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The future was not something Il Dottore dwelled on for long.
No single man, not even he, could ever hope to know with absolute certainty how he would react to events that have not yet occurred. These have been, and always will be, left as hypotheticals for a version of himself not yet born to handle.
And yet, as he observed a Segment packaging up a freshly concocted batch of elixirs, he could not convince himself this was a hypothetical. It just was.
He had found a camaraderie in Pantalone that he had not found in anyone else. A similar ambition, worldview, existence. The idea of being controlled by fate irked him, but he could not help but wonder if he should commend fate for bringing them together. And yet that sentiment was squashed when it, in turn, meant they were destined to die together, too. Knowing that he had ultimately made himself his dearest friend’s executioner made it easier to resent the world.
And knowing that there was anyone in Teyvat he could even consider his ‘dearest friend’ made that realization even more bitter.
Could this be likened to the concept of a soulmate? Or perhaps he had simply grown too used to Pantalone’s presence. Several centuries was a long time to spend with another, after all. They had accompanied each other through several stages of life. What was a few more?
He heard the hiss of his laboratory doors as they slid shut, the sound startling him out of his spiral. He caught the brief glimpse of a Segment carrying out a wooden crate, packed with the freshly concocted elixirs. Another year or so of borrowed time, distilled down to a simple fluid.
Loathsome. Fleeting. Fickle.
With a sigh, Dottore reached out and turned the brass valve on a primary burner. The blue flame shrank, flickered, and then died. The scent of synthesized longevity still hung thick in the air, clinging to the back of his throat no matter how many times he swallowed. It tasted bitter.
For weeks, his mind had been searching for an answer. To understand if what he wanted was to preserve Pantalone, or save him. To know in his final moments that Pantalone had a continued existence guaranteed for him, or to lock him up and hide him away and protect such a fragile man.
He hadn’t cured anything. He had only prolonged the inevitable.
A batch was only good for a year, maybe more. Without a consistent supply of the elixir, degradation would begin. The artificial lifeline he had woven into Pantalone’s veins would start to fray. If Dottore were to die tomorrow, the sand of the hourglass he had imbedded into Pantalone would begin to pour.
In his mind’s eye, he saw his own death occurring first. It was an inevitability he had always accepted yet loathed. Most would think him too stubborn to even anticipate his own death, and they were not entirely wrong. But now, the thoughts continued past his own demise. Dying alone, or even as a spectacle, always seemed the most likely. But now he envisioned a death that only Pantalone bore witness to.
He also envisioned the years that would follow once his absence was bestowed upon Teyvat. No Zandik, no Segments.
The remaining elixirs would keep Pantalone steady for as long as the supply lasted. Perhaps in preparation he’d leave him with enough to last a few years, give or take. But it would be a drop of water in the ocean that had been the Ninth’s artificial longevity. A few years was all Dottore could offer once he was gone.
Without the elixir, the human body would realize it had been deceived for decades. The cellular fatigue would set in. First to go would be fine motor skills, leaving Pantalone unable to hold a pen. Then that sharp, brilliant mind would blur under the fog of oxygen deprivation as his heart forgot how to beat on its own.
Dottore felt rather pathetic like this. He was grieving a man who was, at this very moment, alive and well(ish). He was imagining a funeral that he wouldn’t even witness, trapped in a loop of anticipatory sorrow that no drugs could soothe. He had conquered mortality, something that ailed a majority of lifeforms, but his efforts were only fruitful with constant upkeep.
Pantalone’s death would not be bloody and swift when it came. It would be slow and agonizing. It would be human. A humbling death for a less than humble man.
How fucking pitiful indeed.
That pitifulness morphed into something akin to melancholy mere days later, when he had joined the Ninth while he was indulging in his afternoon tea. The drawing room was bathed in an amber glow that seeped through the windows, aided by the twinkling lighting of an opulent chandelier.
Sometimes, Dottore joined him for tea. They would talk about future projects, complain about their coworkers, even debate when they were particularly hungry for mental stimulation.
The one thing they never did was sit in complete silence during these breaks.
Pantalone sat in a plush chair, one leg crossed over the other. A porcelain cup of tea was held in his hand, the steam curling in lazy tendrils. Across the room, The Doctor sat on the bench of a grand piano. His posture was surprisingly relaxed, his gloved fingers gliding across the keys.
The melody he played wasn’t anything traditional. It was a series of cascading notes, soft chimes with abrupt ends. Any halfwit could pick up sheet music and play in accordance to the notes, but Dottore preferred to let his fingers fall where they pleased.
Pantalone leaned his head back, taking the sight in like a particularly enraptured audience member. Like this whole spectacle was a private show just for him—and in a way, it was.
“Mm. You’re rushing the tempo, in my opinion,” Pantalone murmured, his voice soft, barely audible over the music. “Slow down a bit.”
Dottore didn’t stop, but the corner of his mouth twitched, giving away that he had heard the man. His fingers struck the keys harder, the vibrations of each impact resounding with every note, a rebellion against the audacious demand.
Slow down? How could he—
“Dottore,” the banker spoke once more—his voice soft, but firmer. “Play it again. Slower. I would like to hear it breathe.”
The Doctor’s fingers paused for a fraction of a second, then softened their pressure. The music shifted, becoming lighter, the notes lingering longer in the air. He did not utter a word, but he could feel Pantalone’s satisfaction that he had listened.
For these few minutes the inevitability of death...felt like a distant threat. Something that happens to other people in other lifetimes, never to them. His shoulders shifted during movements where he pressed the keys harder, when the feeling of dread snagged him, then the blows would soften when he would hear Pantalone take another sip of his tea. With each subtle reminder of the Ninth’s presence, his body would instinctively relax.
Perhaps that is why dying first would be preferable. He was sure his muscles would snap from the tension of being wound too tight if he were to succeed Pantalone.
Pathetic, his thoughts sneered at him. Since when did you NEED anyone?
He feared death, but he feared rejection more. Well, it was not quite accurate to describe it as fear. It was resentment, longing, spite, desperation...it was everything he was fueled by and chained down to. His mind was a lock, and his heart was the key, but one could not reach the other without first removing them.
And the human body typically did not react well to having organs removed.
There was always a modicum of something unsettling that bubbled up within him when he was reminded that Pantalone’s existence was his choice. He was a man responsible for taking a great many lives, but rarely did he nurture one so closely.
Soon, the notes began to taper, gradually becoming sparser until the music faded into the final chord. Pantalone did not give silence a moment to settle over the room.
“What inspired this particular piece, Doctor?”
Dottore didn’t turn around immediately. He kept his fingers resting on the keys, his head tilted down. “I was thinking about the concept of a grand finale,” he said, his voice calm and thoughtful. “How every melody must eventually reach a resolution, or it isn’t music at all. It’s only persistent noise.”
Pantalone set his cup down and stood up, his steps slow and measured as he walked over to the piano. He reached out, resting a hand on Dottore’s shoulder, his grip tightening just barely when The Doctor tensed.
“How cynical,” the Ninth remarked, letting his hand drop away, only to step around the bench and take a seat beside Dottore, urging him to scoot over. “I can think of a few noises that are like music to me.”
“I’m sure.”
Pantalone lifted his hands, resting his fingers against the keys on his half. He played a simple chord, testing the waters, before glancing at the man beside him.
“Do you have time for an encore?” The banker asked.
Dottore exhaled, staring at Pantalone. There was an underlying meaning to those words, he knew, but at the moment he could not bring himself to search deeper for it. The present moment was real and his, and the future was nothing but a hypothetical yet to be realized.
Slowly raising his hands, The Doctor positioned his fingers on the keys, giving a short nod. Something inside him ached.
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” he said, despite the fact it very much did.
The examination room in The Doctor’s lab was always kept a few degrees warmer, a concession Dottore made solely to keep Pantalone from shivering during his annual evaluations.
Pantalone sat on the edge of the examination table, his shirt unbuttoned to the waist. His chest rose and fell steadily, and neither Harbinger drew attention to the Ninth’s skin now on display. They had seen each other bare more times than either of them wanted to admit to.
He had seen the Ninth on this very same table time and time again. For routine check-ups, for more pressing concerns...each decade brought with it new problems to fix in a body that was never meant for immortality.
Dottore pressed two fingers against the side of Pantalone’s neck. He didn’t use a stethoscope, just to feel the physical pulse of the artery beneath the skin. Call him selfish, but it was a habit that he had been developing as the years went by.
“Your heart rate is elevated,” he observed. “Three beats higher than last week’s baseline.”
“Perhaps I am simply excited to be the subject of your undivided attention, Doctor,” Pantalone replied, leaning back slightly on his hands. His eyes, half-lidded behind his glasses, tracked the movement of Dottore’s hand.
Dottore did not laugh. His fingers pressed down further, just enough on Pantalone’s throat to feel the calm, steady pulse beneath them. It was a healthy rhythm—no abnormalities to be discerned, yet The Doctor still felt as if he were tracking the ticks of a winding clock instead. The artificial catalyst of the elixir forced the muscles of his heart to contract; nothing more, nothing less.
“Hm. The elixir is impacting your cognition more than I thought.”
The Ninth hummed. “Truly? I cannot joke without you wanting to cut me open?”
“Any discrepancies are noteworthy,” Dottore said, his tone dropping a bit lower. “Are you exerting yourself? Have you been leaving the capital without my knowledge?”
“Oh? I hadn’t realized I was meant to report my daily activities to you, Dottore.” Pantalone reached up, his slender fingers wrapping around the other man’s gloved wrist, gently pulling The Doctor’s hand away from his throat. “Do not look at me as if I am a failing machine. I am alive and well.”
...Is that so?
“Because I am allowing you to be,” The Doctor suddenly snapped, pulling his hand back with a sharp jerk. He turned away, pacing toward a tray of surgical instruments, his lab coat billowing behind him. “You are a fragile, fleeting thing playing at permanence. Every journey you take, every illness or injury you sustain, chips away at the foundation I built for you. If you break it beyond my repair—”
“Then I die.” Pantalone interrupted smoothly.
The banker’s voice was devoid of fear. He began to button his shirt, his movements slow and calm. He acted as if he had all the time in the world...if only most of it wasn’t borrowed.
“We have established this, dear Doctor. You provide me with time, I provide you with funds. Why does this suddenly trouble you?”
Dottore stared at the row of surgical tools, his reflection distorted in the polished steel. It truly shouldn’t bother him. This exchange between them had always been mutually beneficial.
Perhaps that should soothe him. Perhaps it should even satisfy him to know that the Ninth’s death would be his choice, no matter how inadvertently. That if Pantalone did indeed have to die, his death would be a consequence of their relationship, a transaction that could no longer sustain itself without the mutual exchange between both parties.
Hah...how very fitting indeed.
It was not like him to get so emotional. At least, not openly. His compassion for others had left him when he was a child, along with anything that resembled trust or empathy. And yet, Pantalone was always the exception. He was the one variable he could never truly predict, the only facet of his existence that had him questioning the sacrifices he made for progress.
“Your...death would be rather inconvenient,” The Doctor settled on, his voice losing much of its previous edge. “I’m just requesting you be a bit more careful with the mortality I help you maintain.”
“Is that all?” Pantalone asked, tilting his head, observing the Second with eyes that always picked up on too much. “You seem as if you want to say more.”
“Yes, actually. Regarding your smoking habits...”
“Oh, there you go, deflecting again,” the banker sighed theatrically, pushing himself off of the examination table. He reached for his coat, beginning to pull it on. “If anything will kill me, I can assure you, it won’t be my vices.”
“No, I suppose it would be mine.”
“Hm? Did you say something, Doctor?”
“...Ah, never mind. I was just thinking about how tedious it would be to have to transplant your lungs a second time.”
Pantalone’s smile thinned. “Very funny.”
“I’m sure the hilarity will be all the more obvious when you’re back in an operating theater again.”
This felt more comfortable. The back-and-forth. Where they didn’t have to acknowledge the future, and simply exist in their natural states. Yet instead of finding relief in the familiarity, The Doctor felt what he could only describe as preemptive grief.
Grief. Since when did he feel such a thing?
“Mm. Let’s not forget I’ve seen you die, Dottore,” Pantalone remarked, his voice far too casual for the weight of his words. “If we’re keeping score, you’re worse off than me.”
“Seems unfair. There are more of me to die.”
“Perhaps you should be considering who that is most unfair to,” the banker said pointedly, giving The Doctor a look that seemed both bitter and resigned. “You know where to find me, Doctor.”
With that, Pantalone adjusted his coat and stepped away, not sparing a glance back towards the Second Harbinger as he left the room.
Dottore found himself seeking out Pantalone barely two days later.
The night was deep, and a blizzard howled against the windows of Pantalone’s office. A fire was lit in the hearth, driving away the cold.
Dottore had entered without knocking—a habit Pantalone had long ceased trying to correct. The Doctor did not take a seat, and instead found himself staring at the banker from the center of the room.
“I submitted a request for additional funding,” Dottore said abruptly, breaking the silence.
Pantalone looked up from his paperwork, his gold-nibbed pen paused mid-stroke. “Oh? Another Segment? Or a new toy for the front lines?”
“A solution,” the Second claimed. “A permanent solution for your body’s degradation. If we start with a blank slate—such as the infusion of a localized Khemia matrix—we can eliminate the need for the elixirs entirely. You would no longer be dependent on my supply.”
Pantalone slowly lowered his pen. The fire crackled, filling the sudden tension in the room.
“Khemia,” Pantalone echoed flatly. “You’re resorting to alchemy?”
“I’m giving you a choice,” Dottore corrected, stepping forward, his hands gesturing widely. “I want to remove that single point of weakness. If something happens to me, the matrix would self-sustain. You would survive. Indefinitely.”
“That’s impossible, Doctor. I’m not doubting your intelligence, but even a man with your arrogance should be more aware of his capabilities.”
Dottore’s jaw tightened. Yes, what Pantalone was saying was undeniably true. He was far from a master of the Art of Khemia, and even if he was, such a complex process guaranteed no certainty. But he was no stranger to the creation of life. He had proved time and time again there was no path he wouldn’t tread, no topic he would not research extensively.
Pantalone stood up from his desk. He walked around the mahogany tabletop until he stood directly in front of The Doctor. His expression was unreadable, and his smile was entirely gone.
“What is this truly about, Dottore?” The banker asked. “I know you, and I know that this is not a simple act of generosity.”
“You don’t wish for eternal life?” Dottore rebutted, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat, smoothing out his tone. “That is all that matters. You would exist.”
“No, I understood your point. What I don’t understand is where any of it is coming from.”
“Is your hearing starting to go now, too? I think I’m being perfectly clear—”
“Zandik.”
Dottore froze as he felt a pair of hands rest on the sides of his arms, firm but not rough. His breath stalled in his chest, every muscle winding tight on reflex. Pantalone stared at him, those lightless eyes trying to peer into his own through the mask.
“I am a banker, Doctor. I know the value of things. A life spent as a hollow, reanimated puppet frankly sounds miserable.” The Ninth tilted his head. “Are you dying?”
The Doctor’s sharp teeth worried into his bottom lip. “Not presently.”
“You speak as if you have already planned your death.”
Pantalone was simply too perceptive for his own good. It was one of the man’s many talents that fascinated Dottore from the very first time they met. Masks were pointless to wear around him—they did very little to hide his true thoughts.
“…It is merely a hypothetical, Pantalone.”
“Well, you could have fooled me, the way you were treating it with such desperate certainty.”
Before Dottore could respond, Pantalone raised his hands and hooked his fingers under the sharp edges of The Doctor’s mask. He carefully peeled the obstruction away, setting the mask down on his desk with a quiet clink. Dottore could do nothing but stare, stubbornly silent, a heart that wasn’t entirely human hammering against his rib cage.
“Feo—”
“Dottore,” the banker interjected sharply, before his expression shifted to a pleasant, if woefully insincere, one. “Come here.”
The Doctor recognized that tone. It was a warning and an invitation all in one—Pantalone was giving him an out. He was extending an olive branch, offering a distraction, an excuse not to let this moment slip into something that should remain unvoiced.
This was their ‘normal’. No declarations, minimal sentimentality. Everything boiled down to a transaction to burn away the rot of their respective days.
There was a cruel comfort in the predictability of it. Too predictable. As if it were a trap.
Pantalone took a seat at his desk, leaning back in his chair like an open invitation. He widened his legs, gave a few pats to his thigh, and then rested his forearms on the armrests—waiting, but not patiently.
Dottore found himself taking the first few steps forward before he could stop himself.
He closed the distance between them, bracing his hands against the backrest of the chair. He planted one knee on the edge of the seat, then the other, until he was situated over Pantalone’s lap. His hands smoothed down along the seams of the leather upholstery, coming down to rest on the banker’s shoulders.
Pantalone’s hands took the opportunity to move as well, planting themselves on The Doctor’s tense thighs and sliding up to grip his hips. He gave a light squeeze, as if he were appraising an item’s value.
“First drawer on the right, Doctor,” the banker murmured, untucking Dottore’s shirt from his waistband.
Dottore’s lips thinned, but he didn’t argue. He twisted his upper body and turned just enough to lean back and slide open one of the desk drawers, pushing aside the stationery within.
Just as his fingers grasped the unassuming vial of oil hidden near the back of the drawer, The Doctor nearly jolted out of his skin at the feeling of soft lips pressing just below his navel. He felt himself nearly lose balance, having to quickly grasp the edge of the desk just to prevent himself from completely tipping back. His grip around the vial tightened and he sucked a sharp breath through his teeth, snapping his head back toward Pantalone.
“Are you trying to concuss me?” Dottore accused.
“And if I was?” Pantalone replied, nosing down the line of the other man’s abdomen. “You’ve never complained about a bit of rough handling before.”
And wasn’t that the truth. While the Second Harbinger could run his mouth and give his fair share of token protests and unnecessary comments, he never truly fought Pantalone’s harsh words and harsher hands.
This was the same man he let whip him, slap him, manhandle and mark him. Someone who relied on him to live, yet acted as if the complete opposite was true.
Maybe it was.
Pantalone hummed as he popped open a few buttons of Dottore’s shirt, exposing more of his pale stomach, muscles wound tight. Without even needing to look up, he took the vial from The Doctor’s hand, pushing his thumb into the edge of the stopper and popping it off.
“I’m not going to try and catch you, Dottore, so keep yourself upright,” the Ninth instructed, leaning back in his seat.
“Part of me thinks you’re just looking for an excuse to do this on the floor,” The Doctor mumbled, even as his hands moved to grip the armrests to anchor himself in place.
Pantalone let out a thoughtful sound, but didn’t comment. Instead, he let the viscous liquid from the vial spill out over his gloved fingers, careful to avoid letting any of it drip onto his clothes. He let the vial fall to the ground, the glass jostling against the floor with a few clinks before rolling to a stop.
The banker’s dry hand gripped Dottore’s hip, keeping him steady while the other crept south, slick fingers slipping past The Doctor’s waistband. The movement shucked the fabric down until his pants and underwear were lowered to his mid-thighs, allowing those wandering fingers to brush teasingly over his cock and along his perinium. Dottore grimaced at the cold, wet feeling of the lubricant smearing over his skin, tensing up once he felt a fingertip lightly press against his rim.
“I’ll let you come as you please, but just be aware I don’t plan on offering a change of clothes if you dirty these ones,” Pantalone murmured, that hint of sadistic anticipation seeping into his tone.
“I expect—aah-hh—” Dottore’s voice pitched up as Pantalone pushed a finger in mid-sentence, a shiver running down his spine. He swallowed, steadying himself before continuing. “I expected nothing less…”
It was interesting how often their more vulnerable conversations led to this kind of intimacy. Almost as if neither of them were willing to confront what was being left unsaid with words, and resorted to their bodies as a form of communication.
A pity that it was a flimsy excuse at best, that The Doctor was aware of.
That one finger quickly became two, lazily thrusting in and out. It varied depending on Pantalone’s mood, but more often than not foreplay was skipped and preparation was kept to the bare minimum, so it was always jarring when the Ninth took his time during this stage.
Why now, of all times?
Dottore shivered when he felt those skilled fingers graze his prostate, his hips giving the slightest jerk at the touch. The slick sounds of the oil made the tips of his ears burn, and he forcibly exhaled a slow, shaky breath. Pantalone laughed quietly, but didn’t stop.
In fact, it felt like quite the opposite. Those fingers sped up, pushing deeper, the banker’s palm pressed against his perinium. The Doctor’s lower half quaked, a tremor running through his legs before his hands moved to grip Pantalone’s shoulders, upper-body curling inwards. His cock was beginning to ache, neglected and throbbing between them, twitching with each well-aimed press to his prostate.
Heat pooled low in his belly, winding tighter and tighter at a terrifyingly fast rate. Dottore’s hips arched away, trying to ease the constant stimulation, but Pantalone wrenched them back forward with a disapproving tut.
“A-Ah, wait, Panta—lone…” Dottore grit his teeth, his fingers tightening against the other man’s shoulders, bunching up the fabric. “Why are you…”
“Hm? Why am I what?”
“Your…gh…fingers…”
“What a pity…your voice is shaking so badly, I can hardly understand you,” Pantalone replied with mock sympathy in his voice, completely disregarding the fact The Doctor’s words were perfectly coherent.
Dottore shot the other man a glare, which was quickly smothered as his eyes squeezed shut as electricity shot up his spine. He sunk sharp teeth into his bottom lip, muffling a groan as his head dipped forward. Pantalone’s fingers were relentless, keeping a steady rhythm that threatened to have him barreling towards an orgasm all too soon.
Another thing The Doctor noticed was that the banker was only using two fingers. Not that he necessarily needed more than that, but it was clear the Ninth was forgoing his usual preference for quick preparation just for Dottore’s pleasure.
Which was odd. Very odd.
A particularly hard press against his prostate had his stomach clenching tightly, a wet gasp escaping him. That telltale pressure was starting to build, but something was preventing him from finishing.
“Oh? You tightened up just now,” Pantalone casually remarked, eyes dark and half-lidded as he gazed down at The Doctor’s cock, ruddy and dripping with precum. “Are you close?”
“Nhh…no.”
“No? I’m not certain I believe that.”
Pantalone was right not to believe him. He was close. Very, very close. So close that it was almost painful how stubborn his own body was being, keeping him precariously dangled on the edge like this.
It wasn’t hard for him to figure out why. The last week of his life had been spent agonizing over the control he had over Pantalone—something he should find both advantageous and satisfying—and now his body was refusing to budge unless it was something the Ninth Harbinger permitted.
Subconsciously, he had been waiting for permission. How pathetic was that? Unbearably so, but considering The Doctor practically held Pantalone’s life in his hands, it was far from an unfair trade-off.
He forced himself to swallow a wavering moan.
“Can I…” Dottore struggled to get the words out without getting interrupted by a moan or gasp, a tremor building in his thighs. “Can I—ah—come?”
Pantalone’s eyes snapped up to the other man’s face, the faintest hint of surprise visible in his expression. As if he couldn’t believe the Second Harbinger was so easily surrendering.
“I already gave you permission, Dottore.”
“I—I’m aware,” The Doctor hissed, growing frustrated. “Can I?”
The banker fell silent for a moment, feigning contemplation, ignoring Dottore’s intense gaze on him. He hummed thoughtfully, his fingers continued to move, right until it looked like The Doctor’s cock was fit to burst.
“You may,” Pantalone finally said, a pleased lilt to his voice.
And just like that, the invisible barrier vanished. The second the Ninth granted him permission, it only took a few more strokes against his inner walls before the tension in his gut finally peaked. His nerves sung in relief, a drawn-out groan leaving his lips as his head tipped down towards his chest.
His cock throbbed with the continued ministrations of Pantalone’s fingers, prolonging his orgasm, cum spilling out in pulses. The Doctor’s hips twitched and twisted slightly, trying to escape the continued stimulation, but the banker’s hand held firm for a few more seconds. Finally, those fingers came to a stop inside of him, letting the last of his high ebb away naturally.
Dottore panted heavily, bracing his hands against the backrest of the chair as he caught his breath, hair veiling his face as his head hung low. His thighs ached from how tense the muscles had been, and residual pulses of pleasure lingered in his belly. He felt Pantalone’s fingers slip out of him, a string of oil dripping down his inner thigh.
He barely heard the sigh Pantalone let out. “Look at this mess you made…”
The Doctor was awfully tempted to spit something back. Something like—You gave me permission, so why are you complaining?—but faltered when he felt wet fingers press against his lips, smearing a milky substance over them.
“What? Don’t give me that look,” Pantalone chided. “You need to learn to clean up the messes you make, Doctor.”
A muscle in Dottore’s jaw ticked with how tightly he was clenching it, but he complied. He parted his lips, letting the banker slip his gloved fingers into his mouth, rubbing his own cum over his tongue. It wasn’t the most pleasant taste, but it was familiar. He had serviced the Ninth enough times to become acquainted with it.
Pantalone finally slipped his fingers free, the fabric of his glove now glistening with saliva. It dropped down to join his dry hand, gripping his hips, before The Doctor felt himself being hauled up and pushed, the small of his back pressing against the edge of the desk. Simultaneously, the banker rose from his seat, nudging Dottore back until he was flat against the tabletop.
“Hmm. You’re awfully docile tonight,” the Ninth remarked, beginning to work on getting Dottore’s pants and underwear fully off. “Especially after you so rudely barged in here, making a fuss.”
“I was making you an offer,” Dottore retorted, his voice still breathless and somewhat unsteady.
“No, you were making demands.”
The sound of fabric falling to the floor accompanied the crackling of the hearth. Pantalone placed his hands on Dottore’s thighs, giving them a quick squeeze, before his hands moved towards the zipper of his trousers.
“Don’t start mistaking my curiosity for concern, Zandik, but what has gotten into you lately?”
Dottore glanced at the dark-clothed figure situated between his legs, but found himself unable to focus enough to articulate the words he wished to say. The cold wood pressed against his back, the lingering warmth of Pantalone’s hands on him, the clock ticking in the office…
When he looked at Pantalone, all he could see was himself. Not just in their shared ideology and goals, but because this was a man he had spent years and years keeping alive. Slaved over making sure his organs all functioned properly, that his cognition wasn’t impaired, that any small thing ailing him could be resolved.
Stubbornly, The Doctor remained silent, his head tipping back against the desk with a dull thud as he stared off towards the fire.
Pantalone seemed unimpressed. “Be that way, then.”
Dottore swallowed. The resignation in the other man’s voice did not mean he had given up—no, far from it. It meant that Pantalone would just get the answer by force.
Pantalone unzipped his fly, freeing his hard cock. It was flattering, in a way, that the banker got worked up just from looking at him. He gave it a few perfunctory strokes with his damp hand, before lining his hips up with Dottore’s and nudging the tip of his cock against his hole.
The Doctor tensed up briefly—Pantalone had stretched him, but not much—so he was preparing for the sting. His tension didn’t deter the banker, who held Dottore by the hips and pushed against the resistance. Mercifully, he was slow, sinking his cock in inch by inch, but there was still a slight ache. A breathy sound was punched out of Dottore when he finally felt Pantalone’s hips press flush against his ass.
“Don’t clench so tightly,” the banker sighed.
“You can make demands, but I cannot?” Dottore uttered through clenched teeth.
“Of course,” Pantalone replied with a smile, beginning to rock his hips in slow circles that made The Doctor’s thighs tremble. “You should know that the one with the money is the one who gets to make demands, Dottore.”
What was supposed to be The Doctor’s rebuttal ended up leaving him as a soft groan, his toes curling inside his boots. He was still sensitive from his previous orgasm, but his cock was already stirring again, twitching with interest against his stomach. Pantalone gradually picked up the pace, his thrusts plateauing into the measured and deep pace he usually preferred.
Soon, the sound of the fabric of the banker’s trousers meeting his skin drowned out the other noises occupying the room. Dottore’s head tipped back, his mouth open as moan after moan was punched out of him, his stomach dipping as it clenched each time Pantalone bottomed out.
The beginning sting had already faded, his body adapting to the shape of the cock filling him. His nails scraped against the wood of the desk, seeking purchase, his body jolting with each thrust.
“My, you’re loud,” commented Pantalone. “Are you not worried someone might hear you?”
“Ah—ah, t-then, oh—sl-slow down—” Dottore argued, though it was insincere.
He did not care who overheard what. After all these years it would be more surprising if there were people who didn’t know about some kind of arrangement between the Ninth and the Second. Even if they didn’t, what reputation did he have to maintain? That he wasn’t a depraved, greedy being? Please.
The Doctor squinted through the tears welling up in his eyes, his cock leaking a steady drip of precum onto his stomach. He tossed his head from side to side, the wood uncomfortable against his skull and spine, but the aches got overridden by the startling pleasure that shot through him when Pantalone’s cock buried itself deep inside him.
It wasn’t even the stimulation that overwhelmed him most. It was the connection, being intertwined with another person so intimately—feeling the warmth of their breath and body. It was such a deeply unfamiliar thing, to feel connected with someone, even in just the physical sense.
Pantalone leaned forward, his glasses sliding down his nose. He braced a hand against the desk and continued the hard and deep rhythm of his hips. Soft grunts and sighs escaped him, his brow furrowed with focus. The hand still remaining on Dottore’s hip peeled away, venturing up to wrap loosely around The Doctor’s throat.
“Feeling talkative yet?” The banker asked, voice breathy.
Oh, shit. Just feeling Pantalone’s fingers pressed against his throat sent a traitorous throb of arousal through him. Instead of replying with words, Dottore let out a particularly loud moan, neck craning to the side.
Deciding that was as good as a refusal, Pantalone’s grasp tightened around Dottore’s neck. The edges of his rings dug into the man’s skin, pushing the ring of his collar against his throat, increasing his grip until The Doctor’s moans became nothing more than garbled gasps, effectively cutting off his oxygen.
A lightheadedness began to creep up the back of his mind. His vision blurred, and the lack of air only amplified the pleasure pulsing in his lower half. Pantalone maintained a relentless pace, his grip tight and his thrusts mean, and Dottore wondered if his death would come sooner than he thought.
He had already resigned himself to it, after all.
Hot tears finally spilled from his eyes, trailing down his temples in rivulets. His neglected cock throbbed painfully, aching for attention, but only allowed to uselessly leak against his belly. The pleasure pooling low grew hotter and hotter as his vision began to darken at the edges, each thrust causing the wood of the desk to creak.
Just as Dottore thought Pantalone was about to choke him until he lost consciousness (not that he could coherently think, anyway), the banker released his grip, slamming deep inside him. On the first gasping breath The Doctor took, his body shuddered violently as his orgasm crashed into him, his back arching away from the desk. Streaks of cum splattered onto his stomach, joining the mess of precum, his eyelashes fluttering as an overwhelming, electrifying sensation flooded his every nerve.
A rush of dopamine and endorphins flooded his staticky brain. Pantalone momentarily slowed his hips, almost as if he were debating on stopping, but mere seconds later he resumed his previous pace—driving into the man beneath him with the intent to ruin.
Dottore keened, choking on a moan. The sound that left him was something between a mix of a cough and a sob, the pleasure starting to blend with pain, the wires crossing and jumbling. Before he could even protest or try to adapt, he felt a hand wrap around his spent cock, stroking it in time with each thrust. His legs jerked and his hips writhed, searing heat burning through his lower half.
It was an interesting phenomenon—how pleasure could be so painful, ricocheting off of each nerve. The Doctor’s legs twitched, attempting to close, but the man standing between them blocked the movement.
“Panta—Pantalone, I-I ju—st—” Dottore could hardly get his words past his warbled gasps and pitched moans, his fingers twitching. “C-Came, I just—ngh, ah, Feo—Feofan, Feofan—”
“Oh…look at that. Now you’re feeling talkative all of a sudden, hm?”
Every sensation was overwhelming, amplified tenfold. He would try to arch his hips away, but then Pantalone would just yank them flush together. He tried to blindly fumble for one of Pantalone’s hands, but they would be pressed back down against the desk. He had no choice in the matter. None.
And it was oh, so blissful.
For a mind like his, that was constantly on—constantly both ruminating and anticipating—there was seldom a time where he wasn’t thinking. Except with Pantalone. Except with Feofan.
“Now, I’ll ask you again…” Pantalone’s voice was becoming increasingly strained, but it remained steady. “What’s been on your mind, Dottore?”
The question was simple, but it still took The Doctor—a genius in most regards—several minutes to process it. He stared dizzily at a wall, his vision blurred with tears, wet gasps and wrecked moans clawing up his throat.
What was on his mind currently? Truly, hardly anything. Pantalone was still steadily thrusting into him, managing to hit his weakest points with terrifying accuracy, all the while that hand tormented his sensitive cock with unrelenting strokes. His legs were pressed tight against the Ninth’s sides, shaking visibly.
The only thoughts he could even hold onto long enough at the moment all focused on the man fucking those very thoughts out of him. Regrator. Pantalone. Feofan.
“Feo—aahn! Feofa—an—” Dottore finally managed to gasp out, his voice breaking on each syllable.
“Are you calling my name, or is...nhh…that your answer?”
The question was heard, but evaporated from The Doctor’s mind on the next thrust, a tingling ache swirling deep in his stomach as a violent shudder rolled through him. A pathetic amount of cum dribbled from his overstimulated cock, flushed from the friction and wet with fluids.
With his free hand, Pantalone reached down and gripped Dottore by the chin, digging his fingers into his heated cheeks, his face a mess of drool and tears. He forced his head forward, dazed red eyes barely meeting purple.
“Zandik,” the banker spoke firmly. “Focus…”
“Ah—answer—” Dottore slurred.
“Not a substantial one,” Pantalone tutted, releasing the other man’s chin. “You can do better than that.”
As if to give him the opportunity to speak, Pantalone slowed his pace down to a leisurely grind—just enough to keep that knife’s edge of pain-pleasure, but not so overwhelming that Dottore could barely breathe, let alone talk.
“Y-Your mortality—hnghh—fru-frustrates me…”
“Mortality in general frustrates you.”
“Yes—yes, but—yours…” The Doctor swallowed, his breaths shaky and his mind jumbled. “Is my choice…”
Pantalone finally stilled, the office falling silent save for the sound of their shared breaths, the crackling of the hearth, and the ticking of the grandfather clock. The sharp transition from constant stimulation to almost none was jarring, his abdominal muscles quivering with fatigue.
He felt the banker’s cock twitch inside of him, as if the words he had spoken sent a rush of blood south.
Dottore panted, struggling to catch his breath, reluctantly forcing himself to drag his blurred gaze over to Pantalone. He immediately tensed up like a frightful rabbit when his eyes met the other man’s.
Pantalone wore an expression he rarely saw. His eyes were so, so dark, burning with something intense and complex. His lips were parted slightly, as if caught by surprise, his brow furrowed as if he couldn’t comprehend the kind of situation he was in. Like they both had caught each other off guard.
Another moment of silence passed before Pantalone finally shifted, Dottore swallowing a shaky sound as he felt the man’s cock nudge deeper inside him. For a split second he thought the Ninth was going to choke him again—punishment for speaking so openly, contempt for being nurtured by a monster—but then those gloved hands found their way to his cheeks instead, silver rings cool against his feverish skin.
The Doctor flinched, just barely, every nerve in his body still alight. The banker didn’t back away. His thumbs collected the tears clinging to his lashes, staring down at him like a pinned butterfly.
“I’m well aware, Zandik.” Pantalone spoke, sighing as he shook his head. “Who else would be insane enough to play god like you do?”
Dottore just stared at the other man, blinking a few more tears from his eyes. The overwhelming heat in his gut had settled into a tolerable simmer, still present but not agonizingly so. Yet he still felt a shiver run down his spine, something not quite arousal but close to it clouding his mind.
Before he could laugh or cry—or perhaps do both—Pantalone planted both of his palms flat against the desk and began to move in earnest. His thrusts were measured and deep, but slower than before, and it was clear he was moving now with the intention of pleasure rather than punishment.
The Doctor allowed himself to melt into it, his mind dizzy and buzzing, his body feeling infinitely lighter from the words that had been wrenched out of him, though remained pinned by the sheer weight of Pantalone’s heated gaze.
Even if the banker’s vision was not the best, the man always looked at him with such startling clarity.
Dottore’s cock had managed to fully harden once more during the small reprieve he had been given. It bobbed with each one of Pantalone’s deep thrusts, sticky with precum. His hands finally found the purchase they had been seeking this entire time, grabbing Pantalone’s forearms and digging his nails into the fabric of his sleeves.
This pace somehow felt even more intimate, if having sex wasn’t already intimate enough. It was not the kind of pleasure he was used to, the kind that was jackhammered into his body until it overwhelmed every synapse and nerve—no, this kind was still overwhelming, but it was gradual, building more and more until it felt impossible that it could get any higher.
The Doctor’s head lolled to the side, his body relaxing and tensing in waves. He hardly recognized the sounds escaping him anymore. Brittle moans and short hiccups. He wasn’t even sure he wanted another orgasm, or if he just wanted to stay submerged in this mind-numbing warmth.
Pantalone seemed willing enough to keep him drowning in it as long as he lasted, but based on the way the Ninth’s breaths were starting to grow more labored, that wouldn’t be much longer now.
He wanted Pantalone to be closer. Wanted to feel the warmth of him, his breaths puffing against his skin, the way his body would tense and stutter when he finally came.
Dottore tugged weakly at the other man’s sleeves, and Pantalone seemed to get the message as he leaned forward, bracing his hands firmer against the desk once The Doctor properly got his arms around him. Dottore clutched onto him desperately, burying his face against the banker’s collar as each thrust rocked him against the creaking desk.
Pantalone smelled of tobacco and sandalwood, and Dottore greedily inhaled the scent, fingers digging into his back. The tremble in his legs worsened, barely subdued as he wrapped them tightly around the other man’s waist. Pantalone’s thrusts grew rougher, harsher, sending overwhelming shocks through his overstimulated body that only had him clinging on tighter.
“Feofan—ah! There, ngh, theretherethere—”
The Doctor babbled to himself, muttering dumbly in a way that completely contradicted the man he usually was. Some words slipped into his mother tongue, Sumerian curses leaving his lips, and he felt Pantalone exhale sharply against his temple as he shuddered.
It was only a few more thrusts before Pantalone’s hips were stuttering, burying himself deep inside as he came with a shivering groan. Dottore felt as the man’s cock pulsed inside him, spilling hot cum within the deepest parts of himself, marking him.
For a brief moment, it truly did feel like they belonged to each other.
Several moments passed where they just stayed like that—Dottore clinging to Pantalone, while Pantalone simply allowed it, his head dipped towards the crevice of The Doctor’s neck and shoulder. Dottore’s whole body felt like it was tingling, his legs shaky and buzzing with fatigue, his chest heaving with each breath, his abdomen quivering from the stimulation.
Only when he regained a fraction of his mind did The Doctor finally let go, slumping back against the surface of the desk with a quiet groan. His legs slipped away from where they were anchored around Pantalone’s waist, splaying wide, trembling from the aftershocks. Pantalone himself finally pulled back, straightening up, his cock still buried deep inside. He was panting softly, his face lightly flushed, his hair mussed and slightly veiling his face.
“…Next time when I ask you a question, Dottore, I hope you’ll make it a little easier for me to get an answer,” the banker finally spoke, voice breathless. “Yes?”
Dottore mumbled something in response, but his tongue felt too heavy to properly articulate anything. He stared distantly at nothing, bracing himself for the inevitable crash from that intense high. Seeing as he wasn’t going to get a coherent reply, Pantalone just sighed and carefully pulled his cock free, ignoring The Doctor’s soft grunt of discomfort.
Trying to ignore the empty ache within him, Dottore simply closed his eyes, trying to rest and will himself back to reality for a moment. He could hear the sounds of his own breaths, a zipper, Pantalone’s footsteps around the office, the sounds of cabinets opening and closing…
An indiscernible amount of time passed when he jolted at the feeling of something soft against his stomach. His watery eyes blinked open to see that Pantalone was situated between his legs once again, only for a more innocent reason.
“Look at this mess you made,” the banker remarked, disapproving yet unmistakably satisfied. “I fear you’ll become spoiled if this is what I have to do every time I’d like to have a proper conversation.”
Dottore peered down at the hand that was now using a soft cloth to wipe up the mess on his stomach. He sneered, and then that sneer turned into a grimace once he caught sight of his own shaking legs. He tilted his head away, scrubbing an unsteady hand clumsily over his eyes.
“…that was not a conversation,” The Doctor croaked, voice wrecked from the combination of being fucked until he sobbed and being choked.
“We both took turns talking, did we not?”
“You—” Dottore weakly kicked Pantalone’s shoulder, “—took me on your desk like I’m some harlot.”
“Oh, come now, don’t sully the reputation of prostitutes by comparing yourself to one, Doctor.” Pantalone hummed, a smile having returned to his face. He gave a few more swipes of the cloth before lightly trailing the fabric over The Doctor’s spent cock, eliciting a hiss from him. “Regardless, a profitable partnership requires effective communication.”
“I’ll communicate to you what is necessary,” Dottore snarled.
“Oh, there’s that bite,” Pantalone hummed, unperturbed. “I’m glad you’re feeling all better.”
The banker stepped away from the desk, presumably to go dispose of the now soiled handkerchief. Dottore glared at his back as he walked away, before letting out a sigh and forcing himself to sit up. His arms shook slightly, and his body protested the movement, but he managed to right himself.
He ran a hand through his tousled hair, feeling the start of a headache beginning to throb behind his eyes. His legs were still trembling faintly, and his muscles felt sore and loose, but he strangely felt…okay.
Not happy. Not sad. Not angry. Just okay.
He had confessed something he would’ve never admitted in his right mind, and yet nothing terrible happened. The world didn’t end. Pantalone didn’t berate him or look at him with disgust. There were no torches or pitchforks to flee from.
And as The Doctor stared down at his own lap, at the faint indents of Regrator’s rings from where he had held on too tightly on his hips and thighs, one thing felt certain:
Whatever the future held in store for him, he would not be facing it alone.