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Pantalone’s office is just as Childe remembered it. Stifling and oppressive, velvet curtains drawn over a fake window. Deep mahogany walls lined with countless books, chock full of theories Childe doesn’t care for. He stands across from the desk facing Pantalone, who sits with a stack of papers pushed to the side, and fixes Childe with a calculating smile. Childe, in return, tries to keep his face expressionless. He almost wants to don his Harbinger mask.
“So all those extra funds I put you up with for your Liyue trip,” says Pantalone, tapping his pen on the surface of his desk. “You used them to seduce Morax?”
Rex Lapis, Childe almost corrects him. He bites his tongue. Pantalone is from Liyue himself, so the choice to call him Morax must have been intentional. Besides, Childe has no reason to express any deference towards Zhongli, after everything.
“All part of the mission,” Childe says stiffly. “He seemed knowledgeable, so I used him as a resource to get to the Geo Archon faster. Or so I thought.”
Tap. Tap. Tap with his pen, an unending, grating sound. Pantalone has a horrible habit of doing that when he’s thinking. And he’s never thinking about anything good.
“Speaking of the mission,” Childe cuts in, because he can’t help himself when he’s around Pantalone. “Where were you during all that? Managing money at the Northland Bank seems like it would’ve ticked your boxes. Are you too spoiled to leave the comfort of your home? Or were you afraid you wouldn’t be strong enough to beat Morax?”
Pantalone stands from his desk. “You know as well as I do that the plan never was to beat Morax.” He circles around it and comes to stand in front of Childe. Even leaning back against the table’s surface, he’s half a head taller than Childe. “But even if it were, I’d be victorious. Because I have something he doesn’t. Something I can take any time I want.”
He pushes forward off the desk, slow and deliberate, eyes flitting down to Childe’s mouth. When he reaches a hand out to cup Childe’s jaw, Childe smacks it away.
“Don’t,” he says, even knowing it’s useless. He’s made it clear he doesn’t like being kissed, and Pantalone will do it anyway.
“Sweetheart,” says Pantalone, cloyingly sweet. He catches Childe’s wrist in his hand, gripping it bruisingly tight. “Have you forgotten how our little hierarchy works?” He tilts Childe’s chin up with a slender finger, deceptively gentle compared to the iron grip of his other hand. His eyes narrow, and Childe meets their coldness with an even gaze of his own. “When we're together, I call the shots.”
Numbers nine and eleven. Two ranks were all that stopped Childe from slicing Pantalone’s head off. That, and the fact that maybe Childe was using him for his own ends too.
Pantalone digs the pad of his thumb into the forming bruise on Childe’s wrist, and Childe lets his head fall back with a soundless moan. With all that talk about Zhongli, Childe needs it now more than ever.
In the blink of an eye Pantalone has taken both of Childe’s wrists in one hand and slammed them down on the surface of the desk, papers fluttering to the ground. A subtle reminder that these days, Pantalone may sit pretty behind a desk all day, but he didn’t get to where he was now without some measure of strength on the battlefield. Childe would much rather be fucked by someone like Capitano, whom he actually respects, but he doesn’t have much of a choice here.
He knows who it would be if he had any choice at all. Remembers those red-lined golden eyes, warm like pools of amber, only to turn dispassionate as that pretty mouth of his revealed that Childe had been his pawn all along.
Thing is, Childe has no reason to be angry. He’s used to working in an environment of manipulation, with his coworkers being the way that they are. And he understands, on a basic level, why Zhongli had done what he did. Even now, he can’t bring himself to hate Zhongli. To feel anything but an all-consuming want, coursing through his veins. The last time he felt anything so intense was in the Abyss, when he learned Foul Legacy and felt it alter and rewire every molecule in his body. Goes to figure that he’d want his insides rearranged this time, too.
Pantalone grabs Childe by the waist and manhandles him until his ass is pressed right up against Pantalone’s crotch. Childe’s heart pulses in his throat. Pantalone reaches around, large hand caressing Childe’s bulge through the fabric of his pants before pressing down hard enough to make a whine bubble up in Childe’s throat.
“Look at you, already hard. Just how pent up were you?”
It’s true. Childe realizes with shame that Pantalone himself is barely hard. But even the promise of the large bulge pressing against his ass is enough to make him shudder.
“I find it hard to believe a healthy young man like you didn’t bother to seek out the services of the Pearl Galley.”
“No need,” says Childe, his face pressed sideways against the smooth wooden desk. “I was there for business, not pleasure.”
“Oh? And all those nights spent at the hotel with Morax were strictly business, too?”
Childe freezes. His blood runs cold.
“What, you think I didn’t know?” Pantalone taunts, his breath prickling the skin on Childe’s neck. “Who did you think personally handled your invoices? You’re lucky it was me, watching from the sidelines as you spoiled your paramour with pretty little presents and spread your legs for him in the hotel bed. You’re lucky no one else knows how much of a whore you really are.”
Something drops in the pit of Childe’s stomach. He knows. Somehow, that makes everything worse. All he’d wanted was a good fuck to put Zhongli out of his mind. And now that Pantalone knows his feelings for Zhongli, he’s going to have to endure the taunts of another coworker who is, as always, one step ahead.
Even as the dread sets in, he can’t help but buck his hips into Pantalone’s tantalizing touch and moan. Whore. He really is one, isn’t he? Trapped between Pantalone’s hand and his crotch, he squirms helplessly, seeking friction. He struggles against Pantalone’s hold on his wrists, wanting to free himself from the confines of fabric.
“How impatient,” Pantalone sighs. “Oh, all right.”
Pantalone lets go of his wrists, but Childe doesn’t get a moment of respite. Immediately, Pantalone’s Geo Delusion manifests rock-solid cuffs around his wrist that slam him back down onto the table. For a split second, Childe has the blasphemous thought that this was but a mere imitation of the true Geo Archon’s power.
Pantalone unbuckles his belt and removes the Vision that comes with it, tossing it aside carelessly before tugging his pants down mid-thigh, just enough to expose his ass. For as careful and collected as Pantalone usually carries himself, this part is usually unceremonious. It’s fine. That’s how Childe likes it, anyway. Fighting and sex are the same in that they’re purely physical activities, with no need for preamble, for deceptively soft touches and promises whispered only to be broken.
Childe can hear the uncapping of a bottle of oil behind him, and soon enough Pantalone’s finger is pressing into his hole, rough and insistent. Childe bites into the fur-lined collar of his jacket and stifles a moan, involuntarily thrusting his hips back to take him in deeper. He’s grateful for the bulkiness of his clothing that hides the shameful way the tips of his ears have turned red.
Pantalone thrusts his finger and curls it. “Hungry for more, are we? Aren’t you a little slut.”
Smug bastard. “Takes one to know one,” Childe tosses back, and then regrets it the minute the words leave his mouth. He should know better than to be snarky by now, but Pantalone always, always pushes his buttons.
“It seems I’ve misread the situation.” Pantalone’s voice lowers dangerously. “I was only extending an offer out of the kindness of my heart. I could always stop, and leave you here cuffed to my desk while I finish my work.”
Pantalone pulls his finger out, and when Childe’s hole closes around the feeling of emptiness, he lets out a desperate whine, legs closing in on themselves. Fuck, he feels pathetic, shaking in his restraints with spit starting to trail out the corner of his mouth. He must look an awful sight, too. Did he lock the door on his way in? Or could another Fatui come by any time, open the door and see him like this, bent over his superior’s desk at the mercy of his whims?
“So,” Pantalone coaxes into the shell of Childe’s ear. “What’ll it be?”
“Keep going,” Childe mutters under his breath.
“What’s that?”
“Keep going, old man,” Childe says, louder. “I want you to fuck me.”
“Of course you do,” Pantalone simpers, satisfied. He thrusts his fingers back in, two now, stretching Childe open, free hand keeping his hips still when he attempts to buck and thrash about. “You always come to me, don’t you? I was the one who initiated you into the Harbingers, after all. I was the one who bought you those expensive presents—that beautiful house in Morepesok for your family, that toy factory for little Teucer. I even gave you everything you asked for on your trip to Liyue.”
“Don’t talk about Liyue,” Childe blurts out before he can stop himself. “Not—not right now.”
“What, did I step on your toes? I’m only reminding you of reality, you know. That I’ll always be the one you come back to, no matter how many times you play pretend with that so-called god.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re still in love with him.” Stated as an observation, a fact, not a question.
“I’m not,” Childe lies through gritted teeth.
“I don’t blame you for it. He buttered you up real good, didn’t he? Did he whisper sweet things to you, call you beautiful, and promise you all of the things you knew you could never have, knowing that this is all you’re good for—”
“You don’t know anything about me,” says Childe. “You don’t know anything, so just shut up—!”
His words are met with a brutal smack to his ass. The impact makes Childe yelp, sends him jerking forward, his forehead knocking against the hard wood of the desk and his cock catching painfully against the edge of the table. Before he can even catch his breath Pantalone slaps him again. And again, and again, each time drawing a gargled whimper until there’s no breath left in his lungs. By the time he comes to again he’s panting, dazed and completely breathless, adrenaline pounding through him like a tidal wave. And he is so, so fucking hard.
“I do know you, Tartaglia.” Pantalone drags his teeth over the skin of Childe’s neck, making him gasp. “I know that you’re not like the rest of us. You’re naive. Trusting. Too young to know better than to let your feelings get involved on a mission like that.” He pushes his index finger against the slit of Childe’s cock, rubbing the bead of precome over Childe’s head. Childe groans and squeezes his eyes shut.
“Oh, Tartaglia,” says Pantalone, pressing a biting kiss to the skin just below his jaw. “You make me want to spoil you almost as much as I want to ruin you.”
And then he pushes his cock inside, and Childe groans, a broken noise of pain and pleasure muddled together. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling, only that his whole body feels like an Electro current, everything made twice as sensitive by Pantalone’s cock stuffing him full to the brim. He’s barely able to breathe and unable to think as Pantalone fucks into him relentlessly, gripping him by the hips hard enough to bruise, and shaking the table on its fragile little legs. Wouldn’t it be funny, Childe thinks to himself as he claws desperately at the surface in a futile attempt to keep himself steady— wouldn’t it be funny to break the table and make Pantalone pay for it.
“Did he fuck you like this?” Pantalone says, grinding his hips purposefully to make Childe cry out. “Bend you over and take you like an animal, or did he wine and dine you first, make you feel pretty?”
“He was a lot bigger,” says Childe. “And better, too.”
Pantalone pulls out and delivers another smack against already reddened, raw skin. Childe cries out in pain, actual tears filling his eyes this time. Pantalone soothes the afflicted area with a falsely gentle hand before squeezing as hard as he can with both hands, spreading Childe’s cheeks apart and thrusting in again.
“Ungrateful bitch,” Pantalone grunts, before changing course and wrapping his hands around Childe’s neck. “Perhaps it’d be better if I shut you up.”
Panic and excitement, in equal measure, spike in Childe’s veins. His breath cuts off instantly as Pantalone continues to pound into him, and the moans and whimpers that want to escape are instead trapped, along with all of the other things he’ll never say, not to Pantalone, not to Zhongli, not to himself. But it doesn’t take long before he stops thinking of things to say altogether. With his air flow cut off, his brain is starting to grow hazy, vision fading in and out—the sensation of being filled by Pantalone’s thrusts the only thing anchoring him to reality. Being choked, he decides, feels like using Foul Legacy—pushing your body to the limit, not knowing whether death lies on the other end, but with a sick, twisted feeling that the exhilaration alone is worth it.
For a moment he imagines that the hands constricting his neck belong to Zhongli, that the Geo cuffs binding him are Zhongli’s, as well. That the cock inside him, hitting his prostate dead on, belongs to the only man he ever really, truly trusted enough to want to be held by as he falls apart. He comes just like that, shaking through it, a silent prayer that never makes it out past the tip of his tongue.
Just before he blacks out, Pantalone lets go of his throat. Childe’s instinct to survive kicks in and he heaves in a broken gasp for air, throwing himself into a fit of coughs. Having already been wrung dry of his come and choked half to death, his body lays limp and useless on the wooden surface, unable to move even as Pantalone licks his legs apart again.
“I wasn’t done, princess.” Pantalone pauses when that elicits no reaction. “But seeing as you’re tired already, I guess I can be nice.”
Childe has the energy to roll his eyes. Pantalone’s definition of nice seldom means anything good, either. Turns out this time, all it means is that he gets to sit down on Pantalone’s cock, as Pantalone carries him around the desk and sits back down in his seat with Childe balanced on his lap.
“There.” Pantalone ruffles the hair on his head. “All better?”
Childe doesn’t deign to answer. He’s sick of being babied by him, by all of them. Sent on a mission where the aim was for him to make a fool of himself. And back in the palace, treated like a kid who knew nothing about the world.
Pantalone rocks his hips up and Childe squirms, still oversensitive from his previous orgasm. Pantalone’s response is to chuckle and fuck him harder.
“F-fuck,” Childe gasps out, tears blurring his vision. It’s too much. He feels like he’s been set on fire, like every sensation makes him want to crawl out of his skin. “Wait, I— shit, I just need a moment—”
“It’s always about what you need,” says Pantalone. “What about what I need, hm? I entertained your childish desires, and now it’s only fair you fulfill your end of the bargain. What I need is for you to sit pretty on my cock until I come.”
Childe wants to quip back that Pantalone was the one who started it, but whatever words form in his mouth transform into a helpless whimper when Pantalone drags his knuckles up the side of his semi-hard cock. Childe’s not sure if he got hard again really fast or if it never had time to go down. When Pantalone gives a hum of appreciation, Childe ducks his head in shame, sweat prickling on his forehead. It’s humiliating how much he enjoys this, this very feeling of not knowing whether he’s enjoying this at all. Pantalone fucks him at a slow and leisurely pace, all the more agonizing for Childe, trapped at the behest of the other man’s whims.
Just then a knock sounds on the door. “Pantalone,” says the deep, gravelly voice of Capitano. “Do you have a minute?”
Panic lodges in Childe’s throat as his face grows unbearably hot. He shakes his head at the same time that Pantalone dons his usual smile and says, “Yes, give me a moment.”
A moment is all it takes for Pantalone to lift Childe off his cock and shove him under the desk, then promptly tug Childe’s jaw open and force his cock inside. Childe’s wrists are still cuffed, so he can’t do much in the way of struggling except for make a muffled sound of protest, and slam his knee as hard as possible into Pantalone’s shin—but all that earns him is the ball of Pantalone’s foot pressed hard against his crotch, a warning.
“Come in,” says Pantalone nonchalantly.
Capitano opens the door and steps inside. Childe can see nothing, but he can imagine the older man’s presence, the kind that overtakes a room. Capitano, a man of few words and extreme prowess in battle, was easily one of the Harbingers that Childe sincerely respected. All he wanted when he first joined the Harbingers, and even now, was to be recognized by the other man for his strength. He can’t allow Capitano to find him under Pantalone’s desk, reduced to nothing but a cocksleeve. He could never live it down.
As if reading his thoughts, Pantalone braces a hand against the back of Childe’s head and forces his head down even lower on his cock. It takes everything Childe has in him to fight back a choked moan.
With his free hand, Pantalone taps his pen on the desk. The rhythm is quick, irritated. “What is it?”
Capitano pauses for a few moments. Feeling his footsteps approach, knowing that all Capitano had to do was step behind the desk to get a crystal-clear picture of what was going on, should make Childe sick with shame. Instead, his dick twitches again. Pantalone feels it, too. Rubs the ball of his foot in a circle, taunting Childe, making his hips jolt up into the touch as he chokes on another gasp. With his hands still restrained, he tightens his fists, nails digging painfully into his skin.
At last, Capitano speaks up. “Her Majesty would like a word with you. The matter regards Tartaglia’s recent trip to Liyue.”
Childe jumps in surprise at the mention of his name, banging the top of his head against the bottom of the desk. Pantalone squeezes the nape of his neck tight. A second warning.
“I suppose she wants a word about my expense reports?” says Pantalone. “Otherwise, I assume she’d seek out her favourite child directly for a stern talking-to on how not to sleep with the archon of a rivalling nation.”
Pantalone’s cock hits the back of Childe’s throat. That’s the only reason, Childe tells himself, for the tears that suddenly blur his vision. Of course Pantalone wouldn’t be above using this to taunt Childe, to tarnish his image in the eyes of someone that he respected deeply. Childe knew he should never have gotten involved with Pantalone all those years ago. But it took someone sick and twisted to understand Childe’s own desires, sick and twisted as they were.
“That does not concern me,” Capitano replies gruffly. “I’ve merely been asked to relay the message. Now that you’ve received it, I will take my leave.”
The footsteps retreat, and Childe hears the telltale sound of the door shutting. As soon as he’s sure Capitano is gone, Childe casts Pantalone a poisonous glare and bites down hard on his dick.
The brief yelp of pain, the moment of human emotion that Pantalone lets slip before he composes himself, is worth whatever comes next. Pantalone drags Childe out from under the desk and slaps him across the face. Once on the left, once on the right. The force nearly knocks him back onto his haunches. Hot tears spill involuntarily from his eyes.
“For what it’s worth, I did try to preserve your dignity. I could’ve fucked you in front of the Captain. …But I suppose you can’t be reasoned with. Should’ve known better than to try to domesticate an Abyssal beast.” Pantalone sighs. And then drags the pad of his thumb over the tear tracks on Childe’s cheeks. “Oh, don’t cry. You’re not fooling anyone.”
Still, Pantalone’s next actions are surprisingly gentle. He pulls Childe up onto his lap again, and with a snap of his fingers, he undoes the Geo cuffs binding Childe’s wrists. But again, Childe doesn’t have time to react before two new sets of cuffs form, binding each wrist to the corresponding ankle with a short chain in between.
“How’s that? You’ll have a little more freedom to move around like this. Although it’ll be more efficient at keeping your legs spread apart for me. I’d say it’s a win-win situation.”
“I’d rather you release all of them so I can choke you to death,” Childe quips back.
“Would you have liked it better if it was Morax who tied you up? Or—what does he call himself these days—Zhongli?”
Somehow, hearing Zhongli’s chosen name from Pantalone’s lips is even worse than the disrespect of Morax. Even so, Pantalone has hit the nail on the head. Just thinking of Zhongli having his way with him is enough to force a small whimper from Childe’s mouth. Pantalone punctuates another hard thrust with a short chuckle, reaching up under Childe’s half-open shirt to tweak teasingly at his nipples. Childe jerks in his grasp, and for a moment, he’s afraid that Pantalone will discover the one souvenir from Liyue he keeps in that inside pocket, close to his chest. Childe moves his arm to stop him, then pauses, realizing the sudden movement would only draw more suspicion. Thankfully, Pantalone doesn’t seem to notice.
“My Geo Delusion works out quite well for you, doesn’t it?” Pantalone remarks, tugging at the cuffs. “You can keep up your little game of pretend with that ex-lover of yours.”
“It’d work out better,” Childe pants, “if I didn’t have to hear your voice.”
Pantalone’s grip on his waist tightens drastically, and then he fucks Childe so hard and fast he forgets how to speak. Lost in the sensation of pain and pleasure, Childe almost doesn’t notice when Pantalone pivots the office chair, spinning it around to face the window, and opens the curtains.
“Wait—” Childe tries to protest, but Pantalone only laughs.
“Relax, kid. No one’s going to peek inside a window on the fourth floor of the farthest wing of the palace. And these windows don’t even open.” He licks a stripe up Childe’s ear, making him shudder, before grabbing his chin in one hand and tilting Childe’s head towards the window. “I only wanted to show you how utterly wrecked you look right now.”
Pantalone’s right. Against his will, Childe’s eyes focus on his reflection in the glass. It’s snowing outside, a stark contrast against the heat indoors and Childe’s breath that fogs up the glass. He looks absolutely fucked out of his mind, his face a blotchy red all the way to his ears and stained with tear tracks, spit trailing out of his mouth. There's blood dripping from his neck where Pantalone had bitten him earlier. His cock is so hard it looks—and feels—painful. And through all of that Pantalone is still fucking him with insistent pushes of his hips. Childe can see the point at which Pantalone’s cock is entering his abused hole, and he cries out, looking away in shame and desperation. He needed this. As much as he hates it, he needed this, needed to put everything else out of his mind and just be used.
“Don’t look away, Tartaglia,” says Pantalone, voice dangerously low, hand insistent as he turns Childe’s jaw to face himself once again. “And don’t forget where you belong.”
One of the window panes is broken. Childe looks into that fractured glass, stained with frost, and sees himself. The piece of him that died in the Abyss, the fragment of himself that he left behind in Liyue—tried to, anyway—and the part of him that resides in Zapolyarny Palace, all bloody hands and sharp teeth, where only a fellow Harbinger could take him apart and put him back together.
Don’t forget where you belong. Childe has never questioned it. The idea that Pantalone might believe, for even a moment, that Childe’s loyalty might be swayed by his feelings for Zhongli, makes him feel insulted. As if his ambitions could be so easily extinguished.
“I serve the Tsaritsa,” he says. As raw as his voice sounds, there’s conviction in it. “I only aim to become stronger so that I may carry out her will. Nothing has changed.”
Pantalone mulls on that for a moment. “Good,” he says. And then—finally—he wraps his hand around Childe’s cock, jerking him off to completion. It doesn’t take long, with the constant assault of Pantalone’s cock against that spot inside him, with Pantalone’s hand expertly working his cock, for Childe to reach his second orgasm. He comes all over Pantalone’s hand, and with a few more thrusts and a harsh groan against his neck, Pantalone comes too. The hot, warm wetness fills Childe’s insides and he lets out a soft, almost soundless gasp as Pantalone finally uncuffs him and lifts him off his cock.
Pantalone lets him sit on his lap for a while, stroking his hair almost absentmindedly. Childe can’t decide if he likes it or not. It doesn’t matter, he decides. This is just the way things are.
“All right, then,” says Pantalone finally. He stands up, hands braced at Childe’s waist to make sure he can stand, too. Once Childe is on his feet, he lets go. “I’ve got a meeting with the Tsaritsa. Why don’t you pull yourself together, and I’ll send for you again if I spot anything out of the ordinary in these expenses. And don’t fret. Unless she pries, your little secret is safe with me.”
With shaky hands, Childe zips himself back up. He’d kept the jacket on the whole time, and now he looks absolutely dishevelled, not to mention sweaty as all hell. Pain shoots up his backside when he bends down to pick up the Vision that Pantalone had so callously tossed aside. He bears it quietly, then buckles the Vision back onto his belt, and exhales. “Okay,” is all he can manage to say. Pantalone casts him one more unreadable look and leaves the room.
Once the door is shut, Childe is alone in the too-big emptiness of the office. He rummages around in the inside pocket of his shirt, and pulls out a single, dried-up glaze lily. Luckily, the rigorous activities hadn’t bent it out of shape. Zhongli had gifted it to him at the end of a particularly pleasant meal together. A souvenir from Liyue, he had said, so that you may remember our times together. Had tucked it behind his hair, in his ear, and smiled. The blue really does bring out your eyes. Childe had kept it all this time, like a fool.
He looks down at the dying flower, and, suddenly recalling something that Ajax used to do as a kid back before the Abyss, plucks its petals out one by one. He loves me. He loves me not. Loves me. Loves me not.
Halfway through the act, he stops and laughs under his breath. What a futile pursuit. The answer didn’t really matter in the end.
Don’t forget where you belong.
Childe stands up and brushes himself off. He crushes the flower in the glove of his hand, and lets the battered petals slip through the cracks between his fingers on his way out of the office.