Archive of Our Own

Zapolyarny Palace felt a few degrees warmer tonight.

It was not that Snezhnaya had miraculously had a bout of tamer weather, no. The Nation of Cryo knew nothing but the icy onslaught of perennial blizzards. In fact, the source of that influx of heat would lead you directly to the palace’s banquet hall. 

As The Doctor walked down the nearly empty halls of the palace—save for the occasional Fatui agent or two—he could pick up on the lingering hallmarks of celebration. The wafts of lamb from servings of pelmeni, the fragrant aroma of tea, the cloying mixture of perfumes and colognes in the air…even the distant sounds of that grand space being tidied up for the night now that the festivities had concluded.

Dottore seldom attended those events these days. Perhaps in his younger years, just before his transfixions bled into apathy and he had discovered himself to be an outcast among outcasts, he attended more frequently. Desperate to be noticed, or more likely, to belong. But now? Now, they could only be considered a waste of time. 

To Pantalone, however, they were not.

The Doctor predicted that, given how long the banquet had gone on for, Pantalone would’ve opted to retire in his private quarters located within the palace rather than have a carriage take him to his estate. Over the years he had catalogued and memorized the Ninth’s various behaviors and preferences. It was not out of interest, necessarily…but it was hard to not notice the little things after spending so long in close proximity with another.

Of course, he would not be showing up empty-handed. With him, he was bringing an updated project proposal (for funding) and a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon (for bribery). Pantalone rarely said no to him or good wine.

The click of his boots echoed throughout the halls as he approached the wing hosting Pantalone’s quarters. Already, he could pick up on the vague scents usually found clinging to the banker—tobacco, hints of leather, and sandalwood. For some reason, that concoction always made his heart rate spike. 

Once reaching the door to Pantalone’s room, he didn’t bother to knock. In fact, the door was surprisingly unlocked…like the banker had been expecting someone.

Dottore opened his mouth to speak, but the sight he was greeted with made him pause.

Now with the door wide open, he was given the full view of Pantalone’s spacious room. It was dimly lit, a few candles flickering and bathing the room in a soft aroma. The drapings of the large canopy bed were drawn back, beckoning one to melt into the silk sheets, and Pantalone…

…stood by his vanity, clearly in the middle of disrobing. 

Aside from being frozen in place, he stood as if he were not a man who was just barged in on while half-naked. Pantalone stared at him—face bare, devoid of his glasses—his hands lightly gripping the fabric of a soft robe hanging off his shoulders. The warm glow of the candlelight caressed the contours of his torso and arms like shifting tides, tracing the edges of the scars under his chest. Scars that he carved.

Every breath he took only drew Dottore’s gaze right back to that valley of exposed skin. He swallowed, but his mouth felt strangely dry.

The Doctor had seen Pantalone bare many times—but it was not often that he saw him on display like this without the backdrop of an operating table. The banker’s silken hair was messier than usual, the strands curtaining his cheeks damp like he had just splashed water on his face, his skin lightly flushed in a way that made him look healthier than Dottore was used to seeing.

“Ahem.”

Dottore’s eyes snapped up to meet Pantalone’s as the clearing of the Ninth’s throat broke through his straying thoughts, and it was only then he realized he had been staring in silence like some lost fool.

“Your door was unlocked,” The Doctor stated, as if that was enough of an explanation. 

“Really? How odd,” Pantalone replied with a hum, adjusting his robe and tightening the sash. “And yet that still didn’t persuade you to knock?”

“Was it supposed to?”

Pantalone eyed Dottore up and down, briefly pausing on the wine he was carrying with him. The corners of his eyes crinkled, and he gestured to an empty decanter by his bed. The Doctor recognized it as an invitation to come in (or at the very least, he wasn’t being kicked out), and let the door close behind him.

“How was the banquet?” Dottore inquired as he approached the decanter, cracking open the bottle to allow the wine to spill out. Pantalone would lecture him if he didn’t let it breathe properly.

“Are you asking because you truly care, or because you’re trying to gauge the mood I’m in for what you actually came here to ask?”

The Doctor chuckled. “Given that you haven’t demanded I take my leave, I already have my answer.”

Pantalone sighed, silently conceding he had lost this particular mental spar between them. He took a seat at his vanity, flicking his fingers in a beckoning gesture.

“Give it here.”

Dottore set down the bottle of wine beside the now full decanter, walking over to the opulent vanity. He lowered the proposal onto the Ninth’s waiting hand, watching as he straightened out the papers and reached for his glasses.

Pantalone reviewed the documents in silence, the only sounds filling the room being the shuffling of papers and their shared, steady breaths. The banker leaned forward slightly, as if intending to search for hidden clauses or contingencies that the Second Harbinger had snuck in, but Dottore was far too distracted to worry about that.

More distracted than he should be, given the mundanity of the situation.

When leaning in, the fabric of the banker’s robe shifted. It was loose along the edges, draped forward before cinching in where the sash was tied tight. The silken material gave way to soft, pale skin, wrapping over sharp collarbones and a supple chest. A glimpse of a body he knew more intimately than he should, inside and out.

Somehow, the sight felt far too private. More intimate than just pure nudity. It was temptation, a ripe fruit guarded by a rabid hound, a bed of nails for the weary. His fingers twitched, itching with a peculiar urge to peel the fabric away, to reveal what he already knew lay underneath—like a vivisection primed and ready, waiting for hands to pry flesh apart and create a cavern for curious eyes to feast on vulnerable viscera.

It wasn’t like it was a fantasy. It was his reality. His hands have been inside the Ninth’s chest cavity, stained in his blood. He’s seen his heart beat with his own eyes. He’s traced each rib with a careful fingertip, he placed his lungs himself. Every breath Pantalone took was because of him—

“Dottore.”

The Doctor blinked, his head turning to gaze down at Pantalone. “Yes?”

“This section, here,” Pantalone tapped a finger below one of the lines. “These stipulations are sloppily outlined. And…” His finger traced over the words, a short scoff escaping him when the ink smudged. “It’s not even dry? Did you write this just before coming here?”

“You’ll find anything to complain about, won't you? These conversations are getting rather repetitive.”

“This is supposed to be your revised draft, Dottore.”

“Are revisions defined solely by the time they were written?”

Pantalone let out a drawn-out sigh, as if sensing this conversation was going nowhere. He was right to assume that, because The Doctor had no intention of leaving empty-handed. Instead, he rose from his vanity, leaving the still-drying documents on the tabletop as he moved toward the bed. The delicate fabric of his robe trailed behind him, whispering against the floor.

“Frankly, I’m exhausted and would rather this wait until morning,” the banker admitted, approaching the decanter by his bedside and lifting it. The glass refracted the flickering light of the candles, painting the wall in a kaleidoscope of color. “You have patience for a great many things, Doctor. Why is your funding the one area where you cannot exercise that particular virtue?”

“You know just as well as I the importance of ensuring we have enough time.”

Pantalone paused at those words, turning to glance over his shoulder at Dottore. There was a long moment of silence before the banker exhaled through his nose, gesturing towards a comfortable sitting area in the corner of the room.

“Sit, then. Let’s make this quick.”

…

Their conversation was anything but quick.

Once they had both taken a seat in one of those ridiculously plush chairs, Pantalone had set the decanter of wine between them and gone to grab two glasses. He poured a generous amount into each, taking the opportunity to indulge, as if he was not a man who had spent the majority of his night with liquor on his lips. Dottore did not immediately reach for his own glass, opting for his own form of indulgence—observation.

Most would consider that type of activity a guilty pleasure, but The Doctor rarely felt remorse grace his psyche. He drank in everything the world could offer him with a thirst that could never be quenched, although occasionally, that parched feeling would lessen ever so slightly when gazing at the Ninth Harbinger. 

Before he could even begin to speak, Pantalone cut him off with a knowing smile, pointing to his mask and uttering a request he had been too comfortable with making lately:

“When you speak to me, Doctor, the mask comes off. You know how much I loathe negotiating on uneven playing fields.”

Of course. Pantalone was all about fairness, though only when it benefited him as much or even more than the other party involved. Could it truly be defined as fair when approached with such a sense of greed? Dottore would beg to differ, and he was hardly a man who begged.

Time and time again, the banker made his opinion on the mask he wore very clear. Back then, it was just one or two passing comments that Dottore could ignore. Then it morphed into requests—”Don’t you think it would be easier to communicate without any obstacles in the way?”—and very soon became demands. 

“I won’t speak to you if you insist on hiding behind that hideous thing.”

“How can I gauge your sincerity if you refuse to show your face?”

“Take it off, Zandik.”

At first, he met each demand with the stubbornness of a brick wall. But when Pantalone began steadily increasing the use of red ink on his project proposals, The Doctor was quick to give in. 

Such as now: with only an annoyed click of his tongue as a complaint, he peeled off the mask and set it aside without a word. Pantalone seemed infinitely more satisfied, preening in the way he always did when things went his way, and from then on the conversation couldn’t have gone any smoother. It was a silent truce held between them for decades at this point—if they were going to work together, they needed to offer something up on the table to ensure commitment. 

Dottore offered his eyes. Pantalone offered his presence.

Their discussion followed a predictable pattern after that. Despite how Pantalone had complained about being tired, he seemed energized enough to nitpick the Second Harbinger’s submitted outline. Market demands, sourcing, overhead costs, insurance over liabilities, concealment in financial reports…you gave the banker an inch to speak, and he would take fifty fucking miles.

It was not as if Dottore wasn’t similar, but he also wanted results.

As Pantalone listed his conditions (pointless to listen to, given that the man approved his funding requests one way or another), The Doctor fell back into his routine of observing. He eyed the silver rings now sitting in a small dish on Pantalone’s vanity. His gaze swept over the expanse of the room, taking in the velvety sheets of his bed and the plushness of the rug beneath it. Then his eyes lingered on the finely tailored coat hanging by the door, or the dress shoes that looked like they had been hastily toed off.

Then his eyes snapped back onto Pantalone when the banker cleared his throat. It was not a sound meant to redirect his straying attention. It just seemed like the banker had talked himself into a dry mouth, because he was soon reaching for his glass to take a sip of wine. His Adam’s apple bobbed with each swallow, wine clinging to his lips as he pulled the glass away. The Doctor’s eyes tracked the motion of his tongue as it traced the seam of his lips to collect the stray droplets.

Pantalone glanced up, their eyes meeting.

Dottore sometimes forgot his habit of observing became a liability without his mask to conceal it.

Instead of moving on and continuing to speak, a silence settled between them. The Doctor found himself reluctant to fill the silence, largely due to the fact he wasn’t sure what purpose it was serving. 

Until Pantalone moved.

He rose from his seat with languid grace, setting the now almost empty glass down with a soft clink. The silence persisted as Pantalone stalked closer, Dottore’s eyes following him the whole way. Once close enough, the banker leaned forward, planting his hands on the armrests of the chair The Doctor occupied, effectively caging him in. Their eyes remained locked on to one another, and in less than a moment, Pantalone had occupied his entire view.

“Are you distracted by something, Doctor?” Pantalone murmured—and oh, Dottore could practically taste the wine on his lips.

This close, even the smallest details were noticeable in the dim lighting of the room. Delicate, dark lashes framing lightless eyes, the faint signs of age, the elegant slope of his nose and the moisture remaining on his lips. The Doctor was no stranger to Pantalone’s manipulations, but this…felt oddly without reason.

“I could have sworn you were rather insistent on making this a quick conversation,” was Dottore’s uttered reply. He spoke more quietly than he was used to, but it felt like any drastic movements would have their lips brushing.

As if motivated by the way Dottore had subtly leaned away, Pantalone leaned the slightest bit closer.

“We would have been finished an hour ago if you made the effort to actually participate.”

“Ha. We would have been finished days ago if you had approved my initial request.”

The brand of silence between them shifted into something more…heated. Not the heat that came from an argument, something they were very familiar with—but heat that made The Doctor instinctively tense up.

It only took half a second for Pantalone’s lips to press against his. They were soft and slightly cold, and Dottore’s head snapped to the side in a startled reflexive display. Not necessarily out of disgust, but…

A peck? A kiss? An accident? The Doctor wasn’t sure what to call it, but he stared at Pantalone out of the corner of his eye, watching him like a wounded rabbit would watch a starving wolf. Without even realizing it, his breathing had picked up.

“Panta—ngh—” Dottore’s words turned garbled when Pantalone’s hand grasped him by the jaw, fingers digging into his cheeks as he wrenched his head back forward, their lips crashing together in a rougher manner than before.

It was insistent. Hungry. All-consuming. The Doctor’s hands flew to the armrests of the chair, fingers digging into the plush material as his entire body stiffened. His mind stuttered to a halt as it struggled to process the sudden onslaught of sensations…soft lips moving against his own, the fruity, robust notes of the wine, the soft smacks and hitches of breath…

What was happening?

No one had ever dared to attempt something like this with him. He would have never even let them. But Pantalone’s lips moved against his own inexperienced ones like he knew, like he was coaxing him to accept and not deny.

And it was working.

For some reason, his body felt stuck in place. His joints felt too rigid to move. He found himself unable to pry his hands off of the armrests to push Pantalone away. Even when he wasn’t exactly reciprocating, the banker seemed more than amenable to do most of the work for them both. Especially when he felt those soft hands move to cup his cheeks, angling his head to the Ninth’s preference, and then he felt a tongue drag over the seam of his lips.

Oh.

Possessed by the heat of the moment, The Doctor instinctively parted his lips, and Pantalone seized the opportunity quickly. A tongue slid into his mouth, pressing against his own, guiding him to follow its movements. Instead of feeling disgusted, Dottore found himself feeling curious.

Everything was starting to feel warm. He could feel each puff of Pantalone’s breaths mingling with his own, could feel the banker’s hair tickling his skin. There was so much gentle, fleeting sensation mixing with overwhelming ones, it made his stomach tighten almost painfully, his heart feeling like it might beat out of his chest. The physical sensations were not even the most ruinous part.

It was the fact he almost felt wanted. To feel a tangible manifestation of Pantalone’s insurmountable greed directed solely on him. It lit a fire under neglected parts of his body and brain, urging him to surrender rather than resist. His thoughts slowed down to a crawl, his body relaxing a fraction every few seconds. Only a moment must have passed, but he felt suspended in time. It threatened to be his downfall.

It felt good. It felt really, really good, and it was terrifying.

Dottore’s eyelids drooped, a drunken fog clouding over his mind the longer Pantalone’s lips moved against his own. In fact, he had even started to reciprocate—or at least attempt to. The way his own lips moved was a bit awkward and clumsy, too rough, but Pantalone must have felt the moment that switch was flipped, because a pleased sound vibrated into the kiss.

Pantalone’s hands began to move again. One planted itself on the backrest of the chair while the other slid through his hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp. The sensation made him involuntarily shiver, and The Doctor couldn’t help but wonder if he had somehow been drugged.

It didn’t matter. He had never been so carefully deconstructed into his rawest parts. Is this how it felt to be dissected? To be conscious for one’s own autopsy?

Yes. Yes, oh, yesyesyes, his mind urged—a soft hand slipped under his shirt—no, no...?

That exploratory touch immediately vaulted Dottore out of the haze he had been in. His eyes snapped open, and his hands shot up to push against Pantalone’s shoulders. With a rough shove, their lips separated with a sharp smack, both men’s harsh panting filling the quiet room.

The expression on Pantalone’s face made Dottore feel a sudden, horrifying rush of vertigo. He felt dizzy with heat. The banker stared at him with lidded eyes, lips slightly parted and wet, each breath heavy and…why was he looking at him like that?

“Is something wrong?” Pantalone asked, voice slightly breathless.

Dottore hadn’t realized he had practically curled in on himself. There was nothing wrong, but that was the problem. Everything had felt right. He had surrendered himself so easily to an experience he never once found himself pursuing. Not even just that, but one Pantalone had initiated. Was he drunk? Exhausted? Out of his mind? Riddled with lust?

All of the above?

“I…” The Doctor’s throat suddenly felt dry, and it hurt to swallow. “What are you doing?”

“Propositioning you, it seems.”

“It seems?”

Pantalone arched his brow. “You were staring at my lips.”

“Was that an invitation to you?”

“If you were going to spend the majority of our conversation distracted, I ought to get something out of it.”

A shuddering feeling of nausea settled deep in Dottore’s gut at those words. Not at the blatant transaction Pantalone was insinuating—he had never been bothered by the nature of their relationship before—it was the fact that the Ninth even considered this exchange to be something of value.

The concept lingered in his brain, like an incessant gnat buzzing in his ears. His distress must’ve been embarrassingly visible on his face, because only then did Pantalone finally lean back, creating some much needed distance between them. The silence between them persisted, stretching into infinity, but it wasn’t long before Pantalone’s gaze dropped and his eyebrows shot up.

What was that look for?

Dottore’s gaze followed Pantalone’s, lower and lower…and every muscle in his body locked up tight when he was met with the sight of the obscene tenting of his pants. He’s not humiliated—rather, it was an expected reaction. At the end of the day, his body was still human, and he was a man with a reasonable libido and more than enough curiosity. The physical reaction his body involuntarily gave did not bother him.

What bothered him was the fact Pantalone still hadn’t fully backed away. He waited—for eagerness, for desperation, for something—and The Doctor did not know what to give him.

“Invitation or not, you seem rather eager,” the banker observed, his tone far too casual for the situation they were in.

Dottore sneered. “Are you trusting a reflexogenic response over my words?”

“No, but I can’t say I’ve seen someone get so quickly worked up from a mere kiss.” Pantalone tilted his head, a knowing smile gracing his lips. “I get the feeling this is a redundant question, but do you not get out much, Doctor?”

“And what would ‘much’ be in your eyes?”

“Enough that I’d hazard a guess and say your legs are paler than the rest of you.”

Dottore scoffed at the absurdity of that statement, giving Pantalone another nudge until the banker had fully straightened out. 

“You’re clearly delirious with exhaustion. Do you treat all your associates so crudely?”

“Only the ones that never knock.”

The Doctor knew that was meant as a playful quip, but the look in Pantalone’s eyes was so dangerously sincere that it had Dottore rising to his feet in a flash of panic. He cleared his throat, reached for his mask, and slid it back into place. His motions were stiff and rushed, more defensive than he would like them to be, but could not allow things to progress as they were.

“In the morning, then,” the Second Harbinger conceded. “Do let me know the decision you reach.”

Dottore headed for the door, refusing to look back, unable to bring himself to view whatever expression was on the Ninth’s face. Amusement? Disappointment? Indifference? 

He had been determined to not leave empty handed. Now he felt as if he carried too much to bear.

“Do you think the air in the lab has become too dry?”

Dottore tilted his head down towards Eight, who stood beside him with an expectant look.

“What makes you think that?” He asked. Indeed, a low humidity would present various issues in the lab. “The last time I checked, the lab was hovering around 45% RH.”

“Your lips,” Eight replied, pointing up at Dottore’s face. “You keep touching them.”

“Ah.”

The comment from his younger self made him aware that his fingers had been hovering over his lips. It had been days since they were against Pantalone’s, but they still tingled. Perhaps that experience had been worth it, considering he had gotten the funding he was after secured that next morning, but the effects that lingered…

…well, they were certainly bothersome.

“Just a habit I picked up,” The Doctor claimed dismissively. “Now, which report were you looking for?”

Eight asked no further questions, or rather, did not seem to care for an answer. “The one archived by Twenty-five last week. It had a grey spine.”

Dottore’s eyes scanned the rows of shelved reports, each catalogued in order by date, content, and importance. The description the younger version of him gave was practically useless—they all had grey spines, but fortunately enough, he knew which one Eight was referring to. After a brief perusal, he selected a thick report nestled on the top shelf, lowering it down and handing it off to Eight.

“Will that be all?”

Eight nodded, clutching the report in his small hands. His dead eyes gazed at the front with an intensity that almost made them look alive for a moment.

“Very well. I’ll sign it out, then. Be sure to return it when you’re done.”

As the younger Segment’s footsteps faded from the archives, Dottore let out a long sigh, turning to sign off on the report’s removal. He scrawled his signature on the checkout sheet with a few quick flicks of his wrist, pressing his lips together to try and dull the tingling sensation.

He could not tell if the feeling was one that originated from rejection or yearning. Perhaps both.

The good thing about having so many different versions of him was the abundance of perspectives. This was clearly a situation where pondering on his lonesome would get him nowhere—he needed to pick his own brain.

With some semblance of a plan in mind, The Doctor exited the archive, ensuring the door locked behind him. Just down the corridor was the dispensary, and more often than not, that’s where Sixty-five could be found. He had always considered himself to be closest to that version of him, and if he would trust any “him” to accept advice from, it would be the eldest. 

Reaching the dispensary, Dottore punched in the code, the locking mechanism disengaging with a hiss as the door slid open. Sixty-five stood over a cluttered counter, sorting capsules into their respective containers.

“Ah, Zandik. Is there something you’re looking for?”

“Depends. Can your current tasks wait?”

“Did something happen?”

“Nothing urgent,” Dottore claimed with a wave of his hand. “I just need a different perspective.”

“Regarding?”

The Doctor’s mouth opened, and then promptly closed. How did one even explain the situation he was in to ANY of his selves? None of them held an ounce of compassion. He was also operating under the assumption that Pantalone had not made a move on a Segment, either. 

“What is your opinion on Pantalone?” Dottore decided on.

Sixty-five tilted his head. Out of all his Segments, he was the hardest to get an accurate read on, despite being him. Not only did he refuse to expose a single part of himself, but he was arguably the calmest and most introverted version. It made him easy to tolerate and reliable to go to for a certain brand of wisdom, but otherwise Sixty-five toed the line between retirement and reclusiveness. 

“He does his job adequately, although he meddles too much for a man of his fragility,” was the Segment’s answer. “I personally do not have an issue with him, but I often hear the others complain about him.”

“Do you believe he’s worth keeping close?”

“As long as he remains useful.”

“Hm. Is that the extent to which your opinion goes?”

Dottore found himself even more perplexed. He agreed that his relationship with Pantalone was only as valuable as what the banker could offer him, but when considering the hypothetical of the Ninth one day becoming useless to him…he found the idea almost incomprehensible.

A series of very unlikely events would have to occur for the idea to even be conceivable. Pantalone would have to lose every coin of Mora to his name. He would have to lose his ideas, his ability to talk, his cognition and mind. He would have to effectively be a hollow puppet to lose all his value, and even then, The Doctor was certain he could find a use for him.

Logically, it would be a waste of effort—a low ROI, as Pantalone might say. So why did the thought of tossing the banker aside irk him so greatly? Why would he go through the effort of holding onto something that didn’t benefit him anymore?

“I suppose he’s a decent conversationalist,” Sixty-five added neutrally. “Any businessman is. I can also appreciate his punctuality, but he’s too pigheaded for my tastes.”

“But not our tastes?” 

Before the Segment could offer a reply, the sound of a locking mechanism disengaging once more cut through the room. The door to the dispensary slid open, revealing Eighteen behind it. His gaze flitted between the other two as he entered.

“Am I interrupting something?” The younger Segment inquired.

“If you were, you would have known by now,” Dottore replied.

“I just need this prescription filled,” Eighteen claimed, approaching with a slip in his hand. Sixty-five took it with a nod, turning to locate the requested medication.

The Doctor glanced at the prescription. “Prophylactic treatment?”

“The specimen currently has limited mobility. No way around it.”

Dottore nodded and did not press further than that. A silence settled between the three of them, only broken up by the sound of cabinets opening and closing, and pill bottles rattling. Soon enough, Sixty-five returned with the correct prescription, placing it on the counter. Without a word, he approached the other Segment with a clipboard and pen, handing it off to him. Eighteen signed without question.

“Eight mentioned you were behaving strangely,” Eighteen commented as he handed back the clipboard and pen.

Dottore’s jaw tightened. Was it so blatantly obvious?

“Did he now?”

“Does it have to do with Pantalone?” Sixty-five spoke up. “You don’t make a habit of asking for an opinion if you’re not looking for something specific.”

Eighteen clicked his tongue. “Were we talking about Pantalone? He rejected my funding request again.”

“I was merely curious about the consensus held between us. Is that so strange?” The Doctor crossed his arms, trying not to appear as defensive as he felt. 

Both Segments glanced at each other. “Very.”

Well, this was certainly a predicament. If his own selves were starting to grow suspicious, it wouldn’t be long before one of them decided to go to Pantalone and get a direct answer. He already had a headache thinking about the absurd tales that man might spin.

“Pantalone seems to be trying to make an effort to…advance our relationship,” Dottore begrudgingly admitted. “I believe he was somewhat intoxicated and fatigued, but he kissed me several nights ago.”

Eighteen arched his brows. “He kissed you?”

“Having additional context would be helpful.”

“He had previously requested a revised draft for a project I had proposed. I stopped by his quarters to drop it off with the hope of him approving it.”

“Did he?”

“You’re focusing on the wrong thing,” Sixty-five said to Eighteen.

“He rejected mine.”

“This is not about funding,” The Doctor firmly spoke. “He pressed his lips to mine with deliberate intent. Once he tried to escalate things, I put a stop to it and left.”

“Psychotherapy would benefit him greatly,” Eighteen mused.

“Quiet. I merely do not know what to think of the situation.”

“Are we thinking about terminating our partnership with him?”

Sixty-five shook his head. “The fact that we’re giving this any thought at all makes me believe that’s unlikely.”

“Well, what conclusion are we meant to come to?” 

“I cannot tell what his intentions are,” Dottore’s brows furrowed. “It could have simply been a drunken mistake, but something he said that night has made me believe otherwise.”

“Go on,” Sixty-five nodded.

“He considered the exchange valuable.”

Eighteen scoffed. “That could mean anything.”

“Therein lies the problem.”

“We all know how he is. Asking him directly would get me nowhere.”

“And asking us will?”

Dottore narrowed his eyes at the younger Segment. “I am asking myself.”

The older Segment just sighed. “If the situation was an isolated occurrence, what more could you glean from it?”

“Elaborate.”

“When I find myself questioning parts of an event, I simply recreate the occurrence to focus on specific variables.”

“We all do,” Eighteen interjected.

“You are suggesting I recreate that night?”

“More often than not, the answer is hiding in the problem itself.”

“Or an entirely new set of problems.” Eighteen took the vial that had been waiting for him, tossing it once in his hand before turning towards the door. “As long as it doesn’t prevent my next request from being approved, do whatever you want.”

That begged the question—what does he want?

Dottore glanced at Sixty-five, who may have been giving him a look of reassurance, though it was impossible to tell. He hoped it was anything but pity, especially if he were going to take the Segment’s advice to heart.

It…was worth a shot. Anything to try and conquer this unbearable feeling of uncertainty he had been carrying with him for the last few days. He could even think of it like an experiment: arrange for a similar environment with similar variables, and allow things to play out naturally. 

Not because he wanted to, but because if he didn’t, it might hinder his current work greatly.

Dottore spent the next week preparing for his ‘experiment’.

He needed to be certain he covered all his bases. A good experiment was one with controlled variables, a replicable design, and a clear baseline. In order to ensure he got fruitful results, adequate preparation was vital.

That led to the question: what did adequate preparation consist of?

Firstly, he had to keep precise track of Pantalone’s schedule. Knowing when and where he was was important if he wanted to catch him at the right time and place. Second was planning his approach—if he was going to allow things to escalate this time, he would prefer to remain in control. He had to know how to smoothly shift gears when the time came. Third consisted of…not exactly his area of expertise, but he was nothing if not a quick learner.

He had to predict just how far Pantalone had originally planned on escalating things, and if he was likely to do so again in a similar situation. He was not ashamed to admit his own virginity, and it was perhaps the only ‘pure’ thing about him, but it was woefully inconvenient when this experiment relied on knowing what to do and precisely how to do it.

Dottore never indulged in romance during his younger years. He never had any use or interest in it. Love required trust and understanding, and he never had such delicate things offered to him to begin with. Sexual intimacy bored him. He had no desire to reproduce (in the traditional sense, that is), and allowing himself to bare his mind and body in such a vulnerable way felt tantamount to laying under a guillotine and waiting for the blade to drop.

But the process seemed mechanical in nature. He was well versed in the human body. He knew common weak points, sensitive spots…even erogenous zones. It was not as if he would just surrender himself to primitive and carnal instincts—he could participate in the act of sex without trying to satisfy a biological urge to breed. 

…He assumed so, anyway.

The Doctor recalled the night when Pantalone had kissed him. A rather strange, dizzying sensation had consumed him during the brief entanglement of their lips. In an instant he almost felt drunk, high on some indescribable urge to submit. It was not that he suddenly had become overwhelmed with the need to kneel and serve the Ninth, no…but it was difficult to characterize.

it was more akin to an animal realizing its highest chance of survival was to go limp and play dead. He would have to ensure that feeling didn’t ensnare him this time, too. Fortunately enough, he had proficient experience in playing the ‘hunter’.

With the embers of a plan waiting to be ignited into flames, Dottore found his best chance of replication came sooner than he expected.

It was dark and quiet in Zapolyarny Palace. There had been no banquet like there had been on that initial night, but no matter—the only condition he was looking for in regards to setting was that Pantalone would be in his quarters. And that he was! Already, things were falling into place well.

Without knocking—as usual—Dottore turned the knob and pushed the door open. Like before, he was greeted with the familiar sight of Pantalone’s private quarters. They were just as lavish as he remembered, the lighting dim, the light fragrance of the candles drifting through the air. The stage had been perfectly set; well, everything except…

Pantalone was nowhere to be seen.

The Doctor blinked, slightly stunned. His intel should not have been incorrect. Even if it was, the room was clearly set up for the night. It was obvious the banker had been here recently—his characteristic rings sat in their dish on the vanity, and the covers of his bed had been turned down.

But then a faint but familiar scent hit his nose, and suddenly, he felt more like the hunted than the hunter.

“Oh? What are you doing here, Doctor?”

The feeling of warm breath tickling his ear caught Dottore off guard, and he barely suppressed the shiver wanting to force its way down his spine. He took an automatic step forward, creating the distance he needed to turn around.

Oh. There he was. Just as disheveled and painfully human as the first night, if not more so. Only this time, the banker’s robe was tied tighter around him, presumably opting for modesty while in the halls. The Doctor detested how his first thought was to loosen it.

“Has it ever occurred to you that your door has a lock for a reason?” Dottore asked. A redundant question, but he needed a moment to collect himself.

“Hmm? I was only gone for a moment, there was no need to lock the door behind me,” Pantalone replied with a knowing smile—spoken like a man who had no secrets to keep, even when he very well did. “Besides, isn’t it more convenient for you if I leave it as such?”

The insinuation that the Ninth left his door unlocked solely for him did very, VERY strange things to Dottore’s stomach.

“Well, I would invite you in, but seeing as you’re further inside my room than I am, it would be a bit pointless.”

Dottore huffed. “Are you not getting ready for bed?”

“No, no. I am. But there is a thing such as downtime, Doctor. I prefer to drift off rather than pass out, if I can help it,” Pantalone replied, brushing past the other man and heading further into the room.

“Spare me the rundown of your nightly routine,” Dottore uttered, shutting the door behind him. “I’m here for more important matters.”

Click. He turned the lock on the door, cementing the start of his ‘experiment’. Pantalone raised a questioning brow, and despite the fact he should be, he did not seem the slightest bit wary. Instead, a soft and amused exhale escaped him, as if waiting for the inevitable show to start.

“Well?” Pantalone urged with a light gesture of his hand. “What was so important that it couldn’t have waited until morning?”

“You,” The Doctor replied, reaching up to remove his mask. “Us.”

“Hmm?”

“Do you still have the wine I gifted you?”

“It should be somewhere around here, yes.”

Dottore had to force himself to not laugh. It was obvious that Pantalone was putting up a veil of indifference, but from the way his eyes briefly flickered over to the liquor cabinet in the room gave him away immediately.

“That night you…propositioned me,” Dottore spoke slowly, carefully, making sure every word slid off his tongue perfectly, slowly stepping towards the cabinet. “What was your plan?”

“You make it sound like I had some sort of hidden agenda,” the banker shook his head, laughing softly. “I merely found myself in decent company, and thought it would be wasteful to ignore the signs I was reading.”

“Signs?” The Doctor echoed, unlatching the cabinet and eyeing the various bottles. He picked up the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, and it looked like it had been untouched since that night.

“Without that mask of yours, Doctor, your gaze gives away your desires quite easily.”

“If I had desired something, you would be perfectly aware of it,” Dottore retorted. He selected two glasses, carrying them between his fingers as he gestured towards the seating area. “Sit.”

Pantalone didn’t argue. He walked breezily over to the plush seats, lowering himself onto one and smoothing out the fabric of his robe. Crossing one leg over the other, he watched as The Doctor set the two glasses down and poured a moderate amount of wine into each one. Once he was finished setting his stage, he set the bottle aside and took his own seat across from Pantalone.

“Drink,” Dottore instructed.

“Why? Did you lace it with something?”

“You saw me pour it.”

“Wasn’t it you who suggested I be more careful with what I put into my body?” Pantalone replied with a hum, but reached for his glass and took a sip. It went down easily, and with a soft exhale, he reclined back in his seat. “Oh, see? You’re doing it again.”

Dottore blinked. “Doing what, exactly?”

Pantalone cocked his head. Slowly, his tongue peeked out and traced his lower lip, collecting the moisture that lingered. Like metal to an unfairly strong magnet, Dottore’s eyes followed the movement. “Staring.”

He hadn’t even realized he had been staring. Not this time—not until Pantalone pointed it out. But—But it was fine. Everything was still on track. Just like that encounter several nights ago, things were playing out as he needed to.

So, Dottore remained silent. Continued to stare. Stayed still, as if silently encouraging Pantalone to pounce. A hunter coaxing its unknowing prey right into the trap laid for it. He’d wait until just the right moment, when the snare caught and sunk into ripe flesh, usurping the control he didn’t have the chance to restore last time.

Pantalone took the bait. He slowly rose from his seat, the fabric of his robe softly slipping over the upholstery of the cushions. He drew out his steps, stalking around the table between them, stopping once he stood right in front of The Doctor. He leaned forward, planting his hands against the backrest of Dottore’s chair, not bothering to fix the way his robe had slipped down the curve of his shoulder in a tantalizing drape.

“Was this what was so dreadfully important?”

Dottore continued to stay quiet. He forced himself to maintain eye contact with Pantalone, whose eyes were lidded and swimming with something indescribable, but he was already feeling himself falter the slightest bit. His heart rate was steadily increasing, his body preemptively tensing up, his brow furrowing by just a hair. 

Stay calm.

He resisted the urge to lean back as Pantalone leaned in. It felt like the banker was purposefully drawing things out, teasing him, trying to lure him to his own slaughter instead. But The Doctor was no lamb to be culled, and he remained in place, right up until the other man closed the distance between them and their lips met.

The meeting was gentle, borderline tender. Everything Dottore was not nor should be treated with. It was the barest of pecks, something you might give in passing to a lover, before Pantalone was retreating, straightening up with an infuriatingly passive expression on his face.

What? Dottore could only think. That was it?

The frustration and confusion must’ve been clear on his face, because Pantalone hummed knowingly, a smug smile gracing his lips.

“What’s the matter? Is that not what you wanted?”

Pantalone knew perfectly well what he wanted. He could see it in that annoying smile of his. The way he looked seconds away from laughing. Like a little rabbit preening that it had narrowly avoided the jaws of certain death.

The tingling sensation had returned to his lips, thousands of small pinpricks taunting him. For how short that kiss had been, the feeling felt worse than when Pantalone had kissed him like a starving man. The Doctor could only think about how badly he wanted it gone.

“…What answer are you expecting?” Dottore spoke lowly, his voice borderline venomous as he narrowed his eyes.

“An honest one.”

The Doctor found himself in a difficult situation. Either he had to set aside his pride and admit—out loud—what he truly came here for, or he would refuse and Pantalone would leave him with nothing. Only one of those choices would set his experiment back into motion.

“It would have been…preferable for that exchange to last a bit longer.”

“Would it?”

Dottore’s jaw clenched tight as he watched Pantalone return to his seat, even after that humiliating admission. Everything was still off its tracks. What more could this insufferable man want—

“Earn it,” Pantalone’s voice interrupted his thoughts, teasing but undeniably firm. He spread his thighs, lounging back with a languid and expectant air.

“…What?” Dottore hissed.

“Earn. It.” 

Pantalone enunciated each word with deliberate provocation, patting one of his thighs. The silent command settled between them: come here and prove your worth.

Now, The Doctor was no stranger to proving his worth—but it was always for his advantage, not another’s. Either he intimidated others with his mind, or struck fear in the masses with his power. And even then, he did not need validation like some pathetic, fawning miscreant.

He only needed answers.

Despite this, despite every fiber of his being screaming at him to stand up and stride out of this insolent man’s room, he did not.

Instead, The Doctor rose from his seat, feeling as if his knees might buckle as he approached Pantalone with stiff steps. He stopped just before him, his breaths threatening to grow shallow, and the banker smoothly gestured at his lap as if presenting a full-course meal.

Letting out an unsteady exhale, Dottore shifted forward, carefully lowering himself until his knees were planted on the cushion and bracketing Pantalone’s thighs. He hovered over the man’s lap, fighting the slight strain in his legs that urged him to make contact.

And then Pantalone closed that gap for him.

A hand settled on his waist, pulling his hips down until they were pressed flush against Pantalone’s lap. Dottore stiffened immediately, his spine nearly going ramrod straight as he let out a startled grunt. That hand that kept him anchored in place began to stroke his hip in slow circles, as if he were trying to soothe him. 

The Doctor detested the thought.

Dottore’s head lowered to view the absurdly scandalous position they were in, but Pantalone’s hand was quick to tilt his gaze back up, lightly gripping his jaw.

“Ah-ah,” the banker chided. “If there’s something you wanted, Dottore, go ahead and take it.”

…right. This whole ridiculous experiment was dependent on a kiss. If Pantalone wasn’t the one to initiate it, that only left one other option.

Slowly, and very, very stiffly, The Doctor leaned in, stopping just as their noses bumped. Their lips just barely brushed together, their breaths mingling…and Dottore had to force every ounce of energy to force himself to close that scant distance between them.

Their lips met roughly, The Doctor more practiced at devouring than savoring. Pantalone let out a disapproving noise into the kiss, his hand weaving into the Second’s hair to give a warning tug. Only when Dottore eased the pressure did Pantalone ease his grip, his hands moving to travel down his body.

Dottore tried to conjure up the memories of that first kiss they shared. How Pantalone had done it—the firm but deliberate press of his lips, the motions of his tongue, the tilt of his head…but it was difficult to focus when he could feel the banker’s wandering hands venturing lower and lower, giving his waist a squeeze before settling on his hips. 

At least his lips were no longer tingling…but now they were burning.

The sounds bothered him more than the sensations. Wet, soft smacks now that Pantalone seemed appeased enough to guide Dottore into a more pleasant rhythm. He licked at his mouth, his palette, his teeth, his tongue—as if he were searching for something deep in the recesses of his throat. 

Soon, hints of copper bloomed on their tongues, a taste that had The Doctor letting out an involuntary groan into the kiss. He must have nicked Pantalone’s tongue by accident, but there was little concern to be felt when that thick, hazy feeling was gradually returning—a feeling of pure and raw want, every muscle in his body beginning to go lax as he grasped at the banker with uncharacteristic desperation.

Why did such a simple, sloppy exchange—one he had never felt interest towards before—inspire such intense desire within him?

It felt like an eternity before Pantalone broke apart the kiss, a cruel reminder of the mortal confines their lungs invoked. The Ninth was panting softly, tinges of crimson smeared on his lips, his eyes heavily lidded with what Dottore could now pinpoint as lust.

Lust?

Many people have gazed at him with a variety of looks in his lifetime. Fear. Hatred. Disgust. Pity. Desperation. The occasional look of admiration.

This was new. It was pure, unadulterated, all-consuming lust. Pantalone’s eyes were flooded with it, the black of his pupils nearly swallowing the purple of his irises. 

Had Pantalone ever looked at him in such a way before? The man’s eyes were almost always closed, and yet, The Doctor wondered if that was because this gaze was hiding beneath the entire time. The gaze of a starved hound ready to shred flesh from bone.

A gaze that could ruin him if he wasn’t careful.

Careful…yes. He was supposed to maintain control. This experiment depended on—

A startled noise erupted from his throat as he felt lips press against his neck, tracing down his jugular, the slight sting of teeth accompanying the onslaught. Pantalone had buried his head into the crook of his neck, his teeth and lips suckling and nipping at the skin, drawing warm blood to the surface. Dottore’s lips parted in a silent gasp, fisting his hands into the front of Pantalone’s robe as his mind struggled to process the sudden sensations.

A hand pressing between his legs only startled him more.

“Well, it looks like that first time wasn’t a mere fluke,” Pantalone remarked, his voice a low purr as he ground his palm against Dottore’s crotch. 

Dottore sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, feeling dizzy from how it felt as if all the blood in his body had suddenly rushed south. The feeling of arousal was nothing new to him—but from something so…menial? Something that should be borderline insulting?

This whole ordeal had been a mistake.

“E—Enough,” The Doctor forced out, nearly grimacing at the breathless quality his voice now held. “We’ll end this here, and—“

“Oh? So soon?”

“Not soon enough.”

“Come now, Dottore,” Pantalone crooned, keeping him in place with a hand between his shoulder blades. The other continued to rub up against his clothed cock. “We could have a lot of fun together, you and I.”

“I’m not in the mood for your so-called fu—uhnn…”

Dottore’s voice tapered off into a strangled groan as the pressure against his crotch increased, that stroking hand forcing the fabric of his briefs and trousers to torment his straining erection. It ached, yet his muscles jumped with the urge to chase that damned sensation.

“You seem like you’re in the mood to me.”

“Are—ah…are you so desperate where you’d throw yourself at me like this?” 

“Hmm? If I recall, it was your desperation that got us into this situation to begin with.”

There was a tinge of something like mock-pity in Pantalone’s tone, equal parts condescending and devilishly satisfied. His hand never stopped moving, and as if to add insult to injury, the banker leaned back in, resuming his assault on Dottore’s neck. 

His lips. His hand. Even his scent. It drove him to the verge of vertigo, his mind spinning as he hopelessly clutched at Pantalone’s robe. His thighs were beginning to quake from both the tension and the pleasure starting to build, feeling precum dampen the fabric of his underwear shamefully fast. His stomach tightened with each rub and press, his hips giving involuntary, aborted jerks into each touch.

The Doctor refused to make a sound. He swallowed and bit back every potential moan and shudder. He could taste iron on his lips from how hard he was biting them, and his throat throbbed from holding back his noises. 

But try as he might to hold back his sounds, holding back his bodily functions was a whole other ordeal entirely.

There was a searing heat building in his gut, swelling in a way that instilled a panic in him. He grasped Pantalone’s shoulders, pushing against them, trying to shove him off while he simultaneously attempted to pry himself away.

“Ah—ah, nhh, wai—it—“

With one last firm press against his cock, Dottore felt that building heat reach a crescendo, a full-body shudder rolling through him as every muscle in his body tensed and contracted. His fingers twitched, digging into Pantalone’s shoulders, his nails no doubt leaving indents. 

No sound escaped his open mouth, his head tipping back as he shivered through the throes of his orgasm, eyes wide. Pantalone’s hand was no longer on his crotch, but the one between his shoulder blades remained, keeping him from toppling back.

Finally, a shaky exhale escaped him in a rush of breath.

Pulse after pulse, he could feel his cum soaking into the fabric of his underwear, creating a sticky mess which soon overrode the residual pleasure with a wave of discomfort.

He panted heavily, his body still working through some lingering tremors as he stared blankly at the ceiling. It was only when he felt a whisper of cool air against his pelvis did he tip his head back forward, his hips jolting.

Pantalone had taken advantage of his dazed state to pull back the waistband of his pants and underwear with a hook of his finger, peering in at the debauched sight. Cum clung to his skin and cock, smeared against the fabric of his briefs and sticking together in thin, milky webs. 

“Oh my. Look at this mess you made of yourself,” Pantalone remarked, his voice filled with mock-awe. “Just how pent up were you? This is an awful lot.”

The way the Ninth spoke, it made it sound like he expected The Doctor should be relieving himself on the regular. The very idea was absurd—why waste valuable time on temporary endorphins that only ended in a mess?

…he did feel rather lightheaded, though.

“Tch. I’m not—“

Dottore paused as he shifted his hips, trying to create some much needed distance between them, but all it achieved was making him now very aware of the prominent bulge pressing against his ass. He glanced down briefly, before his gaze returned to Pantalone, lips parted as if stunned.

“I’m a man with needs too, you know.”

“And what does that have to do with me?” The Doctor scoffed, narrowing his eyes incredulously, trying to ignore how hot his face was or how weak his legs felt.

“Oh? Shouldn’t you return the favor?”

“Absolutely not,” Dottore hissed, prying Pantalone’s hand away from his crotch.

“Aren’t you the slightest bit curious? Shouldn’t every good scholar attempt something at least once?” Pantalone’s voice was a teasing croon, a smug little smile on his lips, his gaze searching Dottore’s face.

…How dare he use his own ideology against him in a situation like this?

…

“…such as?”

A chuckle came from the Ninth. “Well, now you’re really exposing your own inexperience, Doctor. Do you expect me to walk you through every step? I didn't expect you to be so…subservient.”

“Now it just feels like you’re stalling.”

“No, never.” Pantalone’s hand lifted, and Dottore flinched when a warm palm came up to cup his cheek. The banker’s thumb settled on his bottom lip, carefully prying his jaw open. “I’d request you to serve me with your mouth, however…” The same thumb pressed lightly against the sharp points of Dottore’s teeth. “I can’t say I’d trust you with these.”

Dottore angled his head away, his eyes narrowed in a wary glare.

“Then what would you expect of me?”

“Hmm…”

Pantalone let his hand fall away, letting it rest on Dottore’s hip, his thumb tracing slow, thoughtless circles. His head tipped downward, eyes mapping out the way The Doctor’s hips remained nicely slotted against his own. Dottore felt the urge to shudder creeping up his spine, but tamped it down before the feeling could surge.

“No one has ever been inside you, Dottore?” The Ninth asked, fingers lightly brushing over the other man’s stomach, watching the muscles jump at the touch.

“Plenty have.”

Pantalone’s gaze snapped up, eyes locking onto his and demanding answers. His smile was still present, but had tightened considerably.

“I make modifications to this body on occasion,” The Doctor clarified.

At that, Pantalone just blinked up at him, before his muscles unwound as a bemused laugh escaped him. He shook his head, resting his palm flat against Dottore’s abdomen, bunching the fabric of his shirt beneath his hand.

“I thought not,” Pantalone muttered, a sense of glee underlying his voice.

Dottore parted his lips to question the banker’s peculiar response, but Pantalone interrupted him, the hand on his hip shifting to give a few condescending pats to The Doctor’s ass.

“Up you go, then. My legs are starting to go numb like this.”

Without even giving it a second thought, Dottore found himself moving on command. He let out a little huff as he carefully shifted back and planted his feet on the floor, bracing his hands against the armrests of the chair as he straightened himself out on slightly weak legs.

The movement made him painfully aware of the damp stickiness still clinging to his underwear.

Pantalone watched Dottore rise with a sense of satisfaction, slowly lifting himself from his seat, languid and graceful like a lion. His steps barely made a sound as he turned the other way, maintaining eye contact until the very last second, stalking towards his bed. His hands moved to the sash of his robe, loosening it before slender fingers hooked into the fabric and slowly began to let it slide away from his body. The robe fell to the floor, left in a tantalizing trail behind him.

And there Pantalone was, back turned towards him, exposed in all his naked glory. Dottore had to remind himself to blink.

Right. His experiment. At this rate, his entire plan would be derailed—

“Zandik,” Pantalone spoke, his voice far too soft. Far too alluring. A siren song for a desperate sailor. “Come here, would you?”

Dottore swallowed. His feet felt glued to the floor, his clothes a disheveled mess, and yet…he began to move. Step by step, he approached the bed, which now had Pantalone sitting on the edge, patiently waiting. Or perhaps not so much, because he was patting the space beside him expectantly.

The Doctor kept an unimpressed face, but his heart had never beat so fast.

Slowly, he lowered himself to sit beside the Ninth, feeling the mattress dip under his weight. Pantalone looked so calm, so relaxed, as if he were not baring his body for him. Instead, Dottore felt like the naked one.

“…what are you expecting, then? Penetration?” Dottore bluntly asked, just to break the silence.

“Hmm,” Pantalone made a noise of consideration. “Are you offering?”

The Doctor just furrowed his brows. Did this man have to make everything so difficult? It would be leagues easier to get this over with if Pantalone could just make up his mind, or at least stop pretending he hadn’t.

If Pantalone wanted to be penetrated so badly, wouldn’t anyone be sufficient?

Pantalone hummed again, louder, and leaned in to begin peppering kisses up the column of his throat. Dottore’s breath hitched, blinking the surprise from his eyes as he felt himself being guided back, until he laid flat against the soft mattress beneath him. All the while, Pantalone continued to lavish Dottore with pecks and nips, working along his jaw before sealing their lips together in a kiss.

Ah. The Doctor was quickly discovering how this was developing into a rather complicated weakness of his.

Whenever their lips locked together, Pantalone slipping his tongue in as if to taste him, Dottore immediately melted. It placated him, soothed him, ensnared him. He could pick up on hints of smoke on the banker’s tongue, the dizzying tinges of blood that always erupted when The Doctor’s sharp teeth inevitably snagged them both.

A drug of the highest concentration, taking his thoughts and encrypting them in unfathomable ways.

Pantalone continued to kiss him, his hands beginning to work—starting on the buttons of his shirt until every last one was undone, then moving to his waistband, shimmying it down a scant amount, enough that Dottore could feel the cooler air of the room settling over his heated skin. The Doctor could feel every miniscule touch, acutely aware of the sensation of being undressed…

…and as panicked as it did make him, all he wanted to do was chase the sweetness of Pantalone’s lips, savor his blood for just a bit longer. The rustling of clothes was drowned out by the smacks of their lips meeting.

Suddenly, Pantalone pulled back, breaking the kiss with little remorse, even as Dottore let out a displeased grunt. He smiled down at the Second Harbinger, obviously delighted, before slipping off the edge of the bed and down onto his knees.

Clank. The sound of a buckle loosening and being pulled free reached Dottore’s ears, and he pushed himself up on slightly unsteady arms to watch as Pantalone began to remove his boots for him. One by one, each strap was undone, then the clasps were popped free, until both boots could be slid off his feet and tossed carelessly to the side.

Dottore found himself suspicious at the manner in which the Ninth was behaving. Each careful, borderline gentle act had a feeling of dread settling heavier in his gut. As if he were a mere servant, and not a Harbinger of the Tsaritsa.

“…Do you treat all of those who end up in your bed so delicately?” 

“I’m easing you into your first time. Aren’t I nice?”

“Hah. Are you expecting me to agree with you?”

Pantalone smiled. “No, of course not. That would make me a fool.”

Dottore swallowed once more, hands unconsciously gripping the bedsheets until his knuckles turned white, muscles tense in anticipation. If Pantalone noticed, he didn’t say a word—just straightened up and leaned forward, crawling over him onto the bed. He peered down at The Doctor with half-lidded eyes, as if he were actually pleased by the sight beneath him.

A low purr rumbled in the banker’s throat as he sat on his haunches, grabbing Dottore’s legs and hoisting them up. He gripped the fabric of his pants and pulled, guiding them down his legs until he could toss them aside, too. He dropped Dottore’s legs without ceremony, letting them splay out around his hips.

All that was left was The Doctor’s underwear, damp with drying cum.

The Doctor had to think—where did things go from here? Pantalone was naked, and soon he would be too. It was not like nudity was something that shamed either of them, and they had seen each other in various states of undress before…but it was perhaps becoming more and more apparent that this was an experience Dottore was not prepared for.

“Is that uncertainty on your face, Doctor?” Pantalone remarked, clearly amused as he hooked his fingers into the waistband of Dottore’s briefs. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Hmph. I had…plans,” The Doctor admitted lowly, turning his head to rest his cheek against the soft sheets.

“Oh? My sincerest apologies for ruining them, then,” the Ninth replied with faux-empathy, his smile audible in his voice as he peeled Dottore’s underwear off, ridding his body of its last obstruction. 

The second he was completely bare, a violent shiver wracked the Second Harbinger’s body, his mind zeroing in on every minute sensation washing over him.

He could feel the coolness of the air battling with the residual warmth of candles scattered around the room. The softness of the silken sheets beneath him, like he could count every thread they were woven with. Pantalone’s leering gaze weighed heavy on him, domineering and satisfied.

Cold metal pressed against his back would be preferable to this. The rhythmic beeping and whirring of machinery would be a more pleasant ambiance. Fluorescent lighting, the clinical gaze of himself, the sharp pressure of a scalpel starting at his larynx, beginning its descent down his throat until stopping at his diaphragm. His flesh would split apart, wet with blood that seeped from the cavity, and only then…

“Mm. Dottore…” Pantalone’s smooth timbre brought him back to reality, his voice vibrating against his chest. Oh.

There was no scalpel to peel him apart—just the sharp edges of the Ninth’s nails that had left red lines down his throat and chest. That wetness had not been blood, but saliva, left in glistening patches along his pectorals as Pantalone lavished the supple flesh with languid drags of his tongue and slow, bruising sucks. If he kept that up, soon enough, there would be blood.

It took The Doctor a full thirty seconds to realize how harshly he was panting.

Pantalone made no comment. His lips and tongue continued their assault, occasionally accompanied by the sting of teeth. One hand groped a pec, squeezing and massaging the muscle, while the banker’s lips made their way to the opposite one and laved his tongue over a pert nipple. Dottore could only stare, dazed, feeling his own breaths stutter in his chest as he watched his colleague devour him like a feast meant to be savored. Pantalone only doubled down, sucking the pink nub between his lips, pinching its neglected twin and rolling it between his fingers.

It was surprisingly pleasant. Too pleasant.

Each deliberate suck and pinch had his hips involuntarily jolting, trying to prevent the way his back would arch towards each surge of sensation. His hands clutched tighter in the sheets, each graze of teeth causing his breath to falter in his throat. Gradually, Dottore’s cock was beginning to harden once more, still sticky with residual cum. His muscles quivered as ripples of pleasure washed through him, radiating from his chest and outward.

With a wet pop, Pantalone released his latch on Dottore’s nipple, now red and puffy and glistening with saliva. Small teeth marks indented a ring around the areola, staking their claim, and the banker pulled back with a grin as he licked his lips.

“My…that didn’t take much effort at all,” the Ninth mused, tracing a finger down Dottore’s sternum, then lower, following the line of his abdomen. “Look how eager you’ve become.”

The same finger brushed through The Doctor’s happy trail, ceaseless in its trajectory as he ran a fingertip up the length of his aching cock, watching with amusement as it twitched under the featherlight touch. Dottore clenched his jaw tight, his expression souring, but Pantalone only took that as further encouragement. 

“Was any part of that necessary?” Dottore sighed.

“Hmm? Why? Do you have a preference for negligent partners?” 

“I have a preference for—ahhhn...” The Doctor’s head tipped back as Pantalone wrapped a hand around his shaft, giving it a few slickened pumps. “For those who don’t waste my time…”

Suddenly, the hand around his cock stilled. Despite his better wishes, Dottore found himself letting out a groan, his hips bucking towards that retreating hand, his eyes squeezing shut. He could hear Pantalone huff out a laugh, the kind of laugh that made his own ears burn.

“Alright, then. I suppose I’ll stop ‘wasting your time’,” Pantalone chuckled.

Only when he heard the rustling of the sheets and the weight of the mattress slightly shifting did The Doctor open his eyes. Pantalone had twisted his body, leaning forward to rummage through his nightstand. Between his thighs was the Ninth’s own cock, eagerly strained, matching the hardness of his own…or perhaps even more so. It made Dottore unconsciously swallow, unable to tear his gaze away from it.

It was just a physiological response…so why did it make him feel so lightheaded to see such a blatant display of desire?

When Pantalone returned his attention to him, Dottore immediately pried his gaze away, brows furrowed. Again, the banker laughed, his hand coming down to rest on a bare thigh, causing The Doctor to flinch at the feeling of a warm palm caressing his skin. That hand slid higher and higher, slender fingers teasing his flesh, leaving goosebumps in their wake. And just as he felt fingertips brush his perineum—

Dottore shot up, pushing himself upright with a scowl plastered on his face. He knew he probably looked like a fool—his hair sticking to his flushed face, his breaths heavy—but that didn’t stop him from pressing a hand to Pantalone’s chest, staring down his mockery of an innocent expression.

“You said you wouldn’t waste my time, did you not?”

“I was getting to the good part, Doctor.”

“How so?”

“Well…”

Bu-bump. Bu-bump. Bu-bump. 

Dottore’s gaze gravitated downwards as he felt a rhythmic thumping against his palm. Peering down, he stared at his own hand, pressed flush to Pantalone’s chest, right over the banker’s heart. He was so warm, so alive, enough that The Doctor felt cold and desolate in comparison.

And now that his gaze was downcast, he noticed something else.

An unassuming glass vial in the Ninth’s hand, catching the flickering candlelight. A thick, translucent liquid shimmered within its confines, half-empty like it had been recently utilized.

…so, they had finally arrived at this part.

Dottore sighed, extending a palm. “Hand it over, then. Or can you handle the preparation yourself?”

“Oh? So demanding all of a sudden.”

“Don’t treat me like an idiot. This may not be my area of expertise, but even a fool knows you need to be adequately stretched prior to penetration.”

A silence settled between them, and for a moment, Pantalone almost looked baffled. His lips were parted, stunned into a momentary silence, before he burst into raw laughter, his shoulders shaking with it.

“Oh. Oh, that’s charming, Dottore,” Pantalone sighed, amused and delighted. “Is that what you thought this was? That I would so readily spread my legs for you?”

Dottore scowled, baring his teeth. “And what of it?”

With a few residual giggles, Pantalone pushed Dottore flat against the mattress once more, planting a hand beside his head as he crowded him in. He loomed over him, eyes heavily lidded, dark as the Abyss. The laughter had faded, and in its place was a foreboding weight, heavy with lust and desire and hunger.

“You haven’t earned that privilege,” Pantalone spoke, his voice quiet but dangerous, head dipping to allow each word to caress Dottore’s ear. “And unfortunately for you,” a gentle flick to The Doctor’s cockhead punctuated his words, “this won't be of any use to you. Not tonight.”

In that moment, a violent shudder rolled through Dottore, every nerve and synapse lighting up at once in a shocking burst, before dying down into sizzling embers. His cock twitched, a thick collection of precum rolling down the flushed shaft.

“I don’t recall agreeing to that kind of arrangement,” The Doctor hissed.

“Perhaps not with your words, no,” Pantalone hummed. “But here,” his thumb traced under Dottore’s eye, “and here,” then brushed across a stiff nipple, “and certainly here,” finally, across the wet slit of his cock, “all tell a drastically different story.”

The Doctor found himself at a standstill with this beast.

Pantalone was gazing at him with the look of a predator with an out of control prey drive. He looked ravenous, like a rabid dog drooling from its maw, and if Dottore was a lesser man, he might find himself feeling something akin to fear. Yet…all he felt was a gnawing sense of curiosity intermingling with dredges of dread. He was not a man who looked into the eyes of temptation and resisted.

“...and what would you have me do?”

Pantalone beamed with sadistic delight, shaking the little glass vial. “For starters, you could turn over for me…”

“...tch.”

Dottore made sure to make his distaste obvious, both in his verbal response and his facial expression. However, he couldn’t do much about his body language—that had already pathetically betrayed any ounce of resistance he was hoping to keep up. Reluctantly, and with a stiffness that almost seemed mechanical, he turned over onto his stomach, lips pressed into a thin line when he heard the breath Pantalone let out. He pressed his forehead to the cool sheets, squeezing his eyes shut.

He could only imagine what a pitiful sight he made like this.

The sounds that followed painted a picture in his mind’s eye: the soft rustling of the sheets as Pantalone adjusted himself, the faint pop of a stopper being opened, the faint crackling of the surrounding candles…then he started to feel, too. He felt as Pantalone’s hands adjusted his hips, hiking them higher. Felt as he smoothed a hand over the curve of his ass. And then…

“Gh—” Dottore nearly choked on his own saliva as he felt cold wetness trickle down the cleft of his ass, seeping over his hole and dripping down his inner thighs. The muscles in his thighs tensed, and he exhaled slowly before speaking. “A warning would have been nice.”

“Oh? I thought you didn’t want nice, Dottore,” Pantalone sounded far too pleased with himself. “I thought you wanted efficiency.”

This was an unfortunate case where Pantalone was lording his mastery of words and his manipulation of them over him. If there was one thing he was weaker at than Pantalone, it was the art of speech. He always knew just what to say and how to say it, and it never failed to irk The Doctor.

If the Ninth wanted to hem and haw over this ridiculous ordeal, then so be it. 

When Dottore just huffed in lieu of a response, Pantalone proceeded. He set the vial of oil aside before focusing on his prize. He pressed one finger, then two, against that tightly furled entrance, rubbing the pads of them in teasing circles over his hole. The Doctor stiffened further, legs nearly shaking from how tense the muscles were, his hands clenched into tight fists. Nerves fluttered in his gut despite the fact that someone like Dottore should be used to intrusive procedures.

Nervous…hah. Was he truly nervous? The very thought was absurd, and yet, it was hard to deny the instinctual urge to flee flooding his limbs.

“Relax, Zandik,” Pantalone urged. He leaned over the stiff man, pressing his lips to the small of his back, letting his breath fan across the skin. “It will hurt, but you’ll find you won't mind.”

The Doctor maintained his stubborn silence, shuddering with each teasing caress to his hole. He was more focused on the unfamiliar sensations than Pantalone’s words, and the banker didn’t seem to mind one bit. Not an ounce of scolding came from him.

Perhaps that was the last bit of mercy the Ninth was willing to offer tonight.

Dottore braced himself as he felt the barest amount of pressure applied, and then one slender finger was slipping in, invading his body and pushing against any resistance. He let out an unsteady exhale when he felt the digit reach up to the second knuckle, giving a testing wiggle at his insides, and The Doctor had to resist the urge to squirm away from the feeling. There was no pain, not like Pantalone had promised—or threatened—but it certainly didn’t feel amazing.

“There we go,” Pantalone hummed pleasantly. “Your body is practically sucking me in, Doctor. Who knew you’d have such a penchant for this?”

“Ngh…that would be my sphincter you’re feeling.”

“Hm. Perhaps we’ll have to work on your pillow talk another day.”

Another day. Dottore detested how certain Pantalone sounded, like this would not be the only time they engaged in this kind of activity together. Had the man already cemented this would become a repeat occurrence? Or was he simply too distracted to properly phrase his words?

He didn’t have much time to think about it, because soon Pantalone was squeezing in a second finger alongside the first, his rim enveloping the two digits. Still, there was barely a twinge of pain, just a hint of pressure and discomfort—but that mostly came from the Ninth Harbinger’s heated gaze, which he could feel on his back.

Those fingers began to move. Pantalone was clearly being more exploratory than purposeful with his touch—he stroked the pads of his fingers along his inner walls, prodding at both shallow and deeper depths, and as bizarre as it felt, Dottore was too distracted by the obscene squelching noises coming from his own body. The tips of his ears burned in reluctant shame, his head bowing as if he was trying to burrow away from his current situation, hide until it wasn’t his problem anymore.

Distantly, he knew he should have been more aware of what Pantalone was searching for.

“Aahhn—”

Dottore’s eyes widened at the outlandish sound he let out. Higher-pitched, startled, and entirely too wanton. It had left him completely involuntarily, forced out of his throat, and all because Pantalone’s fingers had finally found their target: his prostate. The fingers inside him had stilled after delivering that deliberate press, but The Doctor knew it was only because the man behind him was currently basking in his victory.

“Oh my…I’ve never heard you make such a sound,” Pantalone remarked, his smile audible in his voice. “I’m sure someone as well-versed in the human body as you, Dottore, understands what lovely little spot I just found.”

“Ngh…Pantalone…”

Dottore’s cock gave a feeble twitch as he felt Pantalone’s fingers shift inside of him. That was the only warning he got before the Ninth began to move his fingers in a steady thrusting motion, ensuring the pads of them pressed snugly against that sweet spot with every push inward. Another moan erupted from The Doctor’s throat—too sweet and too wanton for a monster like him—and he quickly swallowed the tail-end of it down, pressing his face into the sheets. 

Again, against his will, he pictured what he must look like. With his face down and ass up, he must be presented like some ridiculous animal in heat, victim to his own biology. Never before had the sound of lubricant ever been so shameful to hear. With each deliberate press of those fingers, each crook and rub, his thighs shook, his knees slipping slightly on the silken sheets.

How horrid. Disgusting, even. How could Pantalone find such a sight pleasant to gaze upon?

He cannot even begin to imagine the other bodies that have warmed this very bed. Likely delicate and soft things, women or men who were subservient and docile. Pretty enough to be paid for. Everything The Doctor was not and would never be.

Dottore panted hotly against the sheets, his throat aching from the force he was swallowing back his noises with. His body put up a fight, but soon Pantalone wriggled a third finger in, too, stirring up his insides further until all he could hear was the shameful, slick sounds of each thrust and the warbled noises trapped in his larynx. He bunched up the sheets in his tight fists, pulling them loose from the edges of the mattress, struggling to grapple with each jolt of sensation traveling up his spine.

Pantalone had promised pain, and cruelly, there was none to be had. In fact, pain would be preferable to this.

“Very good…you’ve taken three of my fingers with no issue. But you’ve always been quite a quick learner, haven’t you?” Pantalone purred, twisting his fingers just to wrench out another sound. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re a man of many talents.”

Horrifyingly, those words made Dottore’s insides seize up around Pantalone’s fingers, his muscles fluttering as sparks of electricity sizzled deep in his gut. His cock gave a more eager twitch, wet and ruddy, as a spurt of precum soaked into the sheets. He groaned loudly, lower lip quivering just the barest amount.

“Oh? Did I hit somewhere good?” The banker cooed.

No, no. Not at all. Well, Pantalone had been hitting everywhere good, but that wasn’t the source of that sudden spike of pleasure. Not in the slightest.

“Zandik,” Pantalone’s voice dropped to something firmer, the nails of his free hand scraping down Dottore’s flank. “I let it slide a few times earlier for your sake, but when I ask you a question, silence isn’t a proper answer.”

Dottore shivered. “At best, it feels like I need to urinate…”

The Doctor barely managed to stifle his groan when Pantalone’s hand came down on his ass, palm cracking against the skin. His muscles clenched tight around the now idle fingers inside of him, precum continuing to drool from the slit of his cock.

“Dishonesty will get you nowhere,” Pantalone chided, smoothing a hand over the stinging flesh.

Thoroughly distracted by the overwhelming collection of sensations coursing through his body, Dottore hardly noticed when Pantalone slipped his fingers free. His hole clenched around nothing, rim slick and glistening from the oil, a drop or two seeping from him and trailing down his thighs. In fact, all his body seemed to recognize was this might be his only reprieve for a while—relaxing just the barest bit as he sucked in breath after breath, trying to steady the subtle shaking of his body.

That all came to a screeching halt when he felt something blunt press against his hole, applying the barest amount of pressure with teasing prods. Dottore tensed up once more, sucking in a sharp breath between his teeth.

“What’s wrong? Not a fan of this position, Doctor?” Pantalone asked, voice brimming with faux-concern.

Their positions were the least of his concerns. In fact, it was probably the only thing going for him. As humiliating as it was, he at least didn’t have to look at Pantalone—and in turn that meant the banker’s view of his face would be obstructed, too. It was nauseating to imagine sharing that kind of connection with someone, so thin and fragile it could break at any moment.

“That implies everything else thus far has been enjoyable,” Dottore snapped.

“And yet it has, hasn’t it?” Pantalone chuckled, pulling at the edge of The Doctor’s wet rim with his thumb. “It’s been awhile since I’ve seen a hole as greedy as this one.”

Fuck. Just hearing Pantalone speak so crudely had Dottore shivering. And he knew Pantalone noticed, because he could feel the hand on his hip tighten its grip, could feel how the man pressed more insistently against him.

“Deep breath in, and then exhale as I push in,” Pantalone instructed, lining himself up properly.

“Don’t patronize me,” Dottore gritted out through his teeth.

“I was not—” Pantalone began to say, but cut himself off, his words being swallowed by a tight smile. “You know, I really was going to be nice with you, Dottore.”

Was.

Dottore caught that little word. How much it implied. The way Pantalone’s tone strained into something genuinely irritated beneath that polite façade, the way the air shifted in the room, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end.

And with one firm thrust—not waiting for Dottore to breathe as instructed—Pantalone pushed in, sliding his cock inside that tight hole until he was as deep as he could possibly go.

Dottore’s jaw dropped open, though no sound escaped him. He had to clutch at the padding of the mattress itself just to avoid being shoved up the bed. A searing fullness engulfed him with overwhelming suddenty, pressure and pain intermingling into a concoction of raw sensation. This was the hurt that Pantalone had promised. It felt as if his insides were struggling to accommodate the girth that the Ninth had bullied inside of him, pressing against all sorts of untouched spots, and The Doctor’s entire body quivered with it.

Beneath it were the subtle sparks of pleasure trickling in, an undercurrent that did not soothe the pain, but amplified it. Pantalone’s cock filled him to the brim, the curve of it resting snug against his prostate, the constant pressure agonizing, beckoning him to squirm and writhe.

“Stunned speechless, are you?” Pantalone mocked, giving a shallow thrust to punctuate his words. “Not to worry, Doctor. I encourage you to be as vocal as you please.”

It was hard to believe he was in a situation as absurd as this. Pantalone, a man several ranks beneath him—a man who relied on him to live—mounting him like some feral beast. He felt no better than an animal, primitive and insatiable, tremors running through his body as he scrambled to adjust.

Pantalone did not give him the opportunity.

He tilted his hips back, sliding out until only the tip of his cock remained inside, as if delighting in how Dottore’s rim clung to him. Then he gripped The Doctor’s hips, digging his nails in as he rammed deep inside, pulling the Second into the thrust with a pleased sigh.

Dottore let out a loud, drawn-out groan into the sheets, muffled and tormented. His mind reeled as something deep inside him throbbed, matching the frantic rhythm of his heart. Even the smallest shift from Pantalone had him writhing, only to be held in place by the man’s firm grip. The thought of having bruises in the shape of Pantalone’s hands on his hips was a dizzying one.

“I must say, it truly is an honor to be the first to take you like this,” Pantalone spoke, beginning to rock his hips in a smooth, steady rhythm. “Although I am surprised you haven’t whored yourself out in the past, what with your incessant need for more and more Mora.”

“My body—ngh…!” Dottore nearly bit his tongue as he was rocked by a particularly rough thrust. “My body has…gh…better uses…”

Pantalone laughed, the sound breathy and relaxed. “Is that so? I’ll have to disagree…” He leaned forward, body cloaking The Doctor’s. “You’re practically sucking me in, Dottore. You’re unbelievably greedy…every time I pull out, it feels like your body can't bear to let me go.”

The banker licked a slow line up the bumps of Dottore’s spine, stopping at the nape of his neck to lightly sink his teeth into the reddened flesh, as he planned on clamping his jaw down at any moment just to pin the Second by his scruff.

As degrading as the words and treatment were, Dottore’s body reacted as if the opposite of true. It reacted as if he were being praised with the utmost reverence, tingles running down his limbs as heat wound tighter and tighter in his gut. It didn’t help that with each thrust, the initial burn of the stretch was slowly fading, being replaced with a type of pleasure that felt mind-numbing in its novelty. 

His own cock hung heavy between his legs, drooling and practically begging for attention. Pantalone ignored it, even going so far as to raise Dottore’s hips if he got low enough to be able to rut against the sheets. Every little touch, action, or word felt calculated in its cruelty. 

And as familiar as he was with pain, The Doctor was not used to pleasure.

Each moan that wasn’t stifled in time was steadily rising in pitch as the heat in his belly seemed to grow endlessly, stroke after stroke right over his sweetest spots. Muffling his moans into the sheets wasn’t helping much, either—not when every huff he took had him inhaling an aroma that belonged solely to Pantalone.

It became grueling torture when his mind unhelpfully supplied to him that scent alone wasn’t the only thing he was surrounded by. Pantalone’s touch, his gaze, his marks. Everything enveloping him belonged to the Ninth. It was the most obvious of claims, to be branded from the inside and out, and he hadn’t even realized it until now.

A sense of panic suddenly struck him, making his entire body tense, enough that Pantalone let out a groan at the sudden vice grip around his cock. The panic didn’t derive from fear, necessarily, but the creeping realization that this might be something he could never come back from.

When Pantalone’s next thrust came, Dottore tried to squirm away from it. He grasped and clawed at the sheets, attempting to wrench himself from the banker’s grip, but those nails just sank in deeper. A frustrated noise escaped him, mixing with a gasping moan, before The Doctor tried to thrash, kicking one of his legs back to hopefully knock the Ninth off.

That move did anything but help the predicament he was trying to escape.

Instead, Pantalone braced himself against the mattress with one hand, his other diving down and gripping Dottore’s neck in a tight hold, pinning him down. The Doctor’s cheek smushed against the bed, and as he squinted through tears he hadn’t even noticed had built up until then, that’s when he noticed it.

The brief glimpse of a purple glow atop the nightstand.

The realization hit him far too late, for lightning always struck faster than the mind could process. Pantalone’s fingers pressed into the sides of his neck, squeezed, and then came the burst of electricity. It was sharp, sudden, and overwhelming in its intensity—sparks that started in his throat and radiated outward, zipping up and down his spine. A shock collar that consisted entirely of the Ninth’s hand.

Dottore tensed, his muscles locking up as the electricity coursed through him, eyes widening and eyelashes fluttering. His legs shook violently, his abdomen quivering as his mouth dropped open, a garbled sound leaving him. He could feel the deepest parts of him twitching with the residual electricity, his limbs tingling and his mind buzzing. 

When Pantalone finally let go, his entire body slumped forward into a shivering heap, twitches and spasms still racking his muscles. The banker’s steady thrusts tapered off into a slow grind of his hips, as if to relish in the manufactured fluttering of those tight inner walls. The Doctor let out wavering noises, small ‘ah-ah-ah’s that sounded wounded.

“Mm. That was supposed to be a punishment, you know,” Pantalone murmured, his admonishment underscored by sadistic delight. “Truly, what were you thinking, kicking and thrashing like that?”

Dottore let out a groan, barely processing the Ninth’s words as he blinked away the sparks dancing in his vision. His entire lower half was still tingling, a deep, shuddering current making waves deep in his belly. It was like he had been suspended in a sudden high, endorphins and dopamine consuming him whole.

“Zandik,” Pantalone purred, and only then did Dottore flinch upon realizing the banker was talking directly by his ear. “Look…”

A firm hand gripped Dottore’s jaw, fingers pinching his cheeks as his head was tilted down. The movement caused a few of the tears clinging to his lashes to drop, falling silently onto the sheets. The sight he was met with was a humiliating one.

He could see the muscles in his abdomen quivering, contracting with the aftershocks coursing through him. Pantalone’s thighs were pressed right up against the backs of his, and between them…his cock was flushed and weeping, cum dripping from the tip, occasional twitches causing more to spill and join the mess of his release smeared across the sheets.

“You are exceptionally talented as far as whores go,” Pantalone murmured. “I barely have to do a thing, and your body responds so eagerly. Are you truly a virgin, Dottore, or have I just found all the right buttons to press?”

Dottore remained quiet, panting heavily, each breath shaky and thin. He just stared. Stared at his own debauchery, at the evidence of his body’s receptiveness slowly dripping from him. How his legs quaked, how Pantalone’s cock rested deep inside, how he hadn’t even realized he had reached a climax—too much sensation at once that his mind hadn’t been able to properly categorize it all. But now in the aftermath he could certainly feel it. The lingering pulses of pleasure resounding in his core, the sensitivity racking every nerve in his body…

The Doctor’s scattered thoughts were interrupted by a breathy whine that escaped him—so unlike how he usually sounded—when Pantalone pulled out.

Only mere seconds later was Pantalone’s hand on his flank, pushing him over and onto his side so he could lay flat on his back. Out of some sort of instinctive need for self-preservation, Dottore shielded his face with his trembling arms, coughing weakly into them.

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Pantalone crooned, grabbing Dottore’s wrists and prying his arms away, pinning them down. “What’s wrong? Are you ashamed?”

The Ninth sounded anything but sympathetic, but The Doctor didn’t try to cover his face again. Just weakly glared up at him, lips wet with saliva and parted around shaky breaths, tears clinging stubbornly to his lashes and blurring his vision.

“Oh dear. You’re crying,” Pantalone continued, leaning in until their noses almost touched. “Did it feel that good, hm?” He dragged his tongue along Dottore’s cheek, licking up a trail of tears, huffing a laugh against the flushed skin when he felt the Second’s nose scrunch.

“I feel disgusting…” Dottore crooked, turning his head away.

“You do look rather tormented,” Pantalone’s smile was far too pleased. “You’ll have to bear with me, Dottore. I didn’t go through all this trouble just to not get off myself.”

Before The Doctor could even protest, Pantalone shifted forward and aligned his cock with that now sloppy hole, the ease in smoother the second time around. He let out a satisfied sigh once he completely bottomed out, grinding in small circles to savor the velvety warmth.

Dottore was not as pleased—at least, that’s what he wanted to think. His thighs clamped against Pantalone’s hips, still shaking as he reached above him with one hand to grasp the pillow beneath his head. He returned to making little punched-out noises, pitiful and whiny, cock twitching against his trembling stomach with each deep grind. It was pressing all his sensitive spots, and oh fuck—being able to see Pantalone’s face—

His hair was tousled and strands were messily drawn across his face, which was lightly flushed and slightly damp from exertion. His lips were red like he had been biting them, his eyes dark and heavily-lidded as he reaped the rewards of his hunt. 

Dottore squeezed his eyes shut as Pantalone picked up his pace, going from deep grinds to hard and fast thrusts, skin slapping against skin. Handling the agonizing pleasure being jackhammered into his still-recovering body was one thing, but seeing Feofan look at him like that? Like all he was to him was Zandik?

It made bile rise in his throat. Or maybe that was just an after effect of getting electrocuted.

“Ah—ah, n-not—not there—“ Dottore gasped out, his trying to tilt away from the constant stimulation, his every nerve singing with oversensitivity. “M’not—“

“You’re fine,” Pantalone shushed, his rhythm never faltering. His brow furrowed as the pressure built. “Clearly, it’s not too much if you can still talk…”

Yet it was too much. It was so, so much. Endless and tortuous, each thrust sending jolts up his spine, painful in their pleasure. He could stand being cut open, thrown aside, beaten, ostracized…

But this?

Pleasure was not something he had ever known. His life had always been endless cycles of apathy or curiosity that only provided the same comforts a scorpion could provide its young. The barest amount of stress on these fragile cycles would only end in a feast.

Even worse was to feel pleasure so intense it circled all the way back to pain, and then around again. A cruel merry-go-round his body struggled to acclimate to.

Another spurt of cum was wrung out of Dottore, dribbling down his cock, which looked one featherlight brush away from bursting. He was flushed from head to toe, a pathetic mess, grasping at the pillow beneath him like it could stop the heat consuming him. His toes curled, the muscles in his stomach spasmed, and he choked out the closest thing to a sob his throat would allow.

“Feo—Feofan—“ Dottore gasped, legs knocking against Pantalone’s sides with every increasingly rough thrust. 

Pantalone let out a particularly loud groan at the sound of his name on The Doctor’s lips, desperate, a plea or maybe—and how ridiculous it would be—a prayer. He didn’t respond, too focused on chasing his own release now, slamming deep with every thrust until it was guaranteed that Dottore’s untouched insides would only accept him.

How fitting that he was tainting the only part of the man that had still remained pure.

Finally, the Ninth’s hips gave a telltale stutter, and in seconds he was climaxing. He drove himself as deep as he could feasibly go, gripping Dottore’s hips tight to hold him in place as he spilled inside him, pulse after pulse of hot cum marking his insides. He let out a shaky breath of relief and satisfaction, giving a few shallow thrusts just to pump his cum deeper—greedy.

A moment of silence passed between them, only filled with their shared breaths and the lingering crackling of any candles that had not gone out yet. Pantalone kept himself nestled deep inside, savoring the fluttering of Dottore’s insides, as if The Doctor was begging for more.

Maybe he was. Dottore couldn’t tell anymore. He couldn’t tell left from right, up from down. He couldn’t tell who he was or what he wanted anymore. He just knew, somehow, this had changed everything between them. 

And for some bizarre reason, the thought comforted him. Like he had staked a claim on Pantalone he hadn’t realized he wanted to establish until after it was done.

“Dottore?”

Dottore blinked sluggishly, staring off distantly as he panted. “...what?”

“Ah, no, nothing,” Pantalone shook his head, slowly pulling out now that they had both come down a bit from their respective highs. “Let’s get you cleaned up. I can’t have you making more of a mess on these sheets.”

Dottore stared in silence as Pantalone slid off the bed, reaching for his robe and carelessly tugging it on as he made his way toward the bathroom. He watched him go with a distant sort of fogginess, like Regrator was just a figment of his imagination, disappearing behind a veil. Everything felt surreal, backwards, like something in his brain had been rewired in just the span of an hour.

The Doctor’s gaze slowly turned to the ceiling. 

He could feel his legs still shaking. He could a wet stickiness between his thighs, slowly seeping out from him. He could feel his heart hammering against his ribcage, feel his pulse roaring in his ears. He could feel.

…What had Pantalone done to him?