)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen

Characters: Diluc (Genshin Impact), Kaeya (Genshin Impact), Ying | Lumine (Genshin Impact), Tartaglia | Childe (Genshin Impact), Fatui Harbinger Members (Genshin Impact), Jean (Genshin Impact), Amber (Genshin Impact), Albedo (Genshin Impact), Lisa (Genshin Impact), Il Dottore (Genshin Impact), Il Dottore's Segments (Genshin Impact), Capitano (Genshin Impact), Columbina (Genshin Impact), Pierro (Genshin Impact), Arlecchino (Genshin Impact), Pulcinella (Genshin Impact), Sandrone (Genshin Impact), Scaramouche (Genshin Impact), Pantalone (Genshin Impact), Tsaritsa (Genshin Impact)

Relationships: Diluc & Kaeya (Genshin Impact), Diluc & Jean (Genshin Impact), Diluc & Ying | Lumine (Genshin Impact), Diluc & Jean & Kaeya (Genshin Impact), Diluc & Fatui Harbinger Members (Genshin Impact)

Additional Tags: Brainwashing, i thought of this two years ago and have been cooking it since, Fatui Harbingers (Genshin Impact), Fatui Harbingers as a Dysfunctional Family (Genshin Impact), Fatui Harbinger Diluc (Genshin Impact), but its against his will really, KAELUC SHIPPERS DNI, Ying | Lumine is So Done (Genshin Impact), so is Kaeya, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Diluc and Kaeya are Siblings (Genshin Impact), Hurt Diluc (Genshin Impact), Diluc Angst (Genshin Impact), Khaenri'ah (Genshin Impact), Diluc-centric (Genshin Impact)

[reqrator]

indefinite hiatus --  active on discord

                        𝐑𝐄𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑          ★           𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐄

                                AMBITIOUS  •  EGO-CENTRIC  •  PERSUASIVE

                                           INDIE    PANTALONE   FROM   GENSHIN                                            SELECTIVE  /    PRIVATE   /   MULTISHIP                                                     WRITTEN BY AUTUMN  /   25+

                                              GUIDELINES   /     ABOUT   /     VERSES                                                               INTEREST TRACKER

posts of note:

permanent interaction call permanent ship dynamics call

credits:

icon @celcstialls​ promo image base: epoch winter mv

​

[ao3feed-larry]

Walk on the wild side ʚɞ Traducción

by louelsolecito

Decir que Mitch está confundido en cuanto a lo que está sucediendo exactamente sería una subestimación colosal, especialmente cuando el vaquero se inclina y besa a Louis en la boca y éste no se aparta.

"Puedes seguir caminando, amigo", le dice el hombre a Mitch, sacándolo de su estado de desconcierto.

Mirando boquiabierto al hombre, Louis le da una palmada en el pecho desnudo. "¿Dónde está esa hospitalidad sureña de la que todo el mundo habla? Ese es Mitch, mi amigo, nos conocimos hace unas horas. Es agradable, no hace falta ser grosero, H".

"Mi error, hombre. Pensé que sólo estabas mirando", se ríe H, poniéndose de pie para quitarse el polvo de los pantalones y arrebatarle sombrero a Louis antes de caminar hacia Mitch. "Soy Harry, el novio de Louis. Encantado de conocerte".

Qué.

Un AU inspirado en Woodstock del '69 donde Mitch conoce a Louis... y a Harry.

Words: 11884, Chapters: 1/1, Language: Español

Fandoms: One Direction (Band)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: M/M

Characters: Louis Tomlinson, Mitch Rowland, Harry Styles

Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Mitch Rowland/Harry Styles, Mitch Rowland/Louis Tomlinson

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Recreational Drug Use, Woodstock, Period Typical Attitudes, Open Relationships, Cowboy Harry Styles, Louis Tomlinson is a Tease, and a little bit of a slut, mitch is mitch, Threesome - M/M/M, Unsafe Sex, Top Harry, Bottom Louis, Top Mitch, Semi-Public Sex, Double Penetration, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Needy Louis Tomlinson, Harry Styles is a Tease, Possessive Behavior, Dom Harry, Harry Styles Calls Louis Tomlinson Pet Names, Verbal Humiliation, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Smut, POV Alternating, Spitroasting, Louis Tomlinson-centric, Traducción, Español

via AO3 works tagged 'Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson' https://ift.tt/3A0HJWx

[a-room-of-my-own]

Superneuneu Liveblog: Lily Sunder Has Some Regrets

Superneuneu est de retour avec un épisode Castiel-centric. Il y aura des larmes, des Silver Foxes, les cernes de Misha Collins et une bonne dose de SUBTEXT.

helshades Bon, kessonfé ?

theversatilist moi je suis ready!

helshades Mitou, alors !

theversatilist Ok je lance!

helshades Lancé Oh la vache ils ont vieilli depuis la saison 4

theversatilist t'as vu!!! c'est un truc de ouf

helshades Bon en même temps c'était genre y a vingt ans

theversatilist surtout misha collins qui a l'air au bout de sa vie bah pas tant que ça, juste 8

helshades Si ça se trouve il boit pour oublier Oui mais j'ai souvent l'impression que ça fait vingt ans

theversatilist misha a besoin d'une petite compresse à l'eau de bleuet

helshades Voire trente

theversatilist evil flipper? UN PIRATE

helshades Une piratesse

theversatilist Snake Plissken en femme

helshades C'est dur de faire l'actrice sans vision binoculaire

theversatilist ce que je comprends pas avec leurs épées là

theversatilist c'est que quand ils ont eut les premières c'était genre hyper rare et maintenant on dirait qu'ils les vendent à carrefour

helshades Mais c'est des couteaux à anges Les anges en ont Ou les ceusses qui en ont zigouillé

theversatilist Mais je crois pas je crois que c'était un truc de gradé Air Intense™ à 12h

helshades Pourquoi elle chasse du chérubin en tailleur-pantalon et talons aiguille celle-là

theversatilist ché ne sais pas!

helshades Je crois que Dean désapprouve le fait que sa mère ne lui rende pas des comptes

theversatilist Elle est pas mère au foyer cette pouffe MISHA MA CHERIE CES CERNES C'EST PAS POSSIBLE

helshades Dis donc c'est moi où Dean joue les pères de famille Mais c'est que ça commence à être glauque

theversatilist uuuun peu

helshades Il devient son père en vieillissant

theversatilist sympa l'ambiance dans la voiture

helshades Sam fait le bon grand frère et Castiel la teenager boudeuse que son père surveille de près parce qu'un jour elle a envoyé un pavé dans une vitrine

theversatilist Je sens que ça va assurer l'avenir de la fanfiction cet épisode

helshades Voyons les choses en face le fandom a déjà besoin d'une psychanalyse

theversatilist la vilaine

helshades Attend elle a pété la gueule à un ange et elle oublie son surin sur place

theversatilist Ah bah ça y'est y'a des soldes au rayon épée

helshades Castiel range cette épée

theversatilist Elle a un traqueur GPS!

helshades Sous le patch ?

theversatilist Evidemment! je ricane je ricane mais il est plutôt mieux que d'habitude cet épisode question esthétique

helshades Je vieillis moi aussi Je commence à donner dans le silver fox

theversatilist looooooooooooool en plus pour une fois les extra jouent bien

helshades Oui Et il se passe des trucs et la mythologie avance Et Castiel a enfin un truc à faire Non mais Dean est à tuer

theversatilist Quel relou

helshades D'accord le coup de la banquette est bien

helshades Mirabel ? MIRABEL ??

theversatilist HAHAHA comment ça casse tout Intense™ Il est bien le silver fox

helshades Et les anges Not Careless se font trucider à la pelle par une nana borgne qui s'annonce avant de les planter

theversatilist Il joue bien

helshades "Super dick" Dean t'es con Tu te conduis comme un connard

theversatilist C'est pas nouveau

theversatilist C'est quand même un gros connard

helshades Ah non Ils sont devenus mollassons ces anges

theversatilist bah c'est puissant soit disant mais pas tant que ça

theversatilist des costuuuuuuuumes!

helshades Castiel a été une gonzesse

theversatilist Castiel est une feeeeeeeeeeeemme! Oh le shiping shipping ça va iech

theversatilist OH MON DIEU UN HIPSTER

helshades Donc maintenant c'est parti pour une tapée de fics où Dean et Castiel font des nephilims

theversatilist VOUI ¨Prepare Yourself

helshades Donc son pacte démoniaque elle l'a passé avec qui

theversatilist ché pas

helshades Pourquoi Crowley à la grande époque aurait pas mis un humain lambda sous stéroïdes sataniques pour lui faire dégommer de l'ange

theversatilist Tu dis ça parce que tu veux voir Mark Sheppard et son sass

helshades OUI

helshades JE L'AVOUE SANS HONTE

theversatilist fangirl va

helshades La bonne nouvelle c'est que le prochain épisode est Rowena-centric

theversatilist OUIIIIIII OUI OUI! Je savais pas!

helshades Donc... Elle a reçu la même blessure qu'elle a infligée ou j'ai pas compris ?

theversatilist ya du subtext entre castiel et silver fox

helshades Ishimstiel ? Cashim ? Cachou ?

theversatilist on va rester sur silver fox :D silver cas? CASSILVER

helshades Adopté !

theversatilist YAY Elle pleure du côté du patch

helshades La gamine est d'Ishim

theversatilist HAN SILVER FOX EST LE PERE

helshades C'est Dallas ce truc

theversatilist c'est du jerry springer

helshades Bientôt du Ally McBeal

theversatilist Il va pas tuer la gamine quand même Roh la vache

helshades Ooooh

theversatilist Et c'est là que les acteurs principaux sont moins bons que les extras

theversatilist Oui enfin Dean a failli mourir 15858 fois ce sera pas encore pour maintenant

helshades Ce qui est chiant quand les épisodes sont bien c'est qu'on ne peut pas trop médire

theversatilist ah oui j'avoue je suis un peu frustrée

helshades Et le prochain ne peut pas être nul y aura Rowena

theversatilist mais heureusement qu'ackles sait pas jouer, ça conserve le niveau

helshades Oh comparé à Padalecki

theversatilist je l'aime bien silver fox il devrait rester mais je sens qu'on va avoir un dean ex machina

helshades Comme d'hab'

theversatilist ou un sam ex machina SAM EX MACHINA

helshades Classe l’œil J'en veux un

helshades Pour faire de la place dans le métro

theversatilist hahaha elle est classe elle aussi han non il a tué silver fox

helshades Snif On peut recaster Dean avec Silver Fox tu crois

theversatilist franchement je vote pour PUTAIN MAIS QUEL RELOU

helshades Castiel remonte dans mon estime

theversatilist Non mais les deux ils savent pas jouer ils mépuisent

theversatilist Non mais il s'en sort collins quand on lui donne quoi faire

helshades Quand les scénaristes se souviennent de son existence il peut être intéressant

FIN!

[kirah69]

[Fanfic] Stanislawa

Clasificación: Todos los públicos

Categoría: M/M - M/F

Fandom: Teen Wolf (TV)

Relación: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski

Tags: Stiles-centric, Transgender, MTF Stiles Stilinski, Pre-Slash, First Kiss, Misunderstandings, Light Angst, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Alternate Universe - Human, LGBTQ Themes, LGBTQ Character

Idioma: Español

Palabras: 5371

* * * * *

Cuando Stiles salió de su apartamento, la puerta del vecino de enfrente estaba abierta y había un par de hombres cargando cajas dentro. El piso había estado vacío por dos meses y al parecer al fin lo habían alquilado. Al llegar abajo, vio a uno de los hombres vestido con el mono de la empresa de mudanzas hablando con otro hombre que señalaba hacia unas cajas en el camión. Supuso que ese era su nuevo vecino y, dios, estaba como un tren. Hombros anchos y musculosos, las mangas de su jersey recogidas hasta los codos destacando sus fuertes antebrazos, un cuello al que no le importaría aferrarse como una sanguijuela, una perilla perfectamente arreglada y un trasero firme en unos pantalones ilegalmente ajustados. Se veía algo mayor, quizás cerca de los cuarenta (lo cual no era problema en absoluto para Stiles), pero no podía apreciar mucho más desde esa distancia, aunque solo con lo que veía ya sabía que le gustaba.

No se detuvo a saludar o llegaría tarde a clase, ya tendría tiempo. Le envió durante su hora libre un mensaje a Scott hablándole de su nuevo vecino. A pesar de estar en puntas opuestas del país, seguían hablando como si estuvieran en Beacon Hills. Scott le dijo que no quería detalles (Stiles se los daría de todos modos, él había tenido que aguantarlo cuando hablaba las maravillas de Allison y después de Kira).

Regresó a casa por la tarde tras su trabajo en la biblioteca y estaba demasiado cansado para molestarse en ser amistoso así que decidió que hablaría con el vecino al día siguiente aprovechando que era viernes y no tenía clases.

Por la mañana, comenzó su rutina habitual de los fines de semana. Se dio una ducha y se depiló las piernas. Se puso el sujetador y las bragas rosa pálido con un lazo en el frente y algo de encaje. Se plantó frente a su armario y examinó la ropa al lado izquierdo hasta que se decidió por un vestido de manga corta vaquero abotonado por delante, casi como una camisa larga hasta la mitad de sus muslos. Lo complementó con un cinto negro marcando su cintura y unas bailarinas negras. Regresó al baño y sacó su estuche de maquillaje. Escogió algo suave, una línea fina y tono cobrizo para los ojos, rímel ligero, pintalabios rosa cremoso y un rubor suave. Se adornó con un pequeño colgante plateado de una snitch dorada con una perla y una pulsera de cuero trenzado. Finalizó todo con una peluca del mismo tono que su pelo natural que llegaba por debajo de sus hombros. Se miró en su espejo de cuerpo completo y sonrió satisfecha con el resultado.

Salió de la habitación para comenzar su día. Desayunó mientras pensaba en qué podía preparar porque siempre le gustaba cocinar algún plato especial en fin de semana. Se decidió por una tarta de manzana, tenía los ingredientes y tal vez había pensado en preparar dos para darle una a su nuevo vecino como bienvenida cuando fuera a hablar con él esa tarde.

Llamaron a la puerta cuando apenas había sacado los ingredientes. Entró en pánico, no podía ser el vecino para saludar, no podía recibirlo así. Se quitó el delantal y se acercó silenciosamente a la puerta. Miró por la mirilla y suspiró aliviada al ver que solo era la cartera con un paquete, probablemente el vestido que había pedido el fin de semana anterior.

—Buenos días—saludó con su mejor voz femenina al abrir la puerta.

—Buenos días, cielo. Otro paquete para ti—le dijo sonriente. Siempre compraba por Internet así que ya la conocía de tantos paquetes que le había llevado.

La mujer le entregó el paquete y le hizo firmar en un móvil. En ese mismo momento, la puerta de enfrente se abrió y su nuevo vecino salió con una bolsa en la mano. El corazón de Stiles brincó en su pecho.

Mierda, mierda, mierda. No sabía qué hacer, su mano temblaba al final de su firma y el paquete estuvo a punto de caer de su agarre.

—Gr-gracias—le dijo a la cartera, mirando nerviosamente de reojo a su vecino, que no parecía tener intención de pasar de largo. Sus brillantes ojos azules estaban fijos en ella y, huh, si antes pensaba que era atractivo, ahora sobrepasaba todo lo que había visto antes.

Retrocedió tan pronto como le devolvió el lápiz a la mujer y agarró el borde de la puerta. Con una breve mirada a su vecino asintió con la cabeza a modo de saludo y cerró la puerta cuando este daba un paso hacia delante, probablemente para hablar con ella. Fue corriendo hasta la habitación y cerró la puerta como si eso sirviera para aislarla de la vergüenza que sentía. Con la espalda contra la puerta, se deslizó hasta el suelo abrazándose al paquete que aún llevaba consigo. Su respiración era agitada, estaba a punto de sufrir un ataque de pánico y los pensamientos que pasaban por su cabeza no ayudaban en absoluto.

Desde luego que esa no era la forma en que pretendía conocer a su vecino. Aparte de la cartera, de Scott y de su padre, nadie más conocía este lado de ella (y la cartera pensaba que era una mujer porque jamás la había recibido con su aspecto de hombre). Nunca salía a la calle como mujer, tan solo se atrevía a vestirse así en casa por miedo a que alguien la descubriera, por miedo al qué dirían, a las burlas, por miedo a demasiadas cosas. ¿Se habría dado cuenta de que no era realmente una mujer? ¿Había conseguido engañarlo? Si lo había conseguido, ¿qué iba a hacer ahora? Tenía la opción de fingir que había dos personas en esa casa porque era inevitable que se cruzara con él con su aspecto de hombre, pero seguramente al verlo como hombre se daría cuenta de que eran la misma persona y, aun si no fuera así, el engaño acabaría descubriéndose tarde o temprano y eso sería peor. La otra opción era explicárselo cuando inevitablemente preguntase, pero no estaba preparado para eso. Una cosa era Scott, que la había visto vestirse como una niña y maquillarse desde que era pequeña, o su padre, que estaba predestinado a encontrarla así vestida en algún momento (había sido una conversación incómoda y extraña y ambos habían acabado llorando en brazos del otro); pero otra cosa muy distinta era un hombre del que no sabía nada y por el que ya se sentía atraída.

Sintió alivio al no oír que llamara a la puerta y poco a poco consiguió tranquilizarse y evitar el ataque de pánico. Esperó varios minutos antes de levantarse y salir de la habitación. Respiró hondo y decidió seguir con su día. Abrió el paquete y sacó el vestido de tirantes que había pedido en preparación para el verano, azul oscuro con un precioso estampado de flores rosas. Se lo puso para comprobar que le quedaba bien y lo dejó en el cesto de la ropa para lavarlo. Regresó a la cocina y ya no sabía si debía hacer una tarta para su vecino o evitarlo tanto como le fuera posible. Decidió hacerla de todos modos, si no era para su vecino siempre podría llevarla a su grupo de estudio.

Cuando las tartas estaban listas y enfriándose, y después de haber comido, se fue a la habitación. Se cambió de ropa (una falda roja, un top blanco y una chaqueta gris) y se cambió el pintalabios por uno rojo, decidiendo que dejaría el resto del maquillaje así por ahora. Le gustaba hacer al menos tres cambios de ropa al día, apropiada para cada momento, incluso si no salía a la calle con ella. Regresó al salón y se puso con el trabajo que tenía que entregar esa semana para una de sus clases.

Apenas había avanzado media página cuando llamaron a la puerta. Stiles se quedó petrificada, no había nadie que pudiera llegar sin avisar y llamar directamente a su puerta, así que tan solo se le ocurría que pudiera ser una persona. Se acercó lentamente, intentando no hacer ruido, y, sí, era su vecino al otro lado de la puerta. Con un ramo de flores.

¿Qué demonios?

Abrió la puerta sin pensarlo, curiosa por las flores, y no se dio cuenta de lo que había hecho hasta que el hombre la sonrió. Su corazón comenzó a acelerarse y no era solo porque un hombre tan atractivo la estuviera sonriendo, sino porque su intención era evitarlo en la medida de lo posible.

—Buenas tardes. Soy Peter Hale, tu nuevo vecino—le dijo entregándole las flores, un precioso ramo en tonos naranjas y rojos con algún amarillo y blanco. Tenía varios tipos de flores, de las que tan solo reconocía los lirios y otras eran parecidas a rosas, pero más esponjosas (vale, no tenía ni idea de flores, pero podía decir que era hermoso –y probablemente caro–).

—Oh, uh, gracias. Stiles Stilinski—Peter arqueó una ceja al oír su nombre. Stiles se arregló nerviosa la falda con su mano libre—. Um, es diminutivo de Stanislawa.

—¿Polaca?—preguntó, esa suave sonrisa en su rostro que no se veía del todo inocente.

—Sí, por parte de madre, aunque he nacido aquí—no quería hablar más, era difícil mantener su voz en ese tono y no le gustaba, pero no podía cerrarle la puerta en la cara después de ese regalo.

—Viajé hace tiempo por esa parte de Europa, unos lugares preciosos.

Y Stiles no debería de estar ruborizándose porque ese alago no iba dirigido a ella, pero aun así sus mejillas no parecían estar de acuerdo.

—Mh- Sí, um, oh, espera un segundo, he hecho una tarta para ti, dame un momento—se dio la vuelta y se dirigió a toda prisa a la cocina.

Estaba tan nerviosa. Esto era totalmente nuevo para ella, no solo presentarse así vestida frente a alguien, sino ser incapaz de establecer una conversación cuando normalmente no había manera de callarla. Esos brillantes y penetrantes ojos la impelían a hablar sin parar, preguntándole sobre él, hablándole sobre ella, pero el miedo a ser descubierta evitaba que las palabras salieran de su boca.

Dejó el ramo sobre la mesa y cogió una de las tartas. Suspiró mentalmente aliviada al ver que Peter se había quedado en el pasillo fuera en lugar de entrar, un vistazo a su salón y se daría cuenta de que no era realmente una mujer, sus fotos con su padre, Scott y los demás llenaban paredes y estanterías.

—Espero que te guste, es de manzana—quizás debería haberle preguntado qué le gustaba antes de prepararla.

—He de admitir que cuando la olí al llegar a casa sentí mucha envidia. No dudo que me gustará si sabe tan bien como huele.

Vale, esto sí que era un alago hacia ella y el rubor se extendía ahora hacia su cuello. (Y prefería pensar que la insinuación que había oído allí y que veía en su sonrisa algo más afilada que antes era solo cosa suya porque no podía ser real). Se dio cuenta de que no había dicho nada en varios segundos, pero no sabía qué responder a eso.

—Te invitaré a tomar algo cuando termine de desempaquetar todo—le dijo finalmente Peter con un guiño y se dio la vuelta para entrar a su apartamento.

Stiles cerró la puerta y se quedó paralizada. Eso último sin duda había sido una insinuación, pero no estaba segura de si era de modo amistoso o algo más. Realmente no importaba, eso se acabaría en cuanto descubriera que no era Stanislawa.

Scott intentó animarla, se había percatado de su humor decaído en su juego semanal de CoD, pero ni siquiera él pudo convencerla de que todo iría bien. Se aferró a su decisión de evitar a su vecino en la medida de lo posible y no esperaba volver a verlo en unos cuántos días ya que estaría ocupado desembalando y organizando la casa. Por esto mismo, no se lo esperaba cuando el domingo por la tarde llamó a su puerta.

—Buenas tardes.

—Ho-hola—Stiles alisaba nerviosamente su falda, sabiendo que estaría llena de arrugas después de haber estado sentada tanto rato, mientras que Peter lucía con confianza su ajustado jersey blanco con un cuello de pico indecentemente bajo.

—Voy a preparar la cena, me preguntaba si querrías acompañarme. Para inaugurar la casa, ya he terminado de ordenarlo todo.

Para inaugurar la casa, claro. Debería haber dicho eso en voz alta, pero no era capaz, Peter parecía seguir quitándole las palabras.

—Um, sí, claro, me encantaría—se dio una colleja mental, parecía idiota hablando así y probablemente Peter pensaba lo mismo.

—Pásate dentro de una hora entonces—le dijo con una sonrisa satisfecha en el rostro y se dio la vuelta.

Stiles cerró la puerta y comenzó a entrar en pánico. Cogió su ordenador, lo puso sobre la cama y llamó por Skype a Scott. Sabía que debía de estar relajándose en casa con Kira, pero esto era una emergencia.

«¿Stiles?»

—Socorro, necesito ayuda—le dijo mientras abría el armario.

«Vaaale. ¿Cuál es el problema?», preguntó con un suspiro. Menudo amigo, ya podría asustarse un poco al menos (aunque quizás estaba demasiado acostumbrado a estas llamadas).

—Peter me ha invitado a cenar en su casa. Con él.

«Sí, Stiles, imagino que con él. ¿Cuál es el problema? Te gusta, ¿no? Pues ve».

—¡Scott!—gritó indignada—. Es... Es Peter, es un dios esculpido en mármol, no has visto su culo.

«Ni quiero verlo».

—Y yo soy... yo—continuó ignorándolo. Sacando un vestido tras otro de su armario—. Ni siquiera sabe que soy, ya sabes. No va a salir bien, no puedo pasar tanto tiempo con él sin que se dé cuenta, no puedo estar en una cita con él. No, no, ni siquiera es una cita, solo una cena. ¿Es una cita? Scott, ¿crees que es una cita o- o que solo me ha invitado como, ya sabes, para conocer a tu vecina?

«Yo no invito a mis vecinos a comer».

—¿Qué me pongo? ¿Qué ropa se lleva a una cita? O una no-cita ¿Vestido o falda? ¡Scott, ayúdame!

«Espera un segundo», Scott se levantó y un momento después Kira se sentó frente al ordenador. «Creo que esto es cosa de chicas así que te dejo a Kira».

—Gracias, Scott, eres un amigo—respondió sarcástico—. ¡Kiraaaa!—la llamó con un gemido lastimero. Se arrodilló frente a la cama para que la cámara la enfocara.

«Stiles, vas a ir a tu cita y todo saldrá bien», le aseguró con esa dulce sonrisa suya.

—Pero él no sabe que soy-

«Una chica encantadora, divertida e inteligente, pero va a descubrirlo y le vas a encantar».

Stiles no pudo más que sonreír.

—Te adoro. ¿Y qué puedo ponerme? ¿Qué se lleva a una primera cita? Aunque ni siquiera sé si es una cita-

«Claro que es una cita. Usa rojo, sin duda es tu color. A ver qué vestidos tienes».

Stiles se dio la vuelta y cogió los tres vestidos rojos apropiados que tenía, uno liso, otro a cuadros y otro a rayas (porque, sí, el rojo es su color y una cuarta parte de su armario era rojo, en ambos lados).

«El de rayas», le dijo Kira tras un momento. Era elegante pero juvenil, con tirantes finos, a rallas negras delgadas entre otras más anchas rojas, rosas y blancas. Tenía un escote palabra de honor con relleno en el pecho y no tendría que ponerse sujetador. «Lleva también los stilettos rojos».

—¡No! Tenemos la misma altura, no quiero parecer más alta que él, sabes que eso no le gusta a los hombres.

«¿Y estarías interesada en un hombre al que le importa tu altura?».

—Ahí tienes un punto. Pero no los stilettos, no tengo práctica con ellos y no quiero tropezarme. ¿Servirían estos?—le mostró otros zapatos rojo mate con un tacón de menos de cuatro centímetros y una línea negra alrededor del borde.

«De acuerdo, sirven. Y ponte pintauñas rojo», asintió satisfecha.

—¿Y maquillaje? ¿Pintalabios rojo?

«No, si vas a comer mejor no. Usa un gloss rosa y por lo demás, bueno, sabes maquillarte mejor que yo. Resalta tus ojos y no podrá apartar la mirada».

—Oh~ Te adoro—le lanzó un beso—. Ahora, voy a prepararme. Tengo menos de una hora para la cita. ¡Tengo una cita!

«¡Cuéntamelo todo luego!».

Con algunos minutos de retraso, Stiles llamó a la puerta de su primera cita. Esperaba que Peter no se molestara por llegar algo tarde, después de todo había sido él el que la había avisado con apenas una hora de antelación.

Cuando abrió la puerta, no pareció en absoluto molesto. Estaba sonriendo, como si no hubiera estado seguro de que aparecería, y su mirada la recorrió para nada sutilmente casi como si quisiera devorarla. Stiles se estremeció y sintió calor en su rostro.

—Me alegra que hayas venido, estás espectacular—le dijo y sonaba sincero, no un cumplido por obligación.

—Gra-gracias—esta vez no tuvo que fingir la voz aguda, estaba tan nerviosa que le salió sola.

Peter se apartó de la puerta para dejarla pasar y una vez dentro colocó una mano en la parte baja de su espalda para acompañarla hacia el comedor. Por supuesto que eso no era necesario, pero Stiles tampoco hizo intento de apartarlo, incluso si se puso tensa. Por suerte, pronto se distrajo observando el interior de la casa. Todo estaba ya perfectamente colocado, ni una caja a la vista. En el salón había un enorme sofá azul oscuro que parecía perfecto para pasar horas acurrucado frente al televisor (una gran pantalla plana último modelo) y...

—¡Oh, dios mío! ¿Cuántos libros tienes?—se apartó de Peter e hizo una línea directa hacia las estanterías de suelo a techo que recubrían la mayor parte de las paredes del salón.

Comenzó a examinar los lomos, sus dedos flotando por encima de ellos. En la estantería en la que estaba había libros de historia, no solo estadounidense sino de todo el mundo, biografías de personajes históricos y libros sobre guerras. Cuando pasó a la siguiente estantería encontró libros sobre mitología de todas partes del mundo y no pudo evitar que prácticamente un gemido saliera de su boca. Esto era aún mejor que la biblioteca en la que trabajaba.

—La cena se va a enfriar, prometo que después podrás inspeccionar mis libros todo lo que quieras—le dijo Peter casi al oído, una de sus manos en su cintura.

—¿A qué te dedicas? Quiero decir, ¿quién tiene tiempo para leer todo eso? ¿O están ahí solo de adorno?—preguntó mientras permitía que la llevara hacia la mesa.

—No están de adorno. No he leído todos completos, muchos son libros de referencia, aunque esos la mayoría están en mi despacho.

—Espera, ¿que hay más?

Peter sonrió y Stiles podríatalvezquizás estar un poco enamorada.

Se sentaron a la mesa y Peter sirvió una quiche de verduras con una ensalada.

—No sabía si serías vegetariana así que no quise arriesgarme. Debería haber preguntado de todos modos.

—No lo soy, no te preocupes. Me gusta la verdura y debería comer mejor de lo que lo hago así que esto está bien.

—Por la deliciosa tarta que he devorado diría que sabes cocinar muy bien.

Stiles no pudo contener una sonrisa.

—Sé cocinar, pero entre las clases y el trabajo apenas tengo tiempo. En casa cocinaba más porque también lo hacía para mi padre, que necesita comer saludable para su corazón, pero aquí pillo algo rápido que no me dé trabajo y la mayor parte del tiempo ni siquiera como en casa. Tan solo cocino los fines de semana, aunque es algo que me encanta, siempre hago algo especial.

Presionó los labios cuando se dio cuenta de que había comenzado a divagar. Estaba tan nerviosa al principio que no lo había creído posible, pero se estaba relajando por momentos y a Peter no parecía molestarle.

Pasaron la cena conociéndose, sin apenas un segundo de silencio. Stiles se sorprendió al descubrir que tenían más en común de lo que esperaba. Peter había trabajado como historiador en Sudamérica y ahora acababan de contratarlo como conservador en el museo, por eso se había mudado. Por su parte, Stiles estudiaba Mitología y ya había decidido que las estanterías de Peter serían su nueva biblioteca mientras que Peter le había ofrecido entrada libre al museo siempre que quisiera. De este modo, comenzaron a hablar y a discutir de temas como si se conocieran desde hacía meses, con la cena terminada hacía horas y sentados en el sofá sin apenas haberse percatado de llegar hasta ahí.

—Ya es más de la una—comentó Peter de repente con sorpresa y con algo de remordimiento por no tener más tiempo.

Stiles miró confusa el reloj en la pared.

—Oh. Mañana tengo clase—a las ocho. Sí, era una de las idiotas que cogía una clase a las ocho, cuatro días a la semana. Se levantó y se dirigió a la puerta algo reticente.

—Lo siento, no quería entretenerte tanto tiempo—Peter le abrió la puerta y la acompañó los dos pasos hasta la suya.

—No, no, me ha encantado, no me importa—le aseguró y era cierto, tan solo tenía conversaciones de este tipo con Lydia y ni siquiera ella la aguantaba durante tanto tiempo.

—Me alegro—sonrió y se quedó mirándola con unos ojos intensos. Por un momento Stiles pensó que iba a besarla. Era el momento ideal y podía sentir la tensión entre ellos, una fuerza magnética que prácticamente los atraía. No lo hizo, tan solo acarició su brazo de una forma aún menos íntima que cualquier gesto que le hubiera dedicado aquella noche y se apartó—. Buenas noches.

—Buenas noches—respondió como si estuviera sin aliento. Entró en casa y cerró la puerta tras de sí.

Casi en automático se fue a la habitación, se quitó la ropa, la peluca y entró al baño para quitarse el maquillaje. Según las capas iban desapareciendo, Stiles se alegró de que no le hubiera besado. No podía iniciar una relación con alguien que no sabía cómo era, con alguien a quien le ocultaba una parte tan esencial de sí mismo. Sabía que Peter le odiaría y se sentiría engañado si seguía adelante sin decírselo y tendría toda la razón, pero no podía decírselo porque significaría el fin de esto, no más cenas, no más charlas eternas con alguien capaz de seguir su hilo de pensamiento, no más gestos íntimos, apenas roces que le hacían sentir electricidad por todo su cuerpo. Iba a descubrirlo tarde o temprano cuando se encontrara con él con el género con el que había nacido, pero quizás pudiera tener otro fin de semana más si tenía suerte esta semana y conseguía evitarlo.

Ignoró los mensajes de Scott y Kira que encontró en su móvil, se fue a la cama y pasó horas despierto, su almohada húmeda con lágrimas, hasta que el cansancio le hizo dormir por apenas tres horas antes de tener que levantarse.

Llegó a casa al día siguiente más tarde de lo habitual esperando no encontrarse con Peter y suspiró aliviado cuando cerró la puerta tras de sí. Ignoró las llamadas y mensajes de Scott, Kira y Lydia (¿Cuándo le había dado permiso a Scott de hablarle a Lydia sobre esto? No estaba listo para enfrentarse a ella), diciendo tan solo en un mensaje que estaba bien cuando comenzaron a preocuparse.

Al día siguiente hizo lo mismo, se marchó a su clase de las ocho y no regresó hasta ya tarde aunque habría podido llegar mucho antes. Cuando llegó frente a su puerta, se encontró una bolsa de papel sobre su felpudo. La miró con el ceño fruncido, pero cogió la bolsa y se metió en casa antes de que Peter saliera (probablemente no iba a hacerlo, pero no quería arriesgarse). Abrió la bolsa y se encontró primero una nota.

» No quiero molestarte, te dejo esto para que tengas una cena sana y espero que el libro te sea útil. Que pases una buena semana.

Peter

Miró en el interior de la bolsa y se encontró un táper con algo que llevaba queso gratinado por encima y otro con ensalada además de un libro sobre el trabajo que tenía que hacer para la semana siguiente y que le había mencionado en su cita.

Dolía porque sabía que esto no duraría y porque Peter era atento y dulce y no dolería tanto perderlo si no lo fuera. Le gustaba, le gustaba de verdad. Sabía que en poco tiempo podría llegar a gustarle más incluso de lo que le había gustado Lydia y no creía que con Peter pudiera llegar a olvidar esos sentimientos y a tener simplemente una amistad. No podría conformarse con eso. Peter tampoco lo querría una vez que descubriera que lo había engañado.

No fue capaz de cenar esa noche, pero se llevó los canelones a la universidad para comer al día siguiente. Estaban deliciosos, Peter era tan buen cocinero como él.

El jueves llegó a casa algo más temprano porque estaba exhausto de pasar casi quince horas todos los días fuera de casa. Las puertas del ascensor se abrieron justo cuando Peter entraba en su apartamento. Stiles se quedó paralizado, su corazón queriendo salirse por su boca y un sudor frío rompiendo por su espalda. Sentía náuseas y no sabía qué hacer. Tal vez esperar a que las puertas se cerraran y subir a otro piso fingiendo que se había equivocado, quizás llamar a la puerta de otro vecino fingiendo que los estaba visitando. La mirada de Peter reconociéndolo no le dejó otro remedio que avanzar, su cuerpo tenso y sus manos sudando. Si seguía respirando como lo hacía acabaría desmayándose allí mismo.

De repente, Peter sonrió, la misma sonrisa que le había dedicado durante su cita, y Stiles lo miró confuso. ¿Quizás no lo había reconocido?

—Me alegra que hayas llegado pronto hoy. Iba a prepararte algo de cena, ¿pero te apetecería cenar conmigo? A no ser que prefieras descansar después de esta semana.

Stiles abrió la boca y la cerró de nuevo. No sabía qué decir. ¿Sabía que era la misma chica con la que había cenado? ¿Y no le importaba?

—Ah... S-sí. Cena está bien, solo dame, uh...

—¿Media hora?—sugirió y Stiles frunció el ceño—. ¿Una hora?—preguntó levantando una ceja con algo de estupor.

—Sí, eso... eso está bien, una hora—se dio la vuelta y abrió la puerta con sus dedos temblando nerviosamente.

Cerró la puerta tras de sí y sacó a toda prisa su móvil. Scott respondió al cuarto tono y Stiles no podía estar más alterado.

—ScottyScottyScottyScotty.

«Stiles, ¿estás bi-».

—Peter quiere otra cita conmigo, o cenar, no sé si es una cita, Peter quiere cenar conmigo, otra vez, y sabe lo que soy, me ha visto como chico y me ha reconocido, quiero decir, no es que sea tan difícil, pero parece que no le importa, me ha sonreído y me ha invitado a su casa, quiere cenar conmigo y el otro día me hizo canelones y me dejó un libro frente a mi puerta, y no sé si en aquel momento ya sabía lo que soy o si lo acaba de descubrir ahora, pero si lo acaba de descubrir, mira, acabo de llegar y me lo he encontrado al salir del ascensor, y no ha parecido sorprendido y si lo estaba es muy buen actor, no sé cómo ha podido descubrirlo porque no me lo he cruzado antes o tal vez es que simplemente no le importa porque no tiene ninguna intención romántica hacia mí-

«¡¡Stiles!!», gritó Scott y no por primera vez. Stiles había soltado todo aquello a semejante velocidad y sin detenerse una sola vez que no sabía cómo podía seguir respirando. «Stiles, tranquilízate, respira, todo va a estar bien».

—Sí. Vale—Stiles respiró hondo varias veces y se sentó un segundo antes de volver a levantarse—. Peter quiere otra cena conmigo y me lo ha pedido mientras soy chico.

«Te ha pedido cenar otra vez, ¡eso es genial, Stiles! Vas a ir, ¿no?».

—Sí. Sí, es genial—realmente lo era y ahora una sonrisa se extendía por sus labios tan grande que era casi dolorosa—. Oh, dios, tengo que prepararme, solo tengo una hora.

«¿Solo?», preguntó, probablemente con la misma expresión que había puesto Peter.

—Cállate, Scott. Te llamo luego.

Lanzó el teléfono sobre la cama y se fue a duchar.

Una hora más tarde llamaba nerviosa a la puerta de Peter, colocándose inquieta la falda de flores que tal vez era un poco demasiado corta. Debería haber escogido otra, pero esta le gustaba mucho y hacía su cintura más estrecha y-

Peter abrió la puerta con una sonrisa y la miró con los mismos ojos penetrantes que en su primera cita/cena. Realmente tengo que saber qué es esto.

—Pasa—le dijo apartándose de la puerta.

Stiles entró y vio de reojo cómo la mirada de Peter recorría su cuerpo también por detrás. Sentía sus mejillas calientes, pero ya era la sensación habitual alrededor de Peter.

—¿Te gustaron los canelones?—le preguntó, guiándola con una mano en la base de su espalda incluso si no era necesario.

—Me encantaron. Me los llevé a la universidad y todos me miraban con envidia—y había golpeado más de una mano que había intentado colarse.

—Me alegro—separó la silla de la mesa para que se sentara y Stiles sintió un hormigueo en el estómago ante ese gesto—. Me gustaría cocinar para ti. Quiero decir, de vez en cuando, si te parece bien—Peter sonaba por primera vez inseguro y Stiles le miró extrañada, pero Peter cambió de tema antes de que pudiera responder—. Espero que te guste el pescado, he hecho salmón al horno.

Peter desapareció en la cocina y regresó poco después con dos platos en las manos. Pasaron la cena comiendo casi en silencio, breves comentarios sobre cómo había ido la semana. Stiles no podía evitar estar tensa y no sabía cómo abordar el tema. Por suerte, Peter no intentaba forzar la conversación, tal vez percatándose de su humor.

Cuando terminaron la cena y se sentaron en el sofá llegó a su límite y ya no pudo contenerse más.

—¿No te importa?—soltó de la nada, sentada al borde del cojín con las manos retorciendo nerviosamente el borde de la falda.

—¿Hm?—Peter la miró sin saber qué le estaba preguntando.

—Que yo, uh...—señaló con la mano hacia sí misma de arriba abajo—. ¿Cómo lo supiste? No me habías visto como...—se mordió el labio, ni siquiera quería decirlo porque esa persona no era realmente ella y en esta forma prefería ignorar su existencia.

—Sí te había visto, el día que llegué—se acercó un poco más y tomó una de sus manos entre las suyas. Stiles se relajó casi al momento y se acomodó en el sofá, su rodilla tocando la de Peter—. Saliste del edificio mientras estaba hablando con el jefe de la mudanza. No pude evitar fijarme en ti.

Oh. Ni siquiera se le había ocurrido que podría haberla visto aquel día, mucho menos reconocerla con su ropa femenina después de un rápido vistazo.

—Y no te importa—no era una pregunta, si estaba allí era porque no le importaba, pero aún no podía creerlo.

—Si no ha quedado claro todavía, me gustas, Stiles. Que seas hombre o mujer o el género con el que te identifiques me es indiferente. Eres inteligente, divertida, sarcástica y preciosa. Nunca había disfrutado charlando con alguien tanto como en nuestra cita y espero poder repetirlo muchas veces.

—Así que era una cita—¡Sí!

Peter rio y acarició su mejilla con el dorso de los dedos. Stiles sintió el calor fluir por su cuerpo desde ese punto.

—Sí, era una cita y esta otra, espero.

Stiles sonrió, un brillante sentimiento palpitando en su pecho. Peter sonrió en respuesta, sus ojos cálidos y tiernos sobre Stiles. Fue simplemente natural inclinarse y juntar sus labios, un beso dulce y lento.

—Tu también me gustas—le dijo Stiles y Peter volvió a besarla.

Stiles pensó en qué vestido debería ponerse para ir al cine en su tercera cita con Peter.

[localplaguenurse]

Modern Dottolone Headcanons

Behold, a long ass list of headcanons. In case you’re wondering why like most of these are horror movie centric, I kinda fell down a weird rabbit hole of people reacting to extreme horror novels. There are. There are some books out there. No actual content warnings though except like mentions of gory gross movies like Human Centipede, and a couple swears here and there.

The two have a shared interest in horror, however their tastes are on completely opposite ends of the spectrum. Pantalone is more interested in psychological horror/thrillers, stories that centre around the human mind and inner toil, making you question what is real and what is right. Dottore likes body horror and gore, basically anything that will fuck up the human body.

The two usually compromise on slasher films but they take turns watching each other’s preferred films. 

Oh and Rocky Horror Picture Show. You’ll catch them at their respective jobs humming along to Time Warp or Sweet Transvestite.

Pantalone had a little home theatre room built for movie nights but is fine watching them in say the living room or the bedroom. Dottore will only watch his gory movies on the big screen to gross Pantalone out.

Dottore has been trying to get Pantalone to watch more of the Saw movies, but Pantalone won’t watch anything other than the first movie because it’s all just violence for the sake of violence with no deeper meaning. He likes the discussion around the first film of how far would you be willing to go in order to save your own life, or even the lives of others? Dottore just wants to see a guy cut his leg off on the big screen. Half of the entertainment comes from Pantalone cringing.

Human Centipede was banned from movie night the moment it was suggested. Pantalone doesn’t know or care if Dottore was joking, he’s not entertaining the thought of watching people get sewn ass to mouth in any capacity.

Pantalone has been trying to find a psychological horror film that will get under Dottore’s skin ever since they started doing movie nights, because Dottore just has an entire fuckin archive of gory horror movies that get grosser and bloodier each time. He’s yet to find anything, but Dottore encourages him.

The two usually have another more lighthearted movie planned for after the horror marathon to lighten the mood. Dottore doesn’t need it, you give that man a soft surface and he’s good. Pantalone needs something nice before bed, though he’d never admit it except for after Dottore’s movie nights. It’s not like anyone is gonna disagree that you won’t need eye bleach after all of that.

Dottore sleeps like he has rigor mortis. He’ll get into bed and whatever position he happens to be in is how he’s going to sleep for the rest of the night. Most of the time it’s very inconvenient for touch starved Pantalone unless he wants to be big spoon. Even then he has to kinda maneuver both their bodies into a more comfortable position.

You can also tell who sleeps on which side of the bed. Pantalone has more pillows on his side, as well as extra blankets because he constantly hogs their shared blanket.

Surprisingly, Dottore is the nicest of the two when it comes to waking the other person up. Gentle shaking and cooing. Not to say Pantalone isn’t nice, but he’s firmer and more insistent when it comes to getting up on time.

On days off, though, whoever wakes up first will usually tuck the other person in. Pantalone moves Dottore’s body so he’s more easily covered, and Dottore will swap himself out of Pantalone’s grasp with one of his pillows.

Dottore gets the small black coffee where Pantalone has the very specific and complicated Starbucks order. Dottore has his order memorized so he can surprise Pantalone at the bank.

Dottore’s love language to me is acts of service but he’s kinda tsundere about it. He usually hides it behind the excuse of not wanting to hear Pantalone complain about a chore, or he was doing this one thing and figured he may as well do the other thing since he has time to kill. Will not admit it’s because he loves his husband, and Pantalone finds him floundering for an excuse to be really funny.

Pantalone is gift giving obviously, he loves getting Dottore strange and expensive things, most notably he buys Dottore licorice. He has no idea why Dottore enjoys it, but hey, who is Pantalone to deny him? 

Actually, food is a sort of love language on its own for Pantalone. He likes sharing meals with Dottore, making old recipes with him, slipping him a little snack when no one sees them

He also really likes physical touch and quality time. Put him in a room with Dottore and he will be very happy.

Pantalone has like thirty different products he uses on just his face alone in order to maintain a perfect complexion. Dottore washes his face with regular ass tap water and he’s good. It frustrates Pantalone to no end.

Pantalone is iffy about who touches his hair, you gotta build up his trust before you can do that, but he’ll let Dottore brush/play with it whenever he wants to (within reason and with permission). Pantalone likes the intimacy, Dottore likes having something to do with his hands.

They are the absolute worst to play board/card games with in like every way. They find loopholes and abuse them, they psyche you out, we don’t talk about monopoly night, or they’re just wayyyyyy too good at the game in general. If you get roped into playing chess or monopoly with them, you should just give up. 

Cards Against Humanity is a wild ride because they both have really fucked up senses of humour. You will come out of it a worse person in one way or another. 

[localplaguenurse]

Chex's Masterlist

A list of the fics or headcanons I’ve written! I may have missed a couple of headcanons here and there because they were just one off questions from the ask box. Mostly wanted to keep track of the long lists. 

Some of my fics have suggestive or mature content. Read the tags, proceed with caution, and if you can’t read this stuff for one reason or another, best to move on. Also, in case you're wondering why a lot of my oneshots have to do with Pantalone; I love him and he is my muse.

Have fun!

Ongoing Fics

You've Got My Eyes: Zhongli/Reader slowburnish fic where Reader is a single mom in Inazuma after a one night stand with the man of the hour; ongoing

the capillaries in my eyes are bursting: Dottore/Reader angst fic, aka the "dottore divorce fic" where Reader is sick of feeling neglected and unappreciated by her husband; ongoing

you are someone i have loved, but never known: Pantalone centric fic where Arlecchino finds a baby left on the steps of the House of Hearth; ongoing and slow to update

Falling Head over Heels: Pantalone/Male Reader where Reader is an author with retinitis pigmentosa (hereditary degenerative eye disease), masterlist with all current chapters here

Complete Fics

it’s all that i can give to you, my dear: Pantalone/Reader smutfic, a sequel to take all you can, give nothing back; completed

As Gold as the Ginkgo Trees: Morax/Reader arranged marriage slowburn set during the Archon War; completed (see also: the ginkgo trees masterlist with all my other headcanons/fics/aus)

Oneshots

Little Helper: Pantalone family fluff oneshot, technically Pantalone/Reader but it’s not really the focal point

Catch of the Day: Zhongli/Reader Mermay oneshot

that is enough: Fear and Hunger angst oneshot where Cahara returns home after... everything goes wrong. Please read the tags before reading.

Hold on Tight: Pantalone/Reader smut oneshot where someone goes a little overboard during sexy times.

Pretty in Pink: Hwei/Reader smut oneshot, and the only league fic I'll write

zero days until the party: My take on the bite of '83, child death warning

Have Your Cake and Eat It Too: Pantalone/Reader smut oneshot I wrote for my birthday where Pantalone gets bored at his own party

Playing strip poker with Pantalone: Self explanatory. Not really smutty, mainly silly, but still suggestive so you know the drill

The Price for Greed: Dragon Pantalone smut oneshot that has been sitting in my google docs for too damn long

an act of kindness: Pantalone oneshot where he's too tired for sex, so you give him a bubble bath. Starts spicy but doesn't go full smut, mainly domestic fluff.

Or You Lose: Modern era oneshot where Pantalone is a nightclub owner, and you're tasked with assassinating him.

i lie in your arms tonight: Pantalone oneshot where you're training a new recruit and things go horrifically wrong. Character death and angst heavy.

Stress Relief: Trans Pantalone/Male Reader smut, horrifically self indulgent

Keep Your Ego in Check: Male Harbinger Reader/Pre-Fatui Pantalone smut that is porn with wayyyyyy too much plot

"It fits you.": Short Pantalone/Reader request where he's jealous

Last Minute: Pantalone/Virgin Reader smut

An Unexpected "Guest": My submission for the 2024 Fatui Con "x reader" fic category

A Debt Repaid: You rescue young orphan Pantalone

Original Writing

a stone in the wall: Original horror story about walking through a serial killer's house, please mind the tags

Headcanons/Ramblings

Pantalone health headcanons

Assorted Pantalone headcanons

Pantalone domestic fluff

Assorted/sorta modern Dottore headcanons

Pantalone being husband material

Pantalone appearance/self care

Modern Dottolone

Arlecchino/Pantalone/Reader NSFW

Casper First Time NSFW Headcanons (A Date With Death)

Kinktober 2024

Week one: Spider Arlecchino/Fem Reader (ao3) (tumblr)

Week two: Pyramid Head Capitano/GN Reader (ao3) (tumblr)

Week three: Mothman Dottore/Fem Reader (ao3) (tumblr)

Finale: Vampire Pantalone/GN Reader (ao3) (tumblr)

[localplaguenurse]

Anyways have a Pantalone centric OC

His name is Ethel

[localplaguenurse]

CHEX CRUMBLEMUFFIN I HAVE A NEW FAVORITE FLAVOUR OF PANTALONE NOW

What if pants was actually some sort of abyss creature that disguised himself as human? I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE IM GOIJG WITH THIS BUT I SAW PANTS WITH SIX EYES AND MY BRAIN EXPLODED

BETA LITERALLY SENT THIS TO ME YESTERDAY AND YALL THE EXTRA EYES SET OFF MY MONSTERFUCKERY

I am having a very pants centric morning, pants for breakfast fr.

Also I might have had a dragon pants smut wip sitting in my google docs. It got longer than I thought and then I was like “this isn’t as hot as I want it to be” so it’s been abandoned. Maybe I’ll post the tail scene, but unlikely...

[localplaguenurse]

Divorce fic has taken my brain

So widow and pantalone are endgame because well I don’t have to list down why pantalone is husband material it’s on your pinned post I think and also because pants would treat widow to fancy dinners on the weekends sure he’s busy and sometimes he’s not always home but he always makes it to the weekend dinner. And he makes up for being late with flowers, no not just any regular old flowers, I’m talking about metal flowers because I have this idea where pantalone would give his beloved flowers carved/shaped from durable materials because their love is like the flower. Beautiful, durable and can withstand anything

I have my head in my hands because listen, that is such a good concept. It's a great one even. I actually love that and widow deserves it.

But I have to tell you something.

I did not plan to have widow and pants be endgame.

Legitimately I didn't. I have a whole other twist planned for the ending. Pantalone was going to make an appearance but he was supposed to show up in the middle of Dottore being pathetic post wife leaving like "for fuck's sake get it together and talk to her." Literally the only reason he's shown up so far is because I had to scrap chapter two and couldn't think of anything else to fix it, and also for some reason he cures my writer's block. Pantalone wasn't supposed to be a love interest, he was supposed to be a bandaid-

And like it's fun to joke about how pants is a better husband and I'm "never beating pants/widow endgame allegations" but now I'm at a point where like... That idea is a really fun idea, but I don't want to cave easily because this fic is supposed to be more bleak? But at the same time people may not like the twist I have planned and they especially won't like it if I go that route when they want pants. I can't do both at the same time because it'll make everything messy.

... Didn't expect to ramble that much, but yeah. Good shit. Need me a man like that.

Honestly I think what's lowkey happening is that I'm literally itching so bad to write more pants fic but beta is gonna be mad at me if I tack on more writing for myself. I'm already working on a third Pantalone centric project and I'm on thin ice. She hasn't killed me for it yet because I promised I wouldn't start posting it until the main fics are done, and because I'm using it as stress relief writing because this is a legitimate passion/special interest of mine.

[boundinparchment]

Of Blood and Sparks - Interlude IV

Karina Alexandre of Fontaine lost her position, her family, and her Archon's favor. A dead Electro Vision is her mark of guilt. A reminder to never fail again. Faith shattered, and suspicious of the Fatui, she eventually makes her way to Liyue, where she encounters a certain funeral parlor consultant. Little does she know it's only the beginning. Original character centric; eventual Zhongli/OC. Posted originally at @chevalier-of-fontaine. ArchiveOfOurOwn || FF.net || Rhiannon Details

“Again.”

Rhiannon inhaled and focused on the device at her throat and the space between her hands instead of the broken whimpering nearby.  The very sound tugged at her core, so reminiscent of Karina’s sleepless nights.  A servant, probably working just to send money home to their family.  Lost, confused, terrified.  

They’d failed in their duties.  This was their punishment.

She needed to do this.  If she didn’t, she risked a lot more than just the ire of the red eyes watching her like a hawk.

Anemo energy pulsed through her veins and when it finally reached its peak, she stretched out the energy that gathered between her hands as the air in the large cavern danced around her.  The gusts swirled until they formed a rotating column of air around her target.  The vortex swallowed the last of the whines as pleas turned to gasps.  Rhiannon pushed on the Anemo energy between her palms before jerking her hands away suddenly, dissipating the last of the elemental power.

She heard the thud more than she saw it.  Whether the lighting was for her sake or for effect, she didn’t know nor care.  She let out a shuddering, painful breath as the last of the Delusion energy burned away.

At least her voice wasn’t affected this time.  But that didn’t mean the Delusion summoning didn’t hurt like an absolute bitch.

Her heart skipped when she heard applause from the only other individual in the room.  Enthusiastic and prideful.  

“Brava, Ancella,” Dottore crooned as he descended into the lower level of the lab.  “See, that wasn’t so bad.”

The Harbinger sauntered over to the slumped figure and nudged it with his boot.

“I would have preferred a bit slower but it’ll do.  It was, after all, your first.  I can’t blame you for wanting it to end quickly.  Most do.”

Years ago, the glint in his ruby eyes would have made her squirm with fear.  Now, she met his gaze, unwavering and determined.  She would be useful, no matter the task, no matter the cost.  She had to be.  Rhiannon didn’t have much left.

“As long as I am here, you are to report to me every evening you do not have a performance,” Dottore said, abandoning the corpse out of boredom and closing the distance between them.  His voice echoed off the stone walls, ancient and weeping.  “I need additional data to adjust the mechanisms throughout the catacombs before I head to Sumeru.”

“What of Inazuma?” Rhiannon forced herself to ask.

Although her voice wasn’t hoarse, it hurt to speak, her chest wanting nothing more than to expand further than her corset allowed.  A frown tugged at Dottore’s mouth, hidden all but for the right side.  He straightened his shoulders, displeased, and was probably on the verge of another rant.  She hadn’t had time to change; he gave her no notice and simply whisked her out of her dressing room before she was entirely out of costume.

“Turn, Ancella.”

Skilled fingers worked at the knots her maid spent what felt like hours tying.  Her stays loosened almost instantly and she inhaled deeply in relief.  He gave her three more breaths, muttering about how useless her servant was and that Pantalone needed to stop hiring incompentent morons.  Dottore tied the corset again, this time loose enough for her to provide more air to her lungs.

“Inazuma is on track.  The Delusion factory is running and the Vision Hunt Decree has been causing discord and anger at the Shogun.  As long as Liyue continues to run smoothly for Signora and Tartaglia, all should go as expected.”

He nudged her forward after he was finished, his mind already elsewhere.  

“I heard Tartaglia made quite a scene again, standing in for that no-good primo uomo who continues to ignore rehearsal.”

He spat the probing words with annoyance as he made his way over to the lab table that functioned as his desk.  The surface was covered in papers, the occasional dish or cup and saucer, and trinkets and pieces she couldn’t put a name to if she tried.  Rhiannon trailed behind as she gauged his attitude and mood; mercurial, as always.

She enjoyed her rehearsal with Tartaglia.  A nice change of pace did her, as well as the rest of the cast, a bit of a good once in a while.

But over the past few years, Rhiannon found that she preferred Dottore’s voice instead when it came to duets.  Richer, exact in its notes and technique.

“Your range is better,” Rhiannon admitted, words spilling without a second thought, as if compelled.

Dottore stopped in his hunt among the items on his desk and looked at her, his head tilted ever so slightly.  He looked at Ruin machines and foreign dignitaries that way.  As if her words were a puzzle that needed re-assembly but he couldn’t figure out the next course of action.

He scowled when she didn’t continue and Dottore turned his attention back to wherever his mind was.  But Rhiannon’s words, careless as they were, seemed to snag on something in his mind because he found what he wanted, and then looked up at her again.  He opened his mouth to say something and then shut it again, words failing him.

“A favorable opinion, although you would be hard-pressed to find others to agree with you,” he muttered at last.  “I will escort you back to your rooms.  No doubt someone is wondering where you are.”

As they traversed the passageways back to the surface and into the opera house, Rhiannon felt her stomach sink in realization that she’d given him leverage.  Very easily, to boot.  A dangerous thing for any Harbinger but especially the man holding the lantern in front of her.  He would dig as deep as he could, without a care for much else.  He destroyed Ruin Guards in the process of understanding their inner mechanisms and he did the same to humans, too; she was all too keenly aware.

When he noticed she was trailing behind, Dottore took her hand to keep her close.  

“The catacombs are no place to dally, Ancella.  Keep up.”

They arrived in her dressing room backstage soon enough.  Unlike her escapade with Tartaglia, Dottore was quieter, authoritative, as he stalked through the corridors towards the residence wing of the performance hall, off the grand entranceway and lobby.

It was still early enough that they came across a few stragglers, those who came to visit performers or who had late meetings with management.  No one dared say a thing, of course, and any in Dottore’s path moved as quick as a mouse being chased.

“Ah, Dottore, I was hoping I would find you lurking around.”

The Harbinger slowed their ascent up the grand staircase in the foyer at the voice.  Rhiannon’s spine stiffened, the hairs on her neck prickling as Dottore led her up a few steps, placing her behind him.  She knew that voice.  

The man at the foot of the stairs had eyes the color of an icy lake, his dark hair neatly arranged.  He would, perhaps, be handsome, Rhiannon mused, if he didn’t frown all the time.

“Évreux, you can leave a message with the embassy,” Dottore drawled.  “My schedule is incredibly busy but I’m sure someone far less important can assist with military materials.”

The name tickled her memory.  Évreux…

“Yes, you’re quite busy running away with Fontaine’s favorite soprano, aren’t you?  And you don’t seem to be the only one, if what my men say is true from their patrols in these halls.”

Rhiannon felt eyes on her and she steeled herself as she had earlier.  What was he insinuating, precisely?

Her disgust must have shown, for the man let out an amused breath from his nose before he spoke again.

“Forgive my rudeness, Baptisia, but it is difficult to work with a diplomat who evades meetings that are crucial to a special relationship between leadership.”

“Then perhaps you should consider sending someone else in your stead.  Have you considered that you are not the one that should be present?” Rhiannon said, blood thrumming in her ears.

Perhaps her bravery was more stupid than anything but she hated this kind of thing.  Karina dealt with it for long and Rhiannon hated being reduced to little more than her physical traits.  Fontaine’s nobility was notorious for its quiet sexism, as was the military, but it was what it was.  The Fatui didn’t care for such a mentality nor did it have the room for it.  Everyone had a role regardless.  

Dottore’s fuse was growing shorter by the second.  She could see the glimmer of his catalyst above his shoulder, waiting to be summoned.

“Mouthy, isn’t she, doctor?”

“So are you.  And you won’t have a mouth for much longer if you do not leave.”

Silver needles appeared without additional gestures, aiming precisely for the stranger’s heart.  The threat didn’t deter the man in the slightest.

“You remind me of someone, Baptisia.  She died some years ago, tragic accident.  You probably know it, the one with the disgraced chevalier.  She had a sister, beautiful as a spring day.  Some say her ghost haunts the lower quarter, bringing comfort to the poor and destitute.”

Rhiannon’s blood ran cold.  Dottore’s fist clenched and the catalyst charged up, a low hum emanating from the weapon.

Évreux raised a hand in surrender, a smile she would never classify as sweet crossing his lips.  Never reaching his eyes.

“I was close to the family.  But I can see now how incorrect those notions are.  I’ll send my men to the embassy, Harbinger, but our meeting is long overdue.”

Dottore’s weapon remained on the other man until he left the lobby and the vestibule door beyond it slammed shut.  The catalyst powered down as the Harbinger clicked his tongue and sighed.

“He’s going to be more trouble than he’s worth,” Dottore muttered.  “Should have killed him when I had the chance.”

His eyes narrowed on her after he turned and found her attention still on the door.  “You needn’t concern yourself with the matter.  He’s a good dog.  He’ll do as he’s told as long as the reward is great enough.”

Once she was in the quiet and comfort of her bedroom, Rhiannon wracked her brain as she readied for bed.  Évreux, Évreux…the name ran over her tongue and her memories as she braided her hair, tying it with a spare ribbon.

She almost snapped the fabric when a familiar face came to mind.

Oh.