-BLACK DHALiA-: Pantalone X Male Reader, SMUT

RW:[1] - Tension.



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At the Harbinger's residence
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"Foolish!" you shout, slamming your fist against the table, your voice echoing through the nearly empty conference room, a bitter edge lacing each word.

"I told you everything in detail... Why? Why do the Harbingers refuse to invest? Do you not care about a soldier's suggestions just because they are of lower rank?" you continue, your chest heaving as the frustration mounts, your heart pounding.

Anger pulses through you like a wildfire. The rejection of your ideas feels personal, as though the potential improvements to Snezhnaya’s future and the Harbingers’ success are being dismissed simply because of who proposed them. Your strategies were solid; The Regrator had even listened. But now, without proper explanation, they’ve been denied.

"No," Pantalone’s calm voice cuts through your fury, an icy contrast to your outburst.

He sits across from you, completely unfazed. "I do not underestimate your abilities in the slightest. However, we simply cannot invest our money and resources into enhancements recommended by someone who is not an acknowledged strategist."

His calm demeanor only fuels your frustration further, yet beneath that perfect composure, there’s an undeniable authority you can’t challenge. He offers you an unhonest smile... one that feels gentle but carries an edge of dismissal, as he intertwines his fingers, resting them atop the table.

"And also..." he adds, his voice taking on a condescending lilt as his eyes meet yours, cold and calculating, "you’ve lost your composure far too quickly. You should reflect on your attitude."

The sharp reminder of his rank is like a slap to the face, leaving you frozen, heat crawling up the back of your neck. He is a Harbinger, after all. One of the highest-ranking members of the Fatui, and here you are, practically barking at him.

A knot of dread forms in your stomach as the weight of what you’ve done sinks in. Slowly, you back away from the table, desperately trying to regain your composure.

"...," you exhale slowly, forcing yourself to relax. You stand up straight, crossing your arms behind your back, clinging to whatever shred of dignity remains. "Ahem... I understand. My... My sincerest apologies, Sir."

The air between you becomes suffocating in the brief silence that follows. His sharp eyes remain on you, dissecting every movement, every word. You both stare at each other for a moment, but when it’s clear he has nothing more to say, you bow stiffly and turn to leave, every step heavy with the weight of your failure.

As you exit, a cold wave of regret washes over you. Should you have said more? Should you have fought harder? The moment feels awkward, unfinished.
You lean against the wall outside the conference room, your hand resting on your chest as you struggle to catch your breath.

You should have been more careful. He could have struck you down right then. But you also know Pantalone isn't one to indulge in violent impulses. No, his cruelty lies in his patience, his manipulation.

And yet, there’s something almost reassuring about dealing with him instead of the others. The other Harbingers might have killed you for such insolence, but Pantalone… he’s different. You can't shake the thought that maybe, just maybe, he understands your ambition better than anyone else. Perhaps, at some point, he was in your position... hungry for recognition.

Your chest tightens with the fear of retribution, but somewhere, buried beneath that, is a sliver of hope. Maybe you’ll be given another chance to prove yourself.