Archive of Our Own

To: Pantalone,
Regrator of the Fatui

Subject: On Continued Allocation for Celestial Research

Regrator,

The current funding tier allotted to my department is insufficient. This is not a complaint. It is an observation, much like the ones I am making of Teyvat’s sky, which continues to contradict the official cosmological model you so generously bankroll. The discrepancy has widened since my last report. Either the firmament is lying, or history is, and I am inclined to believe both.

There are three moons embedded in all pre-Cataclysm records on-hand. Two have already ceased to exist, while the one that remains behaves erratically when observed over long periods of time. My current observational arrays have already verified cyclical deviations that cannot be attributed to atmospheric interference or faulty calibration. These results are conclusive at their present resolution, but without upgraded instruments, further analysis will stagnate at correlation rather than causation.

The methodology is already established. What limits progress is material reach. With adequate funding, I can upgrade my current arrays, reinforce their anchoring mechanisms, and pursue the moons’ residual signatures at a depth previously unattainable. All relevant budgetary projections are compiled in the attached appendices. I trust you will find the figures comprehensive enough to occupy your attention.

Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa, has never asked that truth be gentle, only that it be obtained. Your participation ensures the machinery remains adequate to its task. However, my studies do not pause for consensus. Approval determines only how much time is wasted.

— Il Dottore
Second of the Fatui Harbingers

Pantalone finishes the letter with one arm loosely draped around your figure.

You had climbed into his lap somewhere between the second paragraph and the mention of lunar instability. His office chair accommodates you both without issue, and he no longer bothers feigning surprise when you settle there as though it were an assigned seat. Whenever you deign to visit, this is where you choose to be.

He finds the habit… charming. Cats, after all, have an instinct for claiming what they favor.

The paper makes a soft sound as he folds it once and sets it aside on the desk, but you barely look up. Your attention is occupied with the delicate silver cord attached to his glasses, fingers idly toying with it like it was some rare filament spun just for you. Your tail curls lazily around the arm of the chair. One of your legs is tucked against his thigh; the other draped carelessly over the side, wholly unconcerned with propriety.

“So,” Pantalone murmurs, “you delivered his ultimatum personally.”

“It’s not an ultimatum,” you giggle as you trace the ridges of muscle beneath his thermal clothing. “The Doctor just wants his machines bigger. And sturdier.”

“I’m aware of what he wants.”

The Regrator’s hand rests comfortably at your hip. It makes you shift slightly in his lap, adjusting your weight with no hesitation whatsoever. There is no coyness in it. You have always been like this with him—with Dottore too. Touch is as natural to you as breathing.

“You read it three times,” you note.

“I enjoy thorough investments.”

You hum, leaning back against him without asking permission. Your head tips against his shoulder, and you peer up at him with open curiosity. If anything, you seem more interested in the faint gleam of his glasses than in the letter that prompted your delivery.

“I like your office,” you say. “It’s quiet. And everything’s shiny.”

He nods solemnly. “That is the intention.”

Your gaze drifts toward the desk, where a few stray mora sit in a shallow tray. You perk up immediately. Without missing a beat, Pantalone reaches forward and draws the tray closer. Coins clink softly as he tilts it just enough for the gold to slide and scatter.

You scoop a coin between your fingers, eyes gleaming with curiosity as you hold it up to the light filtering through the tall windows. You know what mora is. You understand better than most that humans trade it for food, for shelter, for power.

But to you, it is simply something bright and satisfying that he lets you touch.

“You never get mad when I take them,” you giggle.

“Because you never take them,” he corrects gently. “You return them when you’re finished.”

You pause, considering this. Then nod, as though this is simply how things are meant to be.

Your affection for Pantalone has nothing to do with his wealth. You do not calculate the weight of his fortune. You just like that he is soft-spoken. That he smells like ink and expensive paper instead of antiseptic and ozone. That when you sit in his lap, he does not move you away.

“And you understand,” Pantalone starts as his thumb traces an idle circle against your side, “that when Dottore offers you as clarification for his experiments, it is not purely academic.”

You blink. “He said you’d pretend not to understand.”

A quiet laugh escapes him.

“I see the two of you remain in alignment.”

Your ears brush his cheek, and a low, contented purr hums against him as you nuzzle closer. It is an unfair tactic. Pantalone is very much aware of that. Yet his arm tightens at your waist all the same.

“I like when you keep the Doctor on his toes,” you admit. “It makes him sharper.”

Pantalone hums. “And what does it make me?”

You consider that far more seriously than any question about the moons.

“…Happier,” you decide at last.

For a fleeting second, something unguarded flickers in his gaze.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “If you continue speaking so plainly, I may approve his budget immediately.”

You grin, completely unbothered by the implications.

Behind you, the letter rests on the desk, full of data sheets on Teyvat’s celestial aberrations and Dottore’s thinly veiled provocations. But with a nekomata youkai perched in his lap, Pantalone finds himself considering that some investments are valuable for reasons entirely separate from return.

And perhaps, he does not mind being so transparently bribed.

The purr in your chest deepens when Pantalone’s fingers resume their deliberate circling against your side. Then, without preamble, you press the smallest, warmest kiss to the corner of his mouth. Never quite on the lips unless he decides it first. Pantalone doesn’t flinch. If anything, the corner of that same mouth curves the tiniest fraction higher.

You take it as permission.

Another feather-light lands just beneath the hinge of his jaw. Then another—much closer to the pulse that beats steady and infuriatingly composed beneath his skin. Your tongue darts out next, tracing the elegant column of his throat in one slow, appreciative lick.

He exhales through his nose—almost a laugh, almost a sigh.

“Rewarding yourself already?” His voice stays velvet-smooth.

You hum against his neck, nosing along the crisp edge of his collar. “I was very good. Carried the whole envelope across Zapolyarny Palace without crumpling a single page. Didn’t even bat my eyes at the yummy treats Miss Sandrone tried to slow me down with.”

“Heroic restraint,” Pantalone deadpans, but his free hand has already slid higher, cupping the back of your neck with just enough pressure to keep you close.

You respond in-kind by dragging your tongue in a longer, wetter stripe up the side of his throat, ending with the softest graze of teeth. His pulse jumps beneath your lips. Giggling, you pull back just far enough to meet his eyes through those lenses. Your own are wide, pupils blown dark with want, tail lashing once against the chair arm in barely-contained excitement.

“I like being good for you,” you whisper. Always so honest with him. “And the Doctor said… if you looked pleased with the proposal, I could ask for a treat.”

Pantalone arches one elegant brow. “Did he now.”

He studies you for one long, measuring heartbeat. Then his gloved thumb sweeps across your lower lip, parting it just enough to feel the heat of your breath.

“Come here.”

You surge forward like you’ve been waiting your entire life for it.

He meets you halfway, lips tasting faintly of the black tea he drinks in endless cups and something richer underneath, something that’s simply him. The kiss is slow at first, exploratory in the way only Pantalone ever allows himself. He lets you chase it, lets your hands clutch at the fine wool of his coat while you give the smallest, helpless roll against his thigh. Your hips rock in tiny, needy movements that match the rhythm he sets with his tongue sliding against yours.

When he finally pulls back—just far enough to speak against your swollen mouth—his voice has dipped rougher at the edges. “You’re trembling already.”

“Can’t help it,” you whimper, nuzzling under his jaw again. “You taste expensive.”

The Regrator lets out a pleased chuckle.

His hand leaves your neck and slides down. Thick fingers find the hem of your skirt, push beneath it without fanfare. The leather is cool against the fever-hot skin of your inner thigh. You jolt, thighs parting wider on instinct, giving him room.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “You know I prefer to take my time.”

Despite that, he doesn’t make you wait long.

A gloved digit traces the damp center of your panties, mapping you through cotton before hooking the fabric aside. The first press is shallow. The second slides deeper, leather dragging against slick folds in a way that makes your whole spine arch.

You muffle a broken sound against his throat.

“Hm,” he starts as his fingers curl just right inside you. “Soaking my glove before I’ve barely begun. Did delivering one letter really wind you up this badly… or were you already thinking about this the entire walk here? Perhaps even longer?”

“Both,” you gasp, hips jerking forward onto his hand. “Thought—thought about sitting in your lap the whole time. Thought about your fingers. Like this.”

The glove makes everything filthier somehow—smooth, expensive leather sliding in and out, the faint creak of it audible between your hitched breaths. He adds a second finger and you keen, tail thrashing hard enough to knock a pen off the desk. Neither of you cares.

“Shhh,” Pantalone soothes, even as his thumb finds your clit and begins slow, merciless circles. “You’ll ruin my paperwork if you keep knocking things over.”

“S-sorry…” You try to still, but your body won’t listen. You’re rocking into his hand now, shameless little thrusts that smear wetness across the fine leather. “Feels—feels so good, please—”

“Please?” He tilts his head, watching your face with clinical fascination and unmistakable hunger. “You’re already clenching like you mean to keep me here forever. Tell me what you want.”

Your ears flatten in embarrassment even as your hips chase his fingers harder.

“Want… want to come on your lap,” you breathe. “Want you to watch. Want—want to be good and come just from your fingers and… and then maybe you’ll sign the Doctor’s stupid budget—”

He laughs again and presses deeper, thumb grinding harder against your clit.

“Then come,” he orders softly. “Show me how grateful you are for being allowed in my chair.”

It hits you like a wave breaking—sharp, sudden, and devastating. Your whole body locks up, thighs clamping around his wrist as you shudder through it, soaking his glove, his trousers, probably the upholstery too. A string of broken, kittenish cries spills against his neck; your claws prick uselessly at his shoulders through layers of fabric.

Pantalone doesn’t stop moving his fingers until the last fluttering pulse fades. Only then does he slowly ease them out, bringing them up between your faces so you can see how his digits glisten beneath the lamplight. You don’t hesitate. You lean forward and drag your tongue along the leather, cleaning yourself off his glove the way you know he likes.

His gaze stays fixed on your mouth the entire time.

When you finally pull back, panting, ears drooping in sated bliss, he cups your cheek with his dry hand. “Messy kitten,” he murmurs. “You’ll have to let me send this suit to the cleaners.”

You nuzzle into his palm. “It would be worth the trouble.”

He glances at the letter still lying forgotten on the desk. Then back at you—flushed and purring with your tail curled loosely around his wrist like a living bracelet.

“Perhaps,” he concedes, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “I’ll consider Dottore’s proposal more… favorably now.”

You beam up at him, eyes glittering as your hands inch towards the prominent bulge in his trousers. “See? Told you I’m a very good assistant.”

Pantalone only smiles.

“Indeed you are.”

…

You had not always moved among the Fatui, much less its Harbingers, as though you belonged.

There had been a time when silk would have felt foreign against your skin. Before the silver gleam of Snezhnayan winter ever reflected in your eyes, you had known a different kind of cold. Not the clean, crystalline chill of snow, but the frost of abandonment.

Nekomata were rare enough to be coveted, and coveted things were rarely treated gently. In certain markets in Inazuma, your kind was whispered about in the same breath as ancient relics and contraband. There were substances distilled from naku weeds that dulled the mind and softened instincts, that wrapped sharp claws in velvet fog and made resistance feel distant and dreamlike. Administered carefully, it made you pliant. Administered carelessly, it hollowed you out.

You still remembered the taste of it long after you could no longer remember the face of the woman who fed it to you.

When you ceased to be profitable, you ceased to be protected.

The night she’d discarded you, there were no final words; only the sound of footsteps fading beneath the roar of rain. Thunder rumbled overhead while lightning split the sky in blinding flashes. The rain poured in unforgiving sheets, soaking through your clothes, washing blood into the gutters at your side. You curled instinctively on the slick path where you were left to die, arms shielding your head as your figure twitched weakly in shallow pools of stormwater.

You remember looking up once, praying the Shogun’s lightning would just kill you in one strike. You expected the next pair of worn-out boots you saw to belong to someone who would finish what had been started. Wandering ronin loved to take advantage of anything too helpless to move.

Instead, you saw polished leather pause beside you.

Rain slid cleanly off dark fabric. The man who stood over you seemed untouched by the storm, immaculate against the ruin of your body. When another bout of lightning lit up the dull gray sky, the razor edges of his teeth caught the light when he smiled.

It was not a comforting smile.

He crouched, tilting his head slightly as he regarded you—not with pity, and not with disgust, but with something far more unsettling.

Interest.

“Well now,” he murmured. “How inefficient.”

You did not understand then that he was not referring to you.

You expected him to leave you. You expected him to kill you.

Instead, the man removed his coat and wrapped it around your shaking body before lifting you up, one arm steady beneath your knees, the other braced against your back. You struggled at first, claws scraping uselessly against layered fabric, but you lacked the strength to do more than tremble.

Some time later, you found that the thunderstorms of homeland were nothing compared to that of Snezhnaya’s winters.

The man who saved you—Il Dottore, as he referred to himself—cleaned your wounds with a steadiness that never faltered, even when you snapped at him. He bound your ribs. Reset what had been broken. When you flinched at every touch, he did not scold you for it. He simply adjusted.

The withdrawal from the drugs was worse than the cold had been.

Your body shook for days. Your mind felt as though it were tearing itself apart, instincts flaring and collapsing in uneven waves. Yet Dottore remained present through all of it. He replaced what had poisoned you with counter-agents, recorded your vitals, observed your reactions. When you clawed at him in delirium, he did not pull away.

“You will stabilize,” he said once, as though discussing weather. “I have brought creatures in far worse shape from the brink of death. You are, comparatively, a manageable case. I see no reason you should prove more disappointing than the rest.”

That was how you learned that the Doctor was not a cruel man.

He reintroduced you to the presence of others gradually, assistants entering the room one at a time while he remained nearby. The first few you greeted with hissing fury, but no one struck you for it. No one raised a hand and beat you like your old captors did.

Eventually, the hissing lessened.

Dottore clothed you in fabrics that did not irritate your healing skin. Fed you until the sharpness of your ribs softened. Gave you tasks small enough not to overwhelm you: carry this vial down the corridor; pass this message onto another Harbinger; sit here without flinching whenever someone passes behind you.

You did not realize when fear stopped being your default state.

It happened gradually, like frost melting in sunlight.

…

The first time you attended a Harbinger meeting, you thought someone might die.

Sandrone had told you that in passing that the Tsaritsa’s prime envoys are volatile when gathered. Like the unstable compounds intricately separated in Dottore’s lab forced into the same vial. You asked her if they ever fought.

“Not physically,” she told you. “That would be a waste of time.”

Whenever you step inside the grand chamber of Zapolyarny Palace, you begin to understand what she meant by that a little more each time.

The air in the room always feels charged before a meeting begins, not so different from how lightning gathers inside a storm cloud. Being from Inazuma, you would know this quite well.

You follow half a step behind Dottore, fleet-footed and almost buoyant despite the charged quiet of the chamber. The fabric he chose for you that morning sways gently with each movement, a soft counterpoint to the rigid silhouettes waiting at the table. He does not glance at you as he assumes his seat. You take yours beside him, and no one reprimands you. They never do.

Across the length of the table, Pantalone looks up first.

His gaze finds you with unerring certainty, gliding over the room on the small, living contradiction seated beside the Second Harbinger. The faintest smile curves at his mouth as though he had not tested the limits of your composure in the privacy of his office mere days ago.

You return the look with uncomplicated warmth, a flick of your ears the only sign that you remember more than modesty demands. He inclines his head in greeting, nothing more.

At the head of the table, Pulcinella clears his throat.

“Her Majesty’s vision proceeds into its next phase,” he begins, his voice resonant despite his small frame. “The remaining Gnoses must be secured, and each Archon will require a different approach.”

You listen, chin resting lightly in your palm. The air is thick with the mutual restraint of people who could very much kill each other had it not for their shared allegiance. When voices overlap, they do so cleanly—no shouting, no crude displays of temper. Most of the time.

When Pulcinella starts droning about boring things like logistics and tactical procedures and all those other words that would put you to sleep faster than Dottore’s test serums, you let your eyes wander.

Across the table, La Signora sits poised and glacial. Even at rest, she looks as though she is enduring the room rather than occupying it. She has never openly claimed affection for you. It would not suit her. But the first time you brushed against the hem of her gown—curious about the texture of the embroidery—she merely sighed and patted down the drape of your mismatched clothes.

“You shed,” she clicked her tongue, producing a handkerchief.

It had been folded neatly into your pocket afterward.

Beside her, Arlecchino watches the room with narrowed eyes. She pretends indifference for the most part. But there was once a time her fingers carded thoughtfully through your hair while she listened to Dottore and Capitano debate metaphysics several meetings ago. The Knave had asked if you understood any of the nonsense your savior spouted in this very same chamber. You sat on the question for only a moment before saying:

“Nope. It’s all gibberish most o’the time.”

“You’d do poorly at the House of the Hearth,” she’d remarked with a chuckle. “Too honest.”

You’d taken it as a compliment.

For all her outward irritation, it is Sandrone of all people who always has something tucked away for you when these meetings convene. A sugared almond. A wrapped confection. She sets them down in places you wouldn’t suspect her to be, and refuses to acknowledge the delight the treats bring you. Even now, she accidentally “drops” a colorful wrapper onto the floor near enough for your tail to pick it up.

“It was surplus,” she insists every time. “I obviously can’t give these to Pulonia, can I?”

It never is.

Columbina—the Harbinger who’d unnerved you the most with her haunting voice—had once seemed scarcely aware of your presence at all. Until you began asking whether she had treats whenever Sandrone was too busy to give you a quick fix. Dottore had taught you that fear was simply a variable to be reduced through exposure. That was how you decided to go about it.

Now, even the once-eerie Damselette started pilfering from Sandrone’s sweets stash to press something into your palm without opening her eyes.

The others, however, are not so easily charmed.

Tartaglia barely spares you a glance; you cannot spar with him, and therefore you do not particularly exist in his hierarchy of interest. Scaramouche seems perpetually irritated by your presence, his gaze lingering just long enough to suggest that you remind him of something he would rather forget—Inazuma, perhaps. The scent of rain and thunder that Dottore said you always carried.

Meanwhile Pierro, Il Capitano, and Pulcinella typically observe you only as one would note a piece of furniture: present, accounted for, not to be mishandled. Despite the power they hold, they understand that Dottore’s playthings—however defined—are not to be tested lightly. You suppose Pantalone is the exception. He enjoys testing boundaries far too much.

But not today.

Pulcinella folds his hands atop the table, gaze sweeping the length of it. “Inazuma remains resistant. Its isolationist policies will complicate conventional infiltration tactics. The Raiden Shogun does not tolerate foreign interference lightly.”

A faint scoff sounds somewhere down the table.

Pulcinella continues as though he hasn’t heard it. “Trade routes are tightly regulated. Diplomatic channels are minimal. Any overt maneuver risks immediate retaliation.”

Silence settles for a beat before the man at your side speaks.

“Retaliation presumes awareness,” Dottore replies smoothly. “Intervention need not be overt.”

The Rooster’s eyes narrow slightly. “Are you suggesting subterfuge?”

“I am suggesting,” Dottore corrects, “that divine systems, however absolute they present themselves to be, are not immune to disruption. If the Raiden Shogun’s response patterns prove… unpredictable, contingency measures can be implemented.”

You last exactly ten minutes before boredom finally takes over.

Without ceremony, you rise from your designated chair, drift the short distance to Dottore’s side and, with the same instinctive ease you show in Pantalone’s office, settle into his lap.

He does not pause.

One arm adjusts automatically to accommodate you, hand resting at your waist with casual possession. His tone does not falter as he corrects an assumption regarding the inner workings of Inazuman politics. Across the table, Pantalone’s smile deepens—a barely-there twitch of his lips that only you and the Doctor could possibly pick out in a room full of borderline criminals.

Pulcinella studies Dottore for a long moment, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

“Your contingencies,” he says carefully, “must not compromise diplomatic leverage.”

“They will not.” Dottore waves him off before scratching behind your ear—a gesture that scandalizes Sandrone so much, she’s scowling. “Unless diplomacy proves inefficient like it often does these days.”

There’s a faint tightening flickers at the Rooster’s mouth, but he inclines his head. The matter is settled. He pivots smoothly toward Capitano, inviting the First Harbinger’s input on long-term strategy. Just like that, the brief tension dissolves.

You, however, are not interested in long-term strategy either.

Instead, you shift in Dottore’s lap, tail curling lazily around the his clothed leg. His arm remains loosely at your waist, anchoring you without looking down. He continues contributing to the discussion at hand as though you are nothing more than a minor adjustment in posture.

However, his fingers press lightly into your side—a subtle warning.

“Behave,” the Doctor murmurs under his breath, voice pitched low enough that only you can hear. “I have no interest in disciplining you in front of my colleagues.”

That would have been enough for most people.

You are not most people.

Your ears twitch. You tilt your head back just slightly, watching the sharp line of his jaw as he speaks about taking advantage of the current power imbalance within the Tri-Commission. You let your fingers trace idly along the in-seam of his coat—feeling the ridges of his ribcage beneath his clothes.

Pierro’s voice enters the discussion, drawing the others into a broader debate about long-term destabilization efforts. For a moment, most eyes shift away from you and your obvious pandering.

You take that as opportunity.

Resting your cheek against his chest, your fingers find their way beneath Dottore’s many layers. You trace the cold skin beneath, tugging lightly at the fabric of his clothes as though you were fascinated by the texture. You thought he would let you do as you pleased, but Dottore’s hand tightens at your wrist in a way that makes you sure you won’t get out of the lab in one piece tonight.

“Quite the persistent thing you are…”

Moments later, the room goes still in the way it does when someone has crossed an invisible threshold. Pierro’s gaze shifts slowly toward you and Dottore.

“Doctor,” he says, calm but edged with steel, “control your pet.”

You blink, ears flicking with mild annoyance. The chamber remains deathly quiet for a heartbeat longer, the silence that only occurs when every Harbinger present is deciding exactly how much they care about the breach in decorum.

Tartaglia is the first to break. He doesn’t quite laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitches violently upward as he smothers his laughter behind a gloved hand. The other Harbingers surely have their own reactions to this, but you are far too distracted by Pierro’s razing stare to account for all of them.

“She is controlled,” Dottore replies smoothly. “If she were not, you would know.”

Another ripple of tension moves around the table.

Pierro’s eyes narrow slightly. “This is a council chamber.”

“And we are still discussing how exactly we plan to get the Raiden Shogun to surrender her Gnosis. That much is clear to everyone in the room,” he answers lazily. “Unless my assistant’s presence has somehow compromised your cognitive function.”

Pierro holds Dottore’s gaze for a long, assessing moment. The chamber remains silent. Even Pulcinella does not intervene this time. At last, the Director exhales softly through his nose and turns his attention back to the matter at hand.

“As I was saying,” he resumes, “Inazuma’s internal divisions present opportunity. The Tri-Commission is not a monolith. Pressure applied correctly may fracture it from within.”

Just like that, the meeting continues.

No reprimand or visible consequence because the understanding is clear: Dottore’s behavior is tolerated because he is useful. You are the same because you belong to him.

When the discussion finally shifts away from Inazuma and toward projected timelines, the Doctor’s hold on you loosens, but does not release entirely. His thumb traces once along the inside of your wrist in a slow, deliberate motion that has you purring from his touch.

Then he leans closer.

From the outside, it looks like nothing more than a murmur exchanged between superior and subordinate. His lips brush near your ear, breath cool against your skin.

“I do not recall you being quite this bold in front of my colleagues,” he whispers sardonically. “Have you grown careless… or simply too curious for your own good?”

You pause, considering how to answer. But the Doctor beats you to it.

“Behavior like that,” he continues softly, “requires correction.”

The words settle over you like a cloud. Where most would feel fear at the promise hidden in his tone, something entirely different unfurls in your chest.

A sharp, electric thrill.

The meeting carries on around you. One thing about the Tsaritsa’s collection of infallible pawns was that they knew how to operate on the same page despite their stark differences. But beneath the table, you sit very still in the Doctor’s lap, pulse quickening not from shame.

But anticipation.

…

As soon as the reinforced steel doors seal behind you, the air shifts.

The sterile chill of Zapolyarny Palace’s corridors gives way to the eerie acoustics of Dottore’s private lab—a cavernous space lit by the cold glow of alchemical lamps and the faint crackle of experimental apparatuses. Vials bubble softly on distant shelves, and the scent of something sharp lingers like the promise of a storm.

You don’t wait for instructions. You’ve already done this before.

The “punishments” Dottore doles out are rarely as straightforward as they sound—more like equations he solves with your body as the variable. You can already feel the anticipation coiling in your gut as you pad across the tiled floor toward the custom examination chair at the room’s center.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen it: sleek metal frame, padded restraints that look clinical but feel anything but, and those telltale conductive straps woven through the upholstery, humming faintly with latent energy.

Dottore watches you from the doorway with his arms crossed, his mask obscuring whatever expression might flicker beneath. “Eager, aren’t we? One would think this was a reward, not a correction for your little display in front of the others.”

You glance over your shoulder, tail flicking once in playful acknowledgment. Your hands are already at the fastenings of your clothes, fingers working the ties loose without a shred of hesitation.

He steps closer, the click of his boots echoing in the quiet. “Shameless creature. Parading yourself like that in the council chamber, grinding against me like a common whore. I suppose old habits die hard—your time in that Inazuman brothel must have etched it into your bones. It’s almost amusing, how predictably you devolve.”

The words are crude, laced with that detached cruelty he wields like a scalpel. But they slide off you like rain on glass. You’ve heard worse—from him and from others. Besides, he’s not wrong; the haze of those drugged nights lingers in fragments, but you’ve reclaimed it, turned survival into something sharper, something yours.

If anything, his observation only sparks a defiant purr in your chest. You shrug off your clothing, letting it pool at your feet, ears perking as the cool lab air kisses your bare skin.

“Who’s devolving?” you tease, as you leave yourself in nothing but your panties—damp already from the meeting’s lingering tension. You don’t bother with those yet; instead, you hop onto the chair, settling back against the padded surface with your legs parted just enough to be inviting. “You’re the one who built a whole chair for this. Sounds to me like you’re the shameless one, Doctor.”

Dottore chuckles darkly as he approaches. His gloved hands move to secure the conductive straps around your wrists and ankles. Sensors adhere to your skin: one at your pulse point, another over your heart, a third lower, pressing against the sensitive flesh just above your mound. They whir to life, syncing with the chair’s mechanisms, ready to monitor every flutter and spike of your vitals.

A quiet hum reverberates in the Doctor’s throat as he calibrates a sleek wand-like device from a nearby tray. It’s slender, metallic, with adjustable nodes that buzz with electro energy. Low-level pulses derived from his Delusion experiments, refined for... precision applications.

“Your vitals are already elevated. Hypothesis: nekomata physiology amplifies elemental stimuli, blurring pain and pleasure thresholds. We’ll test that today. As punishment for your lack of restraint earlier, you’ll endure without release until you verbalize your transgression. Admit how you disrupted the meeting, and perhaps I’ll grant mercy.”

You arch a brow, testing the straps with a playful tug. “Or what? You’ll zap me until I behave?”

“Precisely.” He traces the wand’s tip along your collarbone first. A faint pulse thrums through it, as mild as a static spark, but it sends a shiver cascading down your body. Your tail twitches against the chair, ears flattening briefly as the sensation registers.

Dottore notes it all as he adjusts a dial. “Baseline response: mild contraction in trapezius muscles. Heart rate up twelve percent.” The wand drifts lower, circling a nipple. Another stronger pulse surges along your skin and you gasp, back arching as electro dances across your flesh. It’s not pain; it’s fire, coiling hot in your core, making your thighs clench instinctively.

“Is that it?” you breathe through a defiant grin. “Doesn’t feel so punishing. Feels... good even.”

“Premature conclusion.” The Doctor ramps it up, trailing the device down your stomach before pausing at your navel. The next zap syncs with the sensors, pulsing in time with your quickening heartbeat. It buzzes against your inner thigh, teasing close but not quite where you need it. Your hips buck, a whine escaping your lips as wetness soaks through your panties.

“Admit it,” he presses. “You were bold because you wanted this—wanted me to correct you.”

“Maybe,” you taunt. “Or maybe I just like making you lose composure. Keep going, Doctor.”

He obliges, hooking your panties down your legs with clinical detachment before pressing the wand directly to your clit. The pulse hits like a storm in sharp, radiating waves that make your whole body seize. You cry out, claws scraping uselessly against the restraints, as pleasure borders on overload. The sensors beep, feeding data to a nearby console but Dottore denies you the edge. He pulls back just as you teeter, leaving you panting and frustrated.

“Threshold noted: forty-seven percent intensity induces involuntary spasms. You’re dripping already—shameless, as expected.” He sneers. “But you are not permitted release yet until you admit to your misbehavior.”

You shake your head through the haze. “Make me.”

The wand returns with the pulses syncing faster. He maps you methodically: the tender crease where thigh meets hip, the swollen folds already slick and parting for him, and the slick entrance that flutters uselessly every time the current grazes it. Your purrs fracture into high, broken moans that bounce off the walls of the secluded lab.

You try to hold out. You really do.

“Still nothing?” Dottore’s voice is velvet over steel, clinical and mocking in equal measure. “Your pride is most admirable. But it has always been my least favorite trait of yours.”

Another pulse lands directly on your clit, and your hips jerk so violently the restraints creak. A string of incoherent sound spills from your throat as your claws scrape metal, leaving faint silvery scratches. Heat coils tighter and tighter in your belly, right on the razor’s edge of ecstasy, but he pulls the wand away at the last possible second. Again.

You snarl through your teeth. “You… fucking sadist—”

“Language.” He adjusts the dial with infuriating calm. “And here I thought nekomata were supposed to be graceful under pressure.”

Zap.

This one hits lower, right at your entrance, and the sensation ricochets straight up your spine. Your whole body locks up as your thighs tremble, inner walls clenching around nothing. A sudden, sharp pressure builds low in your pelvis, something much different from the orgasm he’s been denying.

You freeze.

He notices immediately, of course.

“Interesting,” he murmurs. He deprives you of the wand but lets it hover just close enough that the residual static makes your soaked folds twitch. “Sudden spike in abdominal pressure. Involuntary contraction of the pelvic floor. Care to explain?”

Your face burns. “N-no—”

“Don’t lie to me.” He taps the wand lightly against your inner thigh and the contact sends fresh sparks racing toward that unbearable fullness. “Your body is far more honest than your mouth.”

Another targeted pulse, right where the pressure is worst. You yelp as your hips snap upward involuntarily. A hot, shameful trickle escapes before you can do anything and it drips down your perineum, soaking the padded seat beneath you.

You whimper, mortified by what he’s doing to you. But the humiliation only makes the ache worse. Your clit throbs harder; your walls flutter desperately around empty air.

Dottore sighs—the long-suffering sound of a scientist confronted with particularly messy data.

He sets the wand aside on the tray with a soft clink. Then, he peels off his usual black gloves, folding them neatly and dropping them somewhere out of your line of sight. From a nearby drawer he retrieves a fresh pair of pale sterile gloves. He snaps them on like he’s done so hundreds, if not thousands of times, and the echo rings in your ears.

“I knew this would be… untidy,” he comments. “But I underestimated just how quickly you’d lose control. You really do like it when I poke and prod at your body, do you not?”

He doesn’t touch you with his bare hands. Not once.

Instead he retrieves the wand again, now holding it between two gloved fingers like an extension of himself. He resumes the torment with lighter pulses that circle around your clit without ever granting direct contact. Every graze sends another helpless spurt escaping you, warm and humiliating and so intensely arousing you can barely breathe.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Soaking my chair, my restraints, yourself. And you’re still trying to pretend this isn’t exactly what you wanted when you climbed into my lap. I might have spoiled you a tad too much.”

You shake your head frantically, but the denial comes out as a broken whine. The puddle beneath you grows, obscene and glistening under the fluorescent lights. Your thighs tremble violently; your tail thrashes so hard it knocks a small metal tray to the floor with a clatter. Neither of you cares.

“Admit it properly this time,” Dottore orders, pressing the wand just shy of your entrance and holding it there. The constant low thrum vibrates through your oversensitive nerves, making every muscle quiver. “Or I leave you like this until the neutralizer wears off and we start the whole sequence again tomorrow.”

Tears of frustration and shame prick your eyes. Your voice cracks when you finally speak.

“I—I teased you,” you gasp. “In the meeting. Sat in your lap. Disrupted everything—please—”

“Please?” He tilts his head, the mask hiding everything except the dark gleam of satisfaction in his visible eye. “Please what?”

Another humiliating trickle. You sob once, hips jerking uselessly.

“Please let me come—please, Doctor, I can’t… I’m sorry… I’ll be good—”

He considers you for one long, agonizing heartbeat.

Then he presses the wand flush against your clit and holds it there in full intensity.

You scream as your body convulses. The orgasm rips through you in violent waves, dragging another gush of warmth with it that soaks his gloved hand, the wand, the chair, everything. Your walls spasm uselessly around nothing; your tail curls so tight it cramps as you ride it out, shuddering and whimpering long after the peak has passed.

Only when the aftershocks have reduced you to trembling, oversensitive twitches does he finally switch the device off.

Dottore discards the wand into a sterilization tray without ceremony. Then he reaches between your thighs and gathers a slick sample of the mess you’ve made on two gloved fingers, lifting them to study the glistening fluid under the light.

“Fascinating,” he says softly. “Fluid volume increased three-hundred percent under sustained low-level electro-stimulation combined with a humiliation trigger. We’ll need to run quantitative analysis later.”

You can barely process the words. Stars begin to dance in your vision. Despite the rather pleased tone the Doctor’s voice has taken up, something tells you this isn’t over just yet.

The sharp rap of knuckles against metal cuts through the din of machinery in the lab.

You’re still floating somewhere between oblivion and the afterglow, your body limp in the restraints as your chest rises and falls in uneven pants. Every muscle feels liquid. The puddle beneath you has spread far enough that you can feel the cool dampness seeping against the small of your back. Your ears are too fuzzy to properly track the sound, but some primal part of you registers the interruption.

No one—absolutely no one—interrupts Dottore mid-experiment unless they have a death wish or a title that carries more weight than fear.

Dottore’s head snaps toward the door with a grunt.

“Stay,” he orders you curtly, though you’re in no condition to do anything else.

He strides to the entrance panel, gloved fingers stabbing the release sequence with more force than necessary. The doors part just enough for him to lean through the gap, blocking most of the view from inside. You hear muffled voices—Dottore’s clipped and venomous, the other smoother, richer, almost musical.

“This had better be worth my time.”

“…merely delivering good news, Doctor. No need for the theatrics.”

The doors slide wider.

Dottore steps back with visible reluctance, allowing the intruder entry.

Pantalone enters like he owns the room which, in a certain accounting sense, he probably does. His long coat sweeps the threshold; the silver cords of his glasses catch every harsh lamp and throw tiny prisms across the walls. He pauses just inside, that bespectacled gaze sweeping the lab with polite disinterest until it lands on you.

His smile unfurls slowly, lazy and devastating.

“Well now,” he drawls. “What do we have here?”

Your ears flick feebly. You try to focus, but the world is still swimming at the edges. All you can manage is a soft, dazed whimper as his polished boots click closer.

Pantalone stops at the foot of the chair, his hands clasped behind his back and his head tilted in appraisal. His eyes trace the mess without a hint of surprise—only amused calculation.

“An entire pool of your own slick,” he muses, almost fondly. “You must have truly tested his patience this time, kitten. I’ve never seen you leak quite so… generously.”

Your face flames despite the haze. You want to curl up, hide, snap something bratty back, but all that comes out is a small, broken sound halfway between a mewl and a sob.

Dottore’s voice slices in from behind Pantalone, tight with irritation.

“What exactly is it that brings you here, Regrator?”

Pantalone doesn’t even glance at him.

“I already approved the budget increase for your celestial arrays,” he says mildly, as though discussing tea tariffs. “Thought I’d report it in person. A personal touch, you understand.”

“And yet here you linger.”

“I had an inkling you two would be… occupied.” Pantalone finally turns his head just enough to regard the Second Harbinger. “But this is the first time I’ve witnessed one of your little sessions with my own eyes.” His gaze returns to you, softening at the edges in a way that makes your stomach flip. “Aren’t you being rather cruel to your own assistant, Doctor? Look at her—completely fucked out of her mind. I’m willing to wager you didn’t even touch her directly once.”

Dottore’s laugh is short, sharp, and entirely without humor.

“Scientific rigor demands detachment. Direct contact introduces too many variables.”

“Mmm…” Pantalone steps closer to the chair, close enough that you can smell the faint trace of expensive ink and black tea that always clings to him. He crouches gracefully, bringing his face level with yours. One gloved finger traces the air just above your cheek—never quite touching—and when you chase it, he simply laughs. “If this is detachment, I’d hate to see what possession looks like.”

You try to speak. What emerges is a slurred, “Panta…”

“There she is,” he murmurs, pleased. “Still with us, kitten?”

Dottore makes an impatient sound.

“If you’ve finished gawking—”

“Oh, I haven’t.” Pantalone straightens without haste. “In fact, I find myself… curious. You’ve collected quite a bit of data, I presume. But data without context is merely noise.” He glances at the console where your vitals still blink in accusing red and green. “May I?”

The Doctor’s posture goes dangerously still.

“You may not.”

“Then perhaps you’ll indulge me in allowing a small demonstration instead.” Pantalone gestures lazily toward you. “She’s already so beautifully ruined. Surely you wouldn’t deny a colleague the chance to observe the after-effects up close? For comparative purposes, of course.”

The air thickens. You feel both their gazes settle on you—heavy and possessive with entirely different flavors of hunger. Dottore exhales through his nose, the sound almost a growl.

“Ten minutes,” he snaps. “Touch nothing that hasn’t already been compromised. And if you so much as alter the readings—”

“Ten minutes is more than generous. Thought you’d only allow me five at most,” Pantalone replies smoothly. He turns back to you, crouching once more. This time his gloved knuckles brush ever so lightly along your jaw, sending a fresh aftershock rippling through your oversensitive body.

You arch into it with a helpless sound.

“Poor thing,” he whispers, thumb grazing the corner of your mouth where drool has gathered. “He worked you so hard, didn’t he? But you still purr for more?”

Behind him, Dottore’s voice drops to something lethal and quiet.

“Careful, Regrator. She is not a toy to be passed around.”

“Of course not.” His eyes never leave yours. “She’s yours. I’m merely… appreciating the craftsmanship.”

His free hand drifts lower, hovering above the mess between your thighs without touching. You whimper anyway, hips twitching toward the promise of contact that never quite arrives.

“Ten minutes,” Dottore repeats.

Pantalone inclines his head in mock deference.

“Ten minutes,” he echoes.

Then he leans in until his breath fans across your ear.

“Tell me, kitten,” he murmurs, just loud enough for Dottore to hear. “Shall we see how much more beautifully you can break before he decides I’ve overstayed my welcome?”

Your tail gives one feeble, eager lash against the chair. Somewhere in the haze, you manage the faintest, most wrecked little nod. Pantalone’s smile turns molten.

“Good girl.”

His gloved fingers move to the restraints first. The conductive straps release with soft clicks, one by one. As each falls away, he lifts your wrist (then the other, then your ankles), turning them gently in the lamplight. Red welts stripe your skin where the padding had bitten in during your convulsions. He tuts softly before bending to press his lips to the worst of them. He lingers there, letting his breath warm the abraded skin until you shiver.

One of the truths you’ve learned living among the Fatui is this: they are merciless when the Tsaritsa’s will demands it. They will raze cities and spill blood across continents without blinking. But in their private indulgences? In the things they claim for themselves alone?

They are shockingly delicate.

Even Dottore—whom half of Snezhnaya calls a heartless fiend—never damages a test subject beyond repair. A broken tool is useless; a dead subject yields no further data.

Pantalone, though… Pantalone is indulgence incarnate.

He doesn’t need to break anything to own it. He simply charms, coaxes, purchases with smiles and silken promises until what he wants is already his before you realize the transaction has closed.

Right now he clearly wants to fuck you.

In front of the man who owns you.

“So,” he says conversationally, “what exactly were you testing here, Doctor? Some new application of electro-conductive stimuli? Or is this purely for… personal calibration of hybrid physiology?”

Dottore hasn’t moved from his spot near the console. His arms remain crossed; the sterile gloves still gleam under the lights.

“I know precisely how that silver tongue of yours operates, Regrator,” he deadpans. “Don’t acknowledge me during the experiment. Just give me results. Since you’ve so graciously volunteered yourself as the control variable, after all.”

You clench involuntarily at the sheer authority in the Doctor’s command—a low, unyielding drawl that brooks no argument. Fresh heat blooms between your thighs despite the raw sensitivity; another slow trickle of arousal seeps out, glistening anew on skin already soaked.

Pantalone notices immediately, of course.

“Ah,” he breathes, delighted. “Even his tone is enough to make you drip again. Remarkable.”

He shrugs out of his coat properly, folding it with care and draping it over the back of a nearby stool. His gloved fingers move to his belt, the soft metallic clink of the buckle echoing in the sterile quiet. He unfastens it, pops the button of his trousers, and drags the zipper down just enough.

His cock springs free, thick and already glistening with pre-cum that beads and slides down the shaft in a slow, obscene trail. The contrast is filthy: immaculate Regrator, half-undone only where it matters, while you’re bare and trembling before him.

Pantalone steps between your parted legs, the chair still reclined at that perfect angle to display you. Your thighs tremble as he hooks them over his hips, gloved hands sliding under your knees to draw you closer to the edge until the head of his cock nudges your slick entrance without pushing in.

He leans down instead, bracing one hand beside your head. The other cups your jaw before his thumb traces the seam of your lips until they part on instinct.

“Look at me,” he murmurs.

You do. The eyes behind those lenses are molten in their intensity, pupils blown with want.

Then he sinks in.

The mere sensation of being split open has you keening, claws flexing uselessly against the padding of the chair. Pantalone is thicker than the toys Dottore sometimes uses for these experiments; the stretch burns sweetly, every ridge dragging against oversensitive walls still fluttering from your earlier climax. The Regrator exhales through his nose once he’s fully seated, hips flush to yours. He doesn’t move immediately, letting your body adjust and clench and weep around the intrusion.

“Still so tight,” he praises softly. “Even after all that torment he put you through. Such a resilient little cunt, isn’t it? Squeezing me like it hasn’t just soaked this entire chair in your filthy mess.”

Your ears twitch, flattening in a haze of shame and want. You can feel Dottore’s gaze on you—clinical, dissecting, but undeniably present. It sends a fresh thrill racing up your spine, your tail lashing once against Pantalone’s thigh in eager betrayal. Knowing he’s watching, noting every twitch and gasp like data points… it makes your walls flutter harder, slick gushing around the cock buried in you.

Pantalone notices that too, of course. You realize this in the way he chuckles as he draws back just enough to watch himself glisten with your arousal.

“Oh, kitten,” he coos, thrusting back in with a wet, obscene squelch. “You love this, don’t you? Being spread open and fucked while he watches. Look at how you’re clenching—desperate little thing. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you misbehaved in that meeting just to end up here, leaking all over my cock in front of your precious Doctor.”

You whine, hips bucking up to meet his next slow grind. The drag is exquisite—his cockhead nudging that spongy spot deep inside with every deliberate roll. Your claws prick at the chair’s upholstery, tearing faint lines as pleasure coils tight in your gut again, filthy and unrelenting.

Behind you both, Dottore makes a small, interested hum. “Note the involuntary flutter at seven centimeters depth,” he intones flatly. “Consistent with prior data on post-orgasmic hypersensitivity.”

Pantalone’s laugh is breathless, genuine amusement mingling with the soft slap of skin on skin as he sets a languid rhythm. “You really can’t help yourself, can you? Always the observer, never the participant. Perhaps you should loosen those rigid protocols of yours every now and again, Doctor. Indulge a little. It might do wonders for that god-complex of yours.”

Dottore’s response is immediate. “My protocols ensure reliable results. Indulgence leads to error.”

Pantalone tuts, shaking his head as he leans down to nip at your collarbone—sharp enough to sting, sweet enough to make you arch into it. “But look at her.” He punctuates that with a deeper thrust, grinding his hips in a slow circle that makes your toes curl and a fresh spurt of slick coat his balls. “She’s obsessed with you watching. Dripping down my thighs already, and we’ve barely started. Imagine if you joined in properly. Touched her with those clever hands instead of hiding behind your notes.”

You mewl, the words painting vivid pictures in your haze—Dottore’s gloved fingers on you, in you, while Pantalone fucks you senseless. Your walls clamp down hard, pulling a groan from the Regrator’s throat.

Dottore dismisses it with a scoff. “Vocalization amplitude: increased twenty-three percent under sustained penetration versus intermittent stimulation. Proceed.”

Pantalone’s pace quickens just a fraction—long, fluid strokes that fill you to the brim, his cock splitting you open with every snap of his hips. The wet sounds echo obscenely in the lab: your cunt slurping greedily around him, his balls slapping against your soaked ass, and the faint creak of the chair beneath you both. Sweat beads on your skin; your tail thrashes wildly now, coiling around his waist like it can pull him deeper.

“That’s it, sweet kitten,” he purrs, condescending sweetness laced with filth. “You’re making such a mess—listen to how wet you are, gushing all over me while he scribbles his precious data. Does it turn you on that much? Being his experiment? Being my indulgence?”

“Y-yes,” you gasp, far too wrecked and needy. Your claws find purchase on his shoulders, digging in through the fine shirt as he fucks you harder, the angle shifting to grind relentlessly against that spot that makes stars explode behind your eyes. “Please, more… W-watching me—ah!”

Pantalone’s smile is all teeth and tenderness, a predator playing with prey. He slows just to make you whine, before slamming back in, drawing out a broken sob as your body clenches in desperation.

“Mmm, but tell me honestly, kitten,” he murmurs as he bottoms out again, holding deep while your walls ripple around him. “Don’t you wish it was him inside you right now? The Doctor, stretching this greedy little cunt instead of me?”

The question hits like flint struck in the dark. You freeze mid-moan, mind reeling even as your body betrays you with another helpless flutter. Pantalone has fucked you countless times: in his office, on silken sheets, bent over desks stacked with mora. Slow and teasing, hard and claiming. But Dottore… Dottore has tested you, probed you, pushed you to shattering climaxes with tools and serums and that damned wand. Yet never once with his cock. Never skin to skin, body to body. He observes. He records. He doesn’t indulge.

“N-no,” you whimper, ears pinning back in shame. “He… he doesn’t see me like you do.”

Pantalone’s laugh is soft, cheeky, and utterly delighted. He resumes his rhythm—deeper and grinding with every thrust as if to imprint himself inside you. “Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, darling. Despite all his monstrous feats, the Doctor is still bound by humanity. Frail, flawed humanity. Why do you think he can’t ascend to that godhood he craves so desperately? It’s because deep down, he’s just like the rest of us. He desires. He hungers.”

From the console, Dottore’s voice cuts in like a scalpel. “Watch your tongue, Regrator, or I’ll hook that electrode to you instead and see how well you hold up under the current.”

Pantalone doesn’t flinch. If anything, his thrusts grow bolder, hips snapping with a wet, filthy rhythm that makes your breasts bounce and your tail tighten around him. He leans in closer, lips brushing your ear as he whispers, feeding the fantasy like poison-laced honey.

“Imagine it, kitten,” he coos, his voice dripping condescension and seduction. “Him behind you instead of me. Those sharp teeth grazing your neck while he fucks you raw. His cock splitting you open, filling you up because he can’t resist anymore. Because watching you writhe and beg has finally cracked that cold shell. He’d hold you down, mark you, make you scream his name while I watch this time. Wouldn’t that be divine?”

The words unravel you. Your mind floods with vivid images: Dottore’s hands on your hips, his breath ragged against your skin, his cock throbbing inside you as he loses control. Combined with Pantalone’s relentless pounding, the stretch and drag and grind—it’s too much. Your walls convulse, milking him desperately as another climax builds, hot and inevitable.

Your vision whites out at the peak—your body locking in one final convulsion as Pantalone’s release floods you in thick, scalding pulses. The creamy excess leaks around his shaft, mixing with your release and sliding down your thighs. He grinds through the aftershocks, forcing every tremor from your wrecked body while your spent pussy twitches weakly around him.

“Perfect,” he breathes against your ear. “My filthy kitten, taking it all.”

You would have responded, but the overload is absolute. Your head lolls back against the padded rest as your limbs go slack. The console lets out a series of increasingly urgent beeps—heart rate dropping, respiration shallowing into soft, even puffs—then your consciousness simply slips away.

Neither man startles.

Pantalone exhales once, slow and satisfied, before carefully easing out of you. The wet sound of separation is obscene in the sudden quiet; a fresh trickle of mixed release follows, sliding down your inner thigh in pearlescent streaks. He doesn’t rush. Instead he reaches for the neatly folded towel already resting on the side tray—pristine white, precisely where Dottore always keeps aftercare supplies. The detail is small yet utterly telling.

He begins cleaning you with the same unhurried elegance he applies to everything else: gentle dabs along your folds, careful swipes between your thighs, wiping away the evidence of your shared mess without jostling you too much. Only then does he tend to himself, tucking his softening cock away and buttoning his trousers with quiet grace.

Dottore hasn’t moved from the console. His arms are still crossed, but his gaze flicks between the vitals readout and your slack form.

“She’s stable,” he says flatly. “Just spent. Vitals will normalize within the hour.”

Pantalone hums, folding the soiled towel and setting it aside. “I’ll have some of our people take her to the baths. A proper soak, massage, the usual pampering. She’ll wake up spoiled rotten, as always.”

Dottore’s mask tilts slightly. “No. My staff will handle recovery. Your attendants are far too indulgent. They’ll have her purring on silk for days.”

Pantalone’s laugh is soft, delighted. “And you aren’t? Keeping a clean towel within arm’s reach of your torture chair? Refusing to let anyone else near her when she’s like this?” He gestures lazily at your unconscious form. “You’re just as guilty of spoiling her, Doctor—whether you admit it or not.”

Dottore makes a low, dismissive sound in his throat. “Practicality. A functional subject is more useful than a broken one.”

“Of course.” Pantalone shrugs on his coat, fingers deft on the buttons. “Still… she wants you, you know. Not the wand, not your questionable serums—the man behind the mask. And you want her too, or that electrode threat would have come with far less restraint.”

Silence stretches, broken only by the soft beeping of the monitors slowly leveling out.

Pantalone adjusts his glasses, the silver cords catching the light one last time.

“Tell you what,” he says, voice light but edged with unmistakable intent. “Send me your next budget proposal—whatever mad little project you’re cooking up—and I’ll approve it on the spot. No questions, no haggling. On one condition.”

Dottore doesn’t respond, but the stillness of his posture is answer enough.

“Next time she misbehaves,” Pantalone continues, smiling like he’s already won, “give her what she actually wants: you. Skin to skin. No experiments. No irrelevant data spreads. Just you, finally indulging that very human hunger you pretend doesn’t exist.”

He leans down, brushing the lightest kiss to your temple before straightening.

“Think about it, Doctor. She’s already passed out dreaming of it.”

With that, Pantalone heads for the doors, leaving the faint scent of ink and black tea behind.

Dottore stands motionless for a long moment, staring at your sleeping form. The console beeps once more, and he exhales through his nose. Then, almost absently, he reaches for a fresh blanket from a nearby supply drawer and drapes it over you.

The lab falls quiet again. There is nothing but the soft bubbling of vials, the hum of machines… and the faint, unconscious purr rumbling in your chest.