Chapter Text
The first time Dottore dissected a living thing, he was seven. It wasn’t cruelty—just curiosity. The cat had already been dead when he found it by the roadside, its ribs caved in like a broken birdcage, but when he pressed the tip of his mother’s sewing scissors into its belly, the warmth that still clung to its fur made him feel alive.
By twenty-three, he’d traded scissors for scalpels and roadkill for cadavers, then cadavers for volunteers—some less voluntary than others. His notes piled up in towering, disorganized stacks, ink bleeding through cheap paper where his pen had pressed too hard in excitement.
Funding came in erratic bursts: grants from faceless institutions, patronage from nobles with morbid fascinations, all of it spent as quickly as it arrived on chemicals, equipment, and subjects. He slept on a cot in the corner of his lab, dreams full of half-formed theories that dissolved upon waking, leaving only the itch of unanswered questions beneath his skin.
The problem was always money. Ethical research moved like molasses; real discovery required leeway, and leeway required mora.
When the last of his patrons withdrew their support—some scandal involving a missing apprentice, though the details hardly mattered—Dottore found himself staring at empty coffers and vials of unfinished serums. The university revoked his access to the laboratories. Creditors circled like vultures. He sold his books, then his instruments, then the very cot he slept on, and still it wasn’t enough.
That was when he heard about Pantalone.
The banker’s name surfaced in whispers among the city’s underworld: a man who funded the unspeakable, not out of morbid curiosity but because he enjoyed the act of funding itself—the thrill of watching others kneel for it.
Dottore arrived at his estate with ink-stained sleeves and a proposal scrawled on the back of a tavern receipt. Pantalone received him in a study lined with ledgers, his fingers steepled under his chin as he listened, unmoving, to Dottore’s feverish explanations. When the doctor finally fell silent, Pantalone smiled—not warmly, but like a surgeon assessing where to make the first cut.
Pantalone's study smelled of leather-bound ledgers and the faint, metallic tang of ink. The banker's fingers tapped once against his desk—a sound like a coin dropped on marble—before he leaned forward, his smile never reaching his eyes. "Fascinating," he murmured, though his tone suggested he found Dottore himself more fascinating than the research. "But tell me, Doctor—what makes you think I should invest in your... unconventional pursuits?"
Dottore's hands twitched at his sides, still itching for a pen to scribble down the half-formed arguments bubbling in his throat. "B-..Because no one else will," he admitted, the words raw with an honesty that scraped his pride. "Because what I'm after—what I need—isn't the kind of truth that fits neatly into grant applications."
A chuckle, low and velvety. Pantalone's rings gleamed as he reached for a decanter, pouring two glasses of something dark and expensive. "Oh, I don't doubt that." He pushed one glass across the desk. "But funding isn't charity. What do you offer in return?"
The question hung between them, weighted. Dottore had expected haggling over percentages, patents, perhaps even a demand for first rights to any discoveries. But Pantalone's gaze lingered on him with a scrutiny that felt invasive, as if he were already cataloging weaknesses.
Dottore took the glass, the crystal cold against his fingers. "Name y-..your terms."
Pantalone's smile deepened, a slow unfurling of amusement that never touched the cool detachment in his eyes. He took a deliberate sip from his glass, letting the silence stretch until the air between them thrummed with unspoken expectation. "Terms," he echoed, as if savoring the word. "How refreshingly direct." His fingers traced the rim of his glass, leaving no smudge—everything about him was immaculate, from the precise part of his hair to the unwrinkled cuffs of his sleeves. "But you misunderstand me, Doctor. I don't deal in terms. I deal in arrangements."
Dottore's grip tightened around his own glass. The liquor inside smelled of oak and something darker, spiced with anise. He didn't drink. "Then name your arrangement."
A soft hum. Pantalone leaned back in his chair, the leather sighing under his weight. "Your research consumes you—that much is obvious. You'd trade anything for it. Anything." His gaze flicked over Dottore's ink-stained hands, the frayed hem of his coat, the hollows under his eyes. "What I want isn't your money. You don't have any. It isn't your reputation. You've burned that already." He paused, tilting his head slightly. "It's your obedience."
The word landed between them like a scalpel dropped onto tile. Dottore stiffened, his pulse jumping in his throat. "Obedience," he repeated flatly.
"Within reason, of course." Pantalone waved a hand, the gesture almost casual. "You'll continue your work. I'll provide the funds, the materials, the... discretion required. In return, you'll be available when I require you. For consultations. For demonstrations." His smile sharpened. "For whatever else I might find interesting."
Dottore took up the offer without hesitation, his greed– the utter need for discovery had consumed him to the point where he didn't even question the proposition. He figured itd be nothing but just mere little requests– fetching drinks and lending a hand yet the reality dawned on him far quicker than he could comprehend.
Before he knew it, Decades had passed in the mere blink of an eye– The office smelled of old parchment and the faint, acrid sting of antiseptic—the latter clinging stubbornly to the doctor’s skin no matter how often Pantalone’s servants scrubbed him raw. He sat curled in the corner like a discarded marionette, his remaining arm draped over his knees, the sleeve of his threadbare coat rolled up to reveal a latticework of scars that mapped every incision, every request. The stump where his left arm had been was neatly sutured, the flesh around it still pink and tender; Pantalone had insisted on doing the amputation himself, citing aesthetic concerns– It had been one of the major procedures he had endured, 1.5 million mora for a research study in exchange for that arm– his own dominant hand, just so Pantalone could watch the way he struggled to relearn, how he had to depend on his servants to write things down he couldn't.
Pantalone’s voice cut through the silence, smooth as a scalpel slicing through flesh.
"You’ve been exceptionally well-behaved lately." He didn’t look up from his ledger, the nib of his pen scratching out figures with a near-surgical precision. "No complaints. No resistance. Almost like you’ve forgotten how to speak unless spoken to." A pause, deliberate. "Have you?"
Dottore’s throat worked silently. His right leg was propped awkwardly, the knee swollen with necrosis, the skin mottled purple-black where the rot had set in deep– The result of a particularly ruthless beating after Pantalone had had the Doctor try out different poisons to test which would be most effective on a client the Banker deemed ‘disposable’, Pantalone had promised to let him keep the leg until the pain became instructive though– Let him think he isn't as weak as he truly is– Afterall, little lambs never figure out that their in captivity if you give them a big enough pen.
The banker finally glanced up, his gaze lingering on the way Dottore’s fingers twitched against his thigh—a reflexive reach for a pen that wasn’t there. "Two million mora," he said, as casually as one might remark on the weather. "Approved this morning. Enough to finish your current line of inquiry, I believe." He closed the ledger with a soft thud. "Assuming, of course, you maintain this standard of conduct."
Dottore’s breath hitched. The sum was obscene, enough to buy a small estate or fund a decade of ethical research—not that ethics had ever been a consideration. The numbers spiraled in his head, morphing into vials of serum, fresh cadavers, the gleaming brass of a new autoclave. His remaining hand clenched, nails biting into his palm.
Dottore could only let out a quiet whine in response—not just at the sum, but at the way Pantalone's gaze lingered on his ruined body, clinical and possessive all at once. The pain in his leg pulsed in time with his heartbeat, a throbbing counterpoint to the hunger coiled in his gut. He exhaled sharply through his nose, then pushed himself upright with a grunt, his swollen knee buckling momentarily before he caught himself on the edge of Pantalone's desk.
The banker didn't flinch, didn't offer help; he simply watched, amused, as Dottore limped the remaining steps toward him, his gait uneven, his breath ragged as he forced himself forward.
When Dottore reached him, he didn't hesitate. He bent—wincing as his knee protested—and wrapped his remaining arm around Pantalone's shoulders, pulling him into a hug that was too tight to be tender, too desperate to be calculated. His lips found Pantalone's with practiced ease, the kiss less an affection than a transaction sealed in heat and the metallic tang of blood from where he'd bitten his own tongue earlier. Pantalone allowed it for a beat, then reciprocated with a languid dominance, his hand sliding up Dottore's spine to grip the nape of his neck, holding him in place as if he were a specimen pinned to a board.
"T-Thank you," Dottore murmured against his mouth, the words ragged, half-genuine. His free hand—the only one he had left—trailed down Pantalone's chest, fingers skimming the immaculate fabric of his waistcoat before settling low on his abdomen.
Pantalone chuckled, the sound velvet-dark. His own hand mirrored the motion, sliding down to splay over Dottore's stomach, fingers pressing just hard enough to make him aware of the emptiness there, the way his body had learned to accommodate hunger as easily as it had learned to accommodate him. "You've gotten loose," he observed, thumb rubbing a slow circle over the hollow beneath Dottore's navel. "All of you. Your holes barely grip anymore—makes you less useful." His voice dipped, turning the word into something filthy. "And yet... It's remarkable, isn't it? How you've adapted. No one else takes me quite like you do."
Dottore's breath stuttered. The comment shouldn't have mattered—shouldn't have sent a jolt of heat straight to his groin—but it did, and the realization made his cheeks burn. He broke the kiss with an awkward chuckle, turning his face away as if that could hide the way his pulse jumped in his throat. "Flattery won't make me any tighter," he muttered, aiming for levity and landing somewhere closer to breathless.
Pantalone laughed—a low, velvet sound that curled around Dottore like smoke—before catching his wrist in a grip that was more possession than caress. His thumb pressed into the soft underside of Dottore’s forearm, where the skin was thinnest, and dragged upward, tracing the raised lines of scars that mapped every incision, every desperate self-experiment. He brought the arm to his lips with a reverence that bordered on grotesque, kissing each mark as though they were scripture, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt and antiseptic that still clung to Dottore’s skin. "Beautiful," he murmured against the inside of his elbow, where a particularly jagged scar twisted like a lightning strike. "You’ve turned yourself into such a perfect depiction of your own suffering."
Dottore’s breath hitched—not at the praise, but at the way Pantalone’s teeth grazed the tender flesh just above his pulse point, a warning masquerading as affection as His fingers twitched, half-curling into a fist before forcing themselves still.
He knew better than to pull away yet Pantalone’s grip tightened anyway, as if he’d sensed the instinct, his other hand slid up to cradle Dottore’s elbow with a mockery of gentleness. His lips traveled lower, skimming the network of needle tracks that freckled the crook of his arm, lingering on a bruise so fresh it still bloomed violet under the skin.
Then Pantalone went rigid. His mouth stilled against Dottore’s arm, his breath cooling the damp trail of saliva his tongue had left.
Slowly, he lifted his head, his expressionless face a stark contrast to the sudden tension in his shoulders. "This," he said quietly, pressing a fingertip to the bruise, "--is new." The words were measured, but something in his voice had gone brittle, like ice over a river just barely thick enough to bear weight.
The puncture was shallow, barely more than a pinprick, but the skin around it was mottled with the telltale yellow-green of bruised healing.
He’d been careless—too eager to test the latest serum, too accustomed to Pantalone’s indifference to his smaller indiscretions. "An outlier variable," he muttered, flexing his fingers instinctively, as if he could shake off the accusation. "I needed a control subject. No one else was—"
Pantalone’s hand clamped down on his wrist like a vice, cutting off the excuse. His smile was gone, replaced by something colder, sharper—the look of a collector who’d found a scratch on his favorite artifact. "Stop." The word was a blade, clean and precise. "You don’t experiment on yourself. You don’t damage what isn’t yours to damage." His thumb dug into the bruise, just hard enough to make Dottore’s breath catch. "Do you understand?"
Pantalone’s grip didn’t relent, his fingers continued to press into Dottore’s wrist like a jeweler testing the purity of gold.
His voice, when he spoke, was deceptively soft—the kind of softness that came before a bone was set, or a wound cauterized. "You are my most prized possession," he murmured, thumb stroking the bruise with a mockery of tenderness. "And I don’t tolerate damage to my investments." His gaze flicked up, sharp as a scalpel. "Especially not when they’re self-inflicted– I thought I made that clear, doctor."
Dottore’s lips twitched, a reflexive sneer forming before he could stifle it. "Possession.." he echoed, tasting the word like it was something foreign, something he hadn’t yet dissected. He shifted his weight off his ruined leg, the movement sending a jolt of pain up his spine that he pretended to ignore.
"The others haven’t even noticed. They still think you fund me out of scientific curiosity." The last two words came out twisted, bitter—a poor mimicry of Pantalone’s own cadence.
Pantalone laughed then—a rich, rolling sound that filled the study like spilled ink, dark and impossible to wipe clean. His free hand rose to tuck a loose strand of Dottore’s hair behind his ear, the gesture almost affectionate if not for the way his nails scraped the shell of it. "Oh, my dear Doctor," he sighed, as if addressing a particularly slow student. "Money can keep anyone quiet. Even the Tsaritsa’s little hounds." His fingers trailed down to trace the line of Dottore’s jaw, lingering on the hollow beneath his chin. "And if it can’t, well... I’ve found other currencies tend to suffice."
Dottore went very still. The implication slithered between his ribs, settling cold and familiar in the pit of his stomach. He knew exactly what Pantalone meant—knew the ledgers the banker kept weren’t just for Mora– Knew the way debts were collected in this city, in this arrangement.
His reputation was already in tatters, but there were things even he wouldn’t trade: the last vestiges of his name, the brittle remains of his dignity, the work. Pantalone knew it too. That was why the threat worked– Because even a man as strong as he was had his weak points, and Pantalone knew how to pinpoint them as if they were the back of his own hand. The threat of whatever remained of his status being turned into nothing more than a mere fragment of the past always seemed to stop Dottore in his paths– He was a cruel man yet he was also a hungry one– One so utterly hungry for the need to be seen that even having his own self-worth dissipated for the pleasure of a single Banker was a good enough deal to keep him pliant– Even if it was for the gaze of a single man.
The silence stretched, thick with the unspoken. Somewhere beyond the study’s heavy doors, a clock ticked—each second measured, monetized. Pantalone’s smile returned, slow and satisfied, as he watched the realization settle behind Dottore’s eyes. "Good," he murmured, finally releasing his wrist. "We understand each other." He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him like a living thing. "Now. About that two million mora."
Dottore nodded mechanically, his gaze fixed on the bruise blooming across his knuckles—a mottled purple-black where Pantalone’s rings had bitten deep the last time he’d asked for clarification. "And the earlier requests?" His voice was hoarse, stripped raw from screaming into linen-wrapped gags. "Were they sufficient?"
Pantalone sighed, a sound like a ledger page turning. "Sufficient?" He tapped a manicured nail against his glass. "For two million, perhaps. But not for six." The ice clinked, a punctuation mark.
Dottore’s fingers twitched against his thigh. Six million mora was obscene—enough to rebuild his lab twice over, to buy silence from every magistrate between here and Snezhnaya. His throat worked around the question before it escaped: "W-..What else?"
Pantalone set down his glass with deliberate precision as he stood, the motion fluid as spilled ink, before he closed the distance between them. His palm settled low on Dottore’s abdomen, fingers splaying possessively over the hollow beneath his ribs. "An offer," he murmured. His thumb rubbed slow circles through the thin fabric of Dottore’s shirt, tracing the ridge of a fresh scar. "One you’ll find... illuminating."
Dottore went very still. The touch wasn’t unfamiliar—Pantalone had mapped every inch of him by now—but there was a weight to it that made his skin prickle. "Get to the point." Dottore muttered, trying to keep his voice from trembling.
Pantalone's hand lingered on Dottore's abdomen, fingers pressing just below the navel where the skin was still tender from sutures—a detail Dottore had attributed to another of Pantalone's whimsical procedures. The banker's thumb traced a slow circle over the barely visible scar, his smile curling like parchment held too close to flame. "You're healing well," he observed, voice smooth as the silk lining his gloves. "Better than the last one."
Dottore frowned, his own fingers twitching toward the site instinctively. "The intestinal resection?" He'd woken from that particular sedation with his gut neatly rearranged, Pantalone's notes left on the bedside table like a chef's recipe card—adjusted for optimal nutrient absorption.
A chuckle, low and velvet-dark. "No, darling. That was months ago." Pantalone's grip tightened fractionally, his nails biting just shy of breaking skin. "This one was... special." His free hand reached into his waistcoat pocket, withdrawing a small glass vial half-filled with amber fluid. He tilted it, letting the contents swirl lazily. "Do you recognize it?"
Dottore's breath hitched. The serum was his own design—an experimental compound meant to stimulate cellular regeneration in transplanted tissue. He'd abandoned the project when test subjects kept rejecting the grafts. "That's impossible. The trials—"
"Failed. Spectacularly." Pantalone tapped the vial against Dottore's sternum, the glass clicking like a clock's second hand. "Unless, of course, the donor and recipient share identical genetic markers." His smile widened, revealing teeth too even to be entirely natural. "Which, as it happens, we now do."
Pantalone’s palm pressed flat against Dottore’s abdomen, the pressure just shy of painful, as if he could feel the shape of his own handiwork through layers of muscle and viscera. His fingers flexed, possessive, tracing the ridge of scar tissue hidden beneath Dottore’s shirt—a meticulous, near-invisible seam only they knew existed. "You’ve been remarkably accommodating," he murmured, his breath warm against Dottore’s ear as he leaned in, the scent of expensive cologne and something darker clinging to his skin. "Sedation suits you. No thrashing. No complaints. Just... obedience."
Dottore’s breath hitched, his fingers curling instinctively against the edge of Pantalone’s desk as the banker’s other hand slid up his spine, pressing him forward until the polished wood bit into his hips. The vial still dangled from Pantalone’s fingers, the serum inside catching the lamplight like liquid gold. "Genetic markers," Dottore repeated hoarsely, his mind racing ahead of his mouth, piecing together the implications. His own research. His own failures. His own tissue. "You didn’t just—"
"Implant a womb?" Pantalone finished smoothly, his lips brushing the shell of Dottore’s ear. "Oh, but I did. A masterpiece, really. Custom-grown from your own modified cells, threaded with enough alchemical reinforcement to withstand even your... enthusiastic experiments." His grip tightened, forcing Dottore to arch back against him, their bodies slotting together with practiced ease. "You should be flattered. I’ve never gone to such lengths for a pet before."
Dottore’s laugh came out ragged, half-hysterical. "p-..pet," he echoed, the word bitter on his tongue. His fingers scrabbled against the desk, sending papers fluttering to the floor—invoices, ledgers, the detritus of their arrangement scattered like leaves. "You’re mad. That project was theoretical. The rejection rates—"
"Were a solvable variable." Pantalone’s hand slipped lower, splaying over the hollow of Dottore’s pelvis with a possessiveness that bordered on obscene. "Once I accounted for donor compatibility. Which, as it happens, I am." His thumb pressed just above the pubic bone, where the scar began, and Dottore shuddered, his knees buckling slightly. " Neither of us are young anymore, Doctor. Death comes for even the most ingenious minds. But legacy? Legacy can be... cultivated."
Pantalone’s kiss was a slow, deliberate thing—the kind that felt less like affection and more like a surgeon’s blade peeling back skin to expose something raw beneath. His teeth caught Dottore’s lower lip just shy of breaking it, a warning posed as tenderness, while his hands worked at the fastenings of Dottore’s robes with the practiced efficiency of a man who’d done this many times before. The fabric fell away in uneven increments, revealing the latticework of scars beneath—some pale and faded, others still puckered and angry, each one an entry in the accounting of Dottore’s body.
Dottore’s breath hitched as Pantalone’s fingers traced the newest scar, the one still tender from sutures, his touch lingering just below the navel where the skin was stretched taut over something foreign. "You’re perfect," Pantalone murmured against his mouth, the words velvet-dark and honeyed with something that wasn’t quite praise. "Already taking so well. Like you were made for this." His hand slid lower, fingers splaying possessively over the dip of Dottore’s pelvis, thumb pressing into the softness just above the pubic bone—a silent reminder of what lay beneath.
Dottore shuddered, his fingers scrabbling against the polished surface of the desk as Pantalone crowded him forward, the edge biting into his thighs. The vial of serum still dangled from Pantalone’s other hand, the amber liquid catching the lamplight like liquid gold, and Dottore’s gaze flicked to it instinctively, his mind racing ahead of his body. Genetic markers. Donor compatibility. Cultivated legacy. The implications coiled in his gut, hot and heavy, and he let out a whine—half-protest, half-surrender—as Pantalone’s teeth found the junction of his jaw and throat.
"Shh," Pantalone soothed, his free hand tangling in Dottore’s hair to tilt his head back, exposing the column of his throat. "Think of it as another experiment." His lips trailed downward, skimming the pulse point fluttering beneath Dottore’s skin. "One with incentives." The vial clicked against the desk as he set it down, his other hand sliding around to grip Dottore’s hip, fingers digging in just shy of bruising. "Six million mora," he murmured, the words a warm puff against Dottore’s collarbone. "Enough to rebuild your lab twice over. Enough to buy silence from every magistrate between here and Snezhnaya." His thumb rubbed slow circles over the crest of Dottore’s hipbone. "Enough to finish your work."
Dottore’s breath came in ragged gasps, his body arching instinctively into Pantalone’s touch even as his mind recoiled. Livestock, he thought wildly, the word slithering through his skull like a parasite. Breeding stock. The hand in his hair tightened, forcing him to meet Pantalone’s gaze—cool, calculating, utterly devoid of anything resembling warmth.
Pantalone’s fingers worked the fastenings of Dottore’s trousers with the same precision he applied to his ledgers—methodical, unhurried, each button undone with a click that echoed louder than it should have in the silent study. The fabric pooled at Dottore’s knees, baring the pale expanse of his thighs, the hollows of his hips, the patch of skin just below his navel where the scar still glowed faintly pink. Pantalone’s breath hitched, barely audible, as his thumb traced the ridge of it, his voice dropping to a murmur that slithered under Dottore’s skin like a scalpel. "Look at you," he breathed, the words honey-dark and thick with something that wasn’t quite admiration.
Dottore’s fingers spasmed against the desk, his knuckles whitening as Pantalone’s other hand slid between his thighs, fingers skating over the sensitive skin of his inner leg before settling higher, higher—his touch soft against the swell of Dottore’s clit, already stiffening under the attention. Pantalone hummed, low and approving, as Dottore’s hips jerked involuntarily, his body betraying him before he could school his reaction. "There," Pantalone crooned, his thumb circling once, twice, the pressure just shy of painful. "Just like that. You’re doing perfectly."
The praise curled hot and shameful in Dottore’s gut, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts as Pantalone leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of Dottore’s ear. "It’ll be over before you know it," he murmured, the words a velvet promise—or a threat.
Dottore barely had time to process them before Pantalone’s fingers were pressing inward, the stretch sudden and slick and wrong, his body yielding too easily, too familiarly, as if it had been waiting for this. Pantalone’s breath stuttered against his neck, his grip tightening on Dottore’s hip as he pushed deeper, his other hand still working slow, maddening circles against Dottore’s clit. "Archons," he breathed, the word reverent, "you’re oddly tight—still, after everything. Like you’re clinging to me– Did you request to be repaired? So sly of you, doctor."
Dottore’s vision swam, his knees buckling slightly as Pantalone’s fingers crooked inside him, the pressure there, lighting up his nerves like a live wire. A sound escaped him—half-gasp, half-whimper—and Pantalone laughed, low and delighted, his teeth scraping the nape of Dottore’s neck. "Listen to you," he murmured, his fingers never stilling, never relenting. "Like you’re starved for it." His thumb pressed harder against Dottore’s clit, the friction bordering on painful, and Dottore choked on a moan, his hips stuttering forward into the touch. "That’s it," Pantalone coaxed, his voice dripping with false sweetness. "Just let go. I’ll take care of you."
The words slithered under Dottore’s skin, settling heavy and insidious in the pit of his stomach.
‘Let go’. As if it were that simple. As if he hadn’t spent years—decades—clawing for control, for dominance, for anything to prove he wasn’t just another specimen pinned to a board. Pantalone’s fingers moved inside him with practiced ease, curling just so, making Dottore’s thoughts scatter like glass shards, his body arching into the touch despite himself. Pantalone’s free hand slid up his spine, pressing him flush against the desk, their bodies slotting together with a familiarity that made Dottore’s skin crawl. "Good," Pantalone murmured against his shoulder, his breath hot through the thin fabric of Dottore’s shirt. "So good for me."
Pantalone’s fingers withdrew with a slick sound that made Dottore’s stomach twist, but before he could even process the absence, the banker was already stepping back, his hands moving to the fastenings of his own trousers–The fabric pooled at his ankles, revealing the hard line of his cock already flushed and straining against the confines of his underwear. Dottore barely had time to register the sight before Pantalone was on him again, his mouth crashing against Dottore’s with a hunger that bordered on violence. The kiss was all teeth and tongue, Pantalone’s fingers tangling in Dottore’s hair to yank his head back, forcing him to take the intrusion deeper, harder, until his lips burned with the friction.
"Shhhh," Pantalone murmured against his mouth, the sound more command than comfort, his free hand skating down Dottore’s spine to grip his hip. "It’ll be quick. I’ll be gentle." The lie curled between them like smoke, thick and acrid, as Dottore had just enough time to brace himself before Pantalone was pressing forward, the head of his cock catching against Dottore’s entrance with a pressure that made his breath stutter. Pantalone didn’t hesitate. He thrusted in with a single, brutal motion, sheathing himself to the hilt in one smooth stroke, causing Dottore’s vision white out at the edges, his body arching off the desk with a choked gasp.
Pantalone groaned above him, his fingers tightening almost painfully on Dottore’s hip as he stilled, his breath coming in ragged bursts against Dottore’s throat. "Fuck," he breathed, the word reverent, his hips shifting minutely as if savoring the clench of Dottore’s body around him. "Just so obedient..."
His lips trailed down Dottore’s neck, teeth scraping over the pulse point, causing Dottore to shudder underneath his grasp, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the slick surface of the desk yet Pantalone didn’t give him time to adjust. He pulled out almost entirely, the drag agonizingly slow, before slamming back in with enough force to knock the breath from Dottore’s lungs.
Dottore’s gasp dissolved into a ragged moan as Pantalone set a punishing pace, his hips snapping forward with a rhythm that was anything but gentle, each thrust driving Dottore harder against the edge of the desk. The pain was sharp, bright, lancing through him with every movement, but beneath it—beneath it—was the creeping, insidious heat of pleasure, coiling low in his gut despite himself. Pantalone’s breath was hot against his ear, his voice a velvet-dark murmur as he fucked into Dottore with a precision that felt calculated, cruel. "There," he coaxed, his fingers tightening on Dottore’s hip, guiding his movements as if he were a marionette on strings. "Just like that. You take it so well."
The praise curled in Dottore’s gut like poison, shame and pleasure twisting together in a knot that made his chest ache. Pantalone’s thrusts were relentless, each one driving Dottore closer to the edge, his body responding despite his attempts to distance himself, his hips jerking forward to meet Pantalone’s movements as if they had a will of their own. Pantalone chuckled, low and satisfied, his lips brushing the shell of Dottore’s ear. "See?" he murmured, his breath warm against Dottore’s skin. "You don’t even have to think. Your body knows what it’s for."
Pantalone’s thrusts lost all semblance of rhythm, degenerating into something primal and punishing, each snap of his hips driving Dottore harder against the desk’s edge until the wood groaned under their combined weight. The banker’s breath came in ragged bursts against the nape of Dottore’s neck, his teeth sinking into the tendon there—not enough to break skin, but enough to brand the moment into memory. Dottore’s vision swam at the edges, his fingers scrabbling against polished oak as Pantalone angled him forward, forcing his spine into an arch that made the stretch burn.
"Look at you," Pantalone panted, his voice thick with something between awe and derision. His hand slid around Dottore’s hip, fingers splaying over the faint swell just below his navel—pressing down, in, as if he could feel the shape of himself through layers of muscle and viscera. "Archons, you’re deep—like you were made for this." His thumb rubbed slow, obscene circles over the spot where Dottore’s scar tissue stretched taut, the skin there still pink and sensitive from recent sutures.
Dottore choked on a gasp as Pantalone’s next thrust bottomed out with a wet slap, the head of his cock catching against something new—a pressure so intense it blurred the line between pain and pleasure. His body clenched instinctively, muscles fluttering around the intrusion, and Pantalone groaned, his fingers digging bruises into Dottore’s hips. “Gh..r-right..there-..” he hissed, his pace turning erratic, frenzied. "There—fuck, you feel that? That's exactly what we need." He punctuated each word with a snap of his hips, driving himself deeper with a single-minded focus that bordered on obsession.
Dottore’s whine dissolved into a ragged moan as Pantalone’s cockhead pushed, the pressure cresting into something unbearable—a fullness that shouldn’t have been possible, that wasn’t possible, not without the careful, calculated modifications Pantalone had commissioned. The stretch burned, a torturous brand that seared through his lower abdomen, prompting Dottore’s fingers to spasm against the desk, his nails leaving crescent-moon adjacent indents in the wood except Pantalone didn’t slow. If anything, he fucked into it, his hips pistoning with a brutality that left Dottore’s thighs trembling, his breath coming in shallow, punched-out gasps.
"Y-..Yes," Pantalone breathed, his voice cracking on the syllable. His free hand tangled in Dottore’s hair, yanking his head back to expose the column of his throat—a display, a claim, as his thrusts grew shallower, harder, each one jolting Dottore forward with enough force to make his teeth rattle. "Take it—take all of it—.." His rhythm stuttered, his hips stalling for a heartbeat as he buried himself to the hilt, his cock twitching inside Dottore with a heat that felt violating in its intimacy.
Pantalone’s smile was a slow, cruel thing—a blade drawn across silk—as he watched Dottore writhe beneath him, his body arched taut, his breath coming in ragged, animalistic gasps. The doctor’s fingers continued to claw at the desk, his knuckles bleached white with the strain of holding himself together, his hips jerking forward in aborted thrusts, desperate for friction even as his leg was on the edge of giving out. Pantalone chuckled, low and dark, his own hips stilling just as Dottore’s movements grew frantic, denying him the release his body so clearly craved. "So eager," he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of Dottore’s ear, the words honeyed with mock sympathy. "But patience is a virtue, Doctor. And you’ve never been particularly virtuous."
Dottore’s snarl dissolved into a whimper as Pantalone’s teeth scraped the sensitive skin of his neck, nibbling at the pulse point fluttering beneath the surface like a trapped bird. The banker’s tongue soothed the sting a moment later, lapping at the mark with a tenderness that felt like mockery. "Shh," Pantalone crooned, his fingers tangling in Dottore’s sweat-damp hair to tilt his head back further, exposing the column of his throat. "It’ll be beautiful. A masterpiece of patience and precision." His free hand trailed down Dottore’s spine, fingertips skating over each vertebra with deliberate slowness, mapping the tremors that wracked his body. "Think of it as an experiment. A study in delayed gratification."
Dottore’s breath hitched, his hips jerking forward involuntarily, Pantalone tutted, his grip tightening in Dottore’s hair, yanking his head back sharply. "Ah-ah," he chided, his voice dripping with faux disappointment. "No cheating." He leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of Dottore’s ear, his breath warm and damp. "I want to hear you beg for it."
Dottore’s throat worked soundlessly, his pride warring with the ache pooling low in his gut. Pantalone’s cock was still buried deep inside him, a hot, unyielding presence that made his muscles clench instinctively, his body betraying him even as his mind recoiled. Pantalone hummed, pleased, his thumb rubbing slow circles over the dip of Dottore’s spine. "There you go," he murmured, his voice thick with condescending praise. "Your body remembers its place, even if your tongue refuses to." He shifted minutely, just enough to make Dottore gasp, his hips stuttering forward in a futile attempt to chase the sensation. "Such a good specimen. So responsive. So obedient..."
The words curled like a snake in Dottore’s chest, the feeling was suffocating. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to stay silent, to deny Pantalone this final humiliation—but then the banker’s hips rolled forward, just once, just enough to drag his cock over that spot, and Dottore’s resolve shattered like glass.
A broken, ragged sound tore from his throat, half-moan, half-plea, his fingers scrabbling deeper into the slick surface of the desk.
Pantalone’s laugh was a dark, velvety thing, vibrating against Dottore’s skin. "There it is," he purred, his teeth grazing the hinge of Dottore’s jaw. "That wasn’t so hard, was it?"
Pantalone’s rhythm fractured—no longer calculated, no longer cruel, just hungry. His hips snapped forward with a force that drove Dottore’s ribs against the desk’s edge, the wood creaking under their combined weight. Every thrust was a punctuation mark, sharp and final, as if he were carving his ownership into the very marrow of Dottore’s bones. The banker’s breath came in ragged bursts against the nape of Dottore’s neck, his teeth sinking into the tendon there—not to break skin, but to brand.
"Take it," Pantalone hissed, his voice fraying at the edges like torn silk. His fingers dug into Dottore’s hips, guiding his movements with a possessiveness that bordered on derangement. "All of it." The words were less a command than a liturgy, repeated like a prayer as his pace turned erratic, frenzied. Dottore’s vision blurred at the edges, his body arching reflexively to accommodate the brutal depth of each thrust, the stretch burning where Pantalone’s cockhead pressed against the sutured hollow of his womb—a modification, a violation, one of many.
Pantalone’s climax hit like a guillotine drop. He stilled suddenly, his entire body rigid, before driving in one last, punishing stroke, burying himself to the hilt with a groan that vibrated through Dottore’s spine. His teeth found the juncture of Dottore’s shoulder, biting down hard enough to bruise as he pulsed inside him, each throb of heat a claim staked in flesh. "Good," he rasped against sweat-slick skin, the word mangled between panting breaths. "Good—go-..good—.."
It wasn’t praise. It was a mantra, an incantation, whispered like a man trying to convince himself of something.
His grip on Dottore’s hips tightened, fingers pressing into the bruises already blooming there, as if he could fuse them together through sheer force. Every thrust now was a punctuation mark—sharp, final—as if he were carving his ownership into the very marrow of Dottore’s bones. The banker’s breath came in ragged bursts against the nape of Dottore’s neck, teeth sinking into the tendon there—not to break skin, but to brand.
Dottore’s vision fractured at the edges. He could feel it—the way Pantalone’s rhythm unraveled, the precise, calculated movements degenerating into something desperate, hungry. The banker’s hips snapped forward with a force that drove Dottore’s ribs against the desk’s edge, wood groaning under their combined weight. His cockhead pressed relentlessly against the sutured hollow of Dottore’s womb, a modification that should have been impossible, should have been theoretical, if not for Pantalone’s morbid fascination with making him accommodate.
"Just..take it," Pantalone hissed, voice fraying like torn silk. His fingers dug into Dottore’s hips, guiding his movements with a possessiveness that bordered on derangement. "All of it."
Dottore’s body arched reflexively, his spine bowing to accommodate the brutal depth of each thrust, the stretch burning where flesh had been stitched and restitched to suit Pantalone’s whims.
Pantalone shuddered against him, his breath fracturing into jagged gasps as he buried himself to the hilt one final time, his fingers digging crescent moons into Dottore’s hips. The heat of his release pulsed deep inside, a violation so intimate it bordered on surgical—as if he were marking Dottore’s very marrow. For a suspended moment, they remained locked together, Pantalone’s forehead pressed to the sweat-slick plane between Dottore’s shoulder blades, his exhales damp and uneven against bruised skin. Then, with a wet sound that made Dottore’s stomach clench, he withdrew, his cock dragging obscenely over oversensitized flesh.
Dottore sagged forward, his one remaining arm trembling as it struggled to keep his torso upright. His breath came in ragged, punched-out gasps, his vision swimming at the edges where pain and exhaustion blurred into something hazy and indistinct. The desk beneath him was slick with sweat, his own spend smeared across the polished wood where he’d spilled untouched—Pantalone’s cruelest joke yet, denying him even the dignity of friction.
A hand carded through his hair, surprisingly gentle, tilting his head back. Pantalone’s lips brushed his forehead, the kiss almost chaste if not for the way his thumb traced the swell of Dottore’s cheekbone, smearing tears he hadn’t realized he’d shed. “Beautiful,” Pantalone murmured, his voice rough with spent desire. His other hand slid down to cradle Dottore’s abdomen, fingers splaying over the hollow where his womb had been restitched to accommodate Pantalone’s whims. “You took it so well. Like you were made for this.”
Dottore’s throat worked soundlessly. His legs threatened to buckle as he attempted to straighten, his knees locking and unlocking in erratic spasms. Pantalone chuckled, catching him effortlessly around the waist, his grip firm enough to bruise. “Easy,” he soothed, the word dripping with condescension. He guided Dottore backward until his spine met the solid warmth of the Banker’s chest, their bodies slotting together with a familiarity that made Dottore’s skin crawl. “You’re shaking. Here—”
A glass pressed against his lips, the rim cool against his swollen mouth. Dottore drank greedily, the water a balm to his raw throat, only to recoil as the aftertaste hit—bitter, medicinal, laced with something that made his pulse stutter. Pantalone’s fingers tightened in his hair, forcing him to drain the glass to the dregs. “For the pain,” he explained, his lips grazing the shell of Dottore’s ear. “And the fever. You’re burning up, darling.”
Dottore’s whine escaped before he could stifle it—a high, thin sound, more animal than human, torn from a throat raw from screaming. Pantalone’s hands on his shoulders were firm yet gentle, guiding him backward until the plush upholstery of the chair cradled his aching body. The sensation of being handled with such care was alien, wrong in a way that made his skin prickle with unease. He was accustomed to Pantalone’s touch as a scalpel, not a salve—sharp, clinical, hurting. This tenderness was worse.
“There,” Pantalone murmured, smoothing a thumb over the hollow beneath Dottore’s eye, where the skin was thin enough to show the delicate tracery of veins. His voice was honeyed, thick with a satisfaction that bordered on reverence. “You did so well.” The praise slithered under Dottore’s skin, settling in the marrow of his bones like a toxin. “Just nine months,” Pantalone continued, as if discussing the incubation period of a particularly fascinating mold. His fingers trailed down to press lightly against Dottore’s abdomen, where the flesh was still tender from sutures, the skin stretched taut over the hollow that had been modified. “Then everything goes back to normal.”
Dottore’s breath hitched. The words were a lie wrapped in silk, too smooth to be anything but calculated. Normalcy had been excised from his life the moment Pantalone’s ledger had snapped shut around his throat. His fingers twitched against the armrests, nails digging into the velvet until the fabric groaned. “Normal..” he echoed, the word tasting like ash on his tongue.
Pantalone smiled—a slow, indulgent thing—and cupped Dottore’s jaw, forcing his gaze upward. “Don’t look so skeptical,” he chided, thumb brushing the swell of Dottore’s lower lip. “You’ll wrinkle that pretty forehead.” His other hand remained splayed over Dottore’s abdomen, possessive even in its gentleness. “Like I said before-..Think of it as an experiment. A temporary variable.” His voice dropped, conspiratorial. “And when it’s over, I’ll let you dissect every inch of the process. Down to the last cell.”
Dottore’s pulse stuttered. The promise was too precise, too tailored—Pantalone knew exactly which hooks to set in his ribs. His mind spun with the implications, the possibilities, even as his body rebelled at the thought of being a vessel for anything but his own obsessions. A shudder wracked him, his ruined leg spasming where it was propped awkwardly on a cushioned footrest.
Pantalone chuckled, the sound rich and velveteen, as though Dottore’s skepticism were nothing more than a child’s petulant defiance. His fingers lingered at the doctor’s jawline, thumb brushing the faint tremor there with something almost like fondness. “You always overcomplicate things,” he murmured, bending slightly to hook an arm beneath Dottore’s knees, lifting him with the same effortless grace one might reserve for handling a prized sculpture—careful, but only because of its monetary value.
Dottore stiffened, his remaining hand instinctively grasping at Pantalone’s shoulder as his ruined leg dangled uselessly. The movement pulled at the fresh sutures low in his abdomen, a sharp, bright pain that made his breath hitch. Pantalone’s lips quirked at the sound, his grip tightening just enough to make the doctor’s nails dig into the fine fabric of his coat. “Easy,” he chided, his voice laced with amusement. “Wouldn’t want you tearing anything prematurely, would we?”
The walk was slow, deliberate—Pantalone’s strides measured to accommodate Dottore’s uneven breathing, the occasional twitch of his overstimulated muscles. They passed through the study’s gilded doors and into the dimly lit corridor beyond, where the air was cooler, thick with the scent of aged parchment and something faintly medicinal. Dottore’s gaze flickered over the familiar path, his stomach knotting as they neared the secluded wing where Pantalone kept his more unusual investments.
“You’re quiet,” Pantalone observed, glancing down at him with a smirk. “No scathing remarks? No biting wit?” His fingers flexed against Dottore’s thigh, pressing into a bruise that hadn’t yet faded to yellow. “Disappointing.”
Dottore’s jaw tightened. He could’ve spat something caustic, could’ve twisted the words into a weapon—but exhaustion draped over him like a leaden shroud, heavier than Pantalone’s arms. Instead, he let his head loll against the banker’s shoulder, the motion yielding just enough to feel like surrender. Pantalone’s chuckle reverberated through his chest, warm and self-satisfied.
The hallway stretched longer than it had any right to, its polished mahogany panels swallowing the sound of Pantalone's footsteps as though the house itself were holding its breath. Between the gas lamps' flickering light, shadows pooled like spilled ink—deeper where the corridor branched toward the estate's older wings, where the air carried the faint metallic tang of antique preservation spells and something darker beneath.
At the terminus, almost hidden behind a tapestry depicting some long-forgotten financial conquest, stood the kennel.
It was a beautiful thing, in its way—carved ebony with gilded accents, more ornate than necessary for its function. The double doors were inset with frosted glass panels, their delicate etchings of vines and thorns obscuring whatever lay beyond. Pantalone paused just outside, adjusting his grip on Dottore's thighs as the scientist tensed instinctively, his breath hitching where his cheek pressed against Pantalone's shoulder.
"n-..noo," Dottore muttered, the word half-swallowed, more reflex than protest. His fingers flexed against Pantalone's coat, nails catching on the embroidery.
Pantalone chuckled, the sound warm against Dottore's temple. "Now, now," he chided, nudging the door open with his knee. The hinges swung soundlessly, revealing the interior—plush velvet cushions in Pantalone's signature navy, a low table bearing a carafe of water and a single crystal glass, the far wall lined with shelves of neatly labeled vials. More concerning were the restraints artfully incorporated into the design: silk-lined cuffs dangling from the ceiling, delicate chains coiled beneath the bedding like sleeping serpents.
"You've outgrown the cage," Pantalone murmured, stepping inside. The air was cool, scented with bergamot and something faintly chemical—antiseptic, Dottore realized, his stomach twisting. Of course Pantalone would sterilize his playthings. "But you still need containment, don't you? Structure. Boundaries." His fingers trailed down Dottore's spine, tracing the knobs of vertebrae through sweat-damp linen. "Especially now."
Dottore's jaw tightened. He knew what Pantalone meant—knew the way the banker's gaze lingered on his abdomen, where sutures pulled with every breath. Knew the careful calculus behind every "gift," every "indulgence." Six million mora didn't buy silence; it bought compliance. It bought this.
Pantalone crossed to the raised platform at the kennel's center, its surface covered in the same navy velvet as the cushions. He lowered Dottore onto it with surprising gentleness, his hands lingering at the scientist's hips as he arranged his limbs with the precision of a mortician preparing a specimen. "There," he murmured, smoothing a wrinkle from Dottore's sleeve. His thumb brushed the hollow of Dottore's elbow, where the skin was still tender from earlier procedures. "Comfortable?"