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A lone melody drifted through the empty corridors of the Zapolyarny Palace, its sound lingering against the cold stone. It carried an eerie persistence, cyclical enough to unsettle most listeners, yet to the discerning ear it concealed something more deliberate: an invitation which was carefully composed to disguise the danger threatened through every note.
Pantalone followed the sound without hesitation.
He knew most subordinates considered the unseen pianist someone best avoided. Rumours clung to the music as stubbornly as smoke to curtains, and servants often hurried past these corridors with lowered gazes and quickened steps.
He had never shared their apprehension.
When he entered the room, the melody did not falter, though Pantalone sensed at once that his presence had been acknowledged. As always, he settled comfortably into the familiar pursuit that unfolded during these private concerts.
He flicked open his lighter and drew the flame to the end of his cigarette. Only then did the pianist miss a note, the brief falter almost imperceptible beneath the steady current of music.
Another repetition of the melody followed.
Pantalone chose not to comment. Dottore's frustration already lingered plainly beneath each key; there was little satisfaction in pointing out what neither of them intended to conceal.
“Your desire for immortality directly contradicts your insistence on smoking yourself into an early grave,” Dottore said, never once turning from the piano.
“It is life's smaller pleasures that make immortality worth pursuing in the first place,” Pantalone replied with a slow chuckle. He exhaled a thin ribbon of smoke into the dim light before continuing. “Then again, I suspect you are far more aggrieved by the thought of your masterful work on my lungs going to waste.”
In place of an answer, Dottore struck a high note.
“Touched a nerve, have I?” Pantalone asked, amusement threading through his voice, though the sound earned little appreciation from his companion.
When no answer came, he rose from his seat and took a long drag from his cigarette before exhaling smoke slowly across the piano keys, provoking for the sake of provocation alone.
Dottore's fingers stilled against the instrument. “Hardly,” he replied.
To Pantalone's irritation, he knew the man spoke the truth.
How insufferable.
Dottore rose abruptly. One hand crashed against the keys, wrenching a cacophony of notes from the piano, while the other snatched the half-smoked cigarette from Pantalone's fingers. Without hesitation, he brought it to his own lips and inhaled deeply.
Pantalone smiled despite himself, irritation and amusement intertwining beneath the thin veneer of composure he maintained so carefully.
“I do hope I am not proving a poor influence.”
Pantalone plucked the cigarette back from Dottore's grasp. Instead of returning it to his lips, he lowered the burning end onto the hand still pinning the piano keys beneath its weight.
A harsh, dissonant note groaned from the instrument.
Dottore did not flinch.
As expected.
The burn blossomed against his pale skin, the small circular mark reddening into something raw and angry as smoke curled faintly from the contact point. The scent of singed flesh lingered briefly beneath the heavier haze of tobacco.
Pantalone watched closely for the slightest fracture in Dottore’s usually collected state: a twitch, a tightened breath, anything.
Nothing came.
Or, at the very least, nothing Dottore allowed him to see.
The burned hand lifted into the air, its fingers gliding through the fur cloak draped across Pantalone's shoulders before travelling upward to rest against his neck.
Pantalone suspected that behind his mask, Dottore concealed many things. Most notably, the way his gaze must have traced the length of Pantalone's arm before settling upon the steady pulse beating beneath the thin skin of his throat.
“Wondering how I might bleed?” Pantalone asked with a faint smile as Dottore's thumb traced the steady rhythm of his pulse.
It had not been long since Pantalone had passed one of Dottore's laboratories and glimpsed those same hands buried deep within their own flesh.
He still remembered the scene with uncomfortable clarity.
Several segments had crowded around the operating table, knives glinting beneath the cold lights while open flesh and half-finished incisions marked the body laid before them. Some worked with clinical precision, others argued quietly amongst themselves, as though dissecting their own form amounted to little more than routine maintenance.
A shiver slipped down Pantalone's spine.
“No,” Dottore replied.
His thumb pressed more firmly against the pulse beneath Pantalone's throat.
“Does it not seem fitting that I should be the one to choke the final breath from your lungs, rather than leave the task to those pathetic things you insist on inhaling?” His voice remained maddeningly calm. “After all, it was I who gave you the ability to breathe so easily in the first place.”
Pantalone's pulse faltered beneath Dottore's thumb, drawing a self-satisfied smile onto the doctor's lips.
“How transparent,” Dottore mused.
His hand shifted against Pantalone's throat before settling firmly around his windpipe. The pressure increased slowly, deliberately, until each breath demanded just a little more effort than the last.
“Am I?” Pantalone gasped through uneven, constricted breaths, the grin tugging at his mouth betraying exactly how intentionally he had placed himself there. “It isn't I who seems envious of a mere cigarette.”
Dottore closed the distance in what Pantalone presumed to be a kiss intended on silencing him. Not, of course, to deprive him of his breath further—though that remained a welcome side effect.
Pantalone leaned into the mirthless kiss, his eyelids fluttering shut. He allowed himself to be guided, unresisting, perfectly content to let the doctor do as he saw fit.
It was a performance they both understood.
Dottore played at control, while Pantalone indulged the illusion of surrender. Beneath it all, neither of them strayed far from what they wanted—Dottore believing he led, and Pantalone trusting that every move would still bend, ultimately, to his own design.
Though, perhaps it was a little foolish to believe that Dottore's actions would always align so neatly with his own desires.
Dottore's second hand joined the first around Pantalone's throat, tightening the pressure until the world at the edges of his vision began to blur. Pantalone's own hands found the piano behind him, fingers scrambling for purchase as he tried to steady himself.
Cold, high notes hissed beneath his touch, the instrument screaming out in fractured tones that seemed to seep into his skull. His thoughts scattered, drowned beneath the sound, until all that remained was a single, consuming need for air.
His hand fluttered upward and fell over Dottore's grip—not to stop him, not to intervene, but simply because it had nowhere else to go.
There was not a coherent thought left in Pantalone's mind to guide his actions.
And yet, Dottore released him.
Pantalone drew in his freedom with a shuddering gasp, dragging air into the lungs so generously “gifted” by his partner.
“I would be justified in presuming this is not where you would like this encounter to end?” Dottore asked, his tone offering no indication of whether or not he welcomed the prospect.
“Good boy,” Pantalone taunted, his voice hoarse and strained, yet carrying an unmistakably disingenuous edge beneath the wreckage of his words.
Dottore released him and pulled away with an irritated groan, the roll of his eyes easy enough for Pantalone to imagine even beneath the mask.
“Your choice of words leaves much to be desired.”
“And yet I desire all the same,” Pantalone replied as he settled before the piano, crossing one leg neatly over the other. He tracked Dottore's movements while the doctor paced past the chaise Pantalone had occupied only moments earlier.
Dottore's attention flicked briefly towards the abandoned furniture before returning to him.
“On the chaise? Surely that's far too comfortable for your tastes.”
“Indeed,” Pantalone said, leaning back against the piano, soft wandering notes stirring beneath the pressure of his elbows.
“Is there no other segment available to entertain your wiles?” Dottore asked, the question carrying a faint edge of disdain.
“And deprive you of our little song and dance?” Pantalone replied, amusement threading through his voice as the final piano note lingered between them.
Something unpleasant stirred at the edge of his thoughts. Small, but insistent enough to irritate despite his efforts to ignore it.
They were nothing to one another. At least, that was the lie both of them maintained with such careful devotion. And yet their relationship had long since tangled itself into something dependent, something contingent upon the other's continued indulgence.
The thought of Dottore simply passing him off to another segment—a less occupied copy with the same face and voice—left an ugly sensation gnawing beneath Pantalone's skin. For the first time, he found himself wondering whether his little performance had always been far more one-sided than he had cared to admit.
“There is no need to pout,” Dotorre said, mockery slipping through his voice as he caught the brief flicker of disappointment that crossed Pantalone's face. His lips twitched with amusement. “Such a look does you no favours.”
Pantalone let out a quiet hum. “And yet you put it there regardless.”
Dottore crossed the room once more and stopped before him, looming over Pantalone's seated form. His hand brushed gently along Pantalone's cheek, the softness of the touch standing in stark contrast to the violence he had inflicted upon his throat only moments earlier.
His thumb traced the curve of Pantalone's lips before he pushed two fingers into his mouth with abrupt, almost careless force.
Pantalone accepted them eagerly, coating the digits with saliva while refusing to break eye contact—or, at least, what he assumed to be eye contact beneath the doctor's mask.
“Keen thing.”
Dottore's fingers pressed more firmly against Pantalone's tongue while his other hand shoved aside the fur cloak and began undoing the buttons of his blouse. One by one, the layers parted to reveal the flushed skin hidden beneath cloth, composure, and carefully maintained patience.
Pantalone continued sucking on Dottore’s fingers, twirling his tongue around the two digits wordlessly—not that speech remained a possibility in his current state. Still, satisfaction twitched faintly at the corners of his mouth. Beneath the strain and humiliation, a glint of triumph lingered.
He was exactly where he wanted to be.
Dottore withdrew his fingers from Pantalone's mouth, then guided him upright and spun him around in one swift, abrupt movement, bending him over the piano and lowering his trousers before he could gather himself.
Pantalone exhaled sharply as sudden cold air swept across his back. A moment later, the same slick fingers he had so carefully prepared pressed into him without warning.
The touch felt neither gentle nor rough. It lingered maddeningly close to satisfaction without ever quite reaching it—and endless tease that left Pantalone wondering how much longer he could endure it before he begged for more.
He knew Dottore expected him to ask. Yet pride rooted itself stubbornly in Pantalone's throat. Even like this—exposed, aching, desperate beneath Dottore's hands—he could not bring himself to voice what he wanted so plainly. He would not plead.
Dottore needed to figure it out on his own.
Though, judging by the deliberate and measured pace of Dottore's fingers, Pantalone suspected he already had. Dottore never needed to guess. The moment Pantalone had stepped into the room, he would have understood exactly why he had come.
The fingers inside him twisted, and an embarrassing gasp escaped Pantalone before he could stop it. He rarely made sounds like that, but the heat building beneath his skin had become overwhelming.
Dottore leaned over him, his chest firm against Pantalone's back as he pressed him further over the piano. The movement struck a careless cluster of notes from the keys beneath them, an uneven melody cutting through the thick air. He lowered his mouth beside Pantalone's ear, close enough for warm breath to ghost across his skin.
“Such a beautiful singing voice.”
Pantalone's eyes widened slightly. “I could sing you a song,” he said, voice strained at the edges, “if you would just do what is necessary.”
The words cost him more pride than he cared to admit. Impatience simmered beneath his skin now, hot and relentless, but this still marked the closest thing to begging he would ever offer. Another gasp escaped him, softer this time, lingering deliberately in the air as though tempting Dottore with the promise of more.
Dottore did not relent.
Instead, his free hand slipped back around Pantalone's throat, fingers tightening just enough to steal the sound from him before it couldform the promised song.
“You can be patient,” Dottore hissed into his ear.
A whine broke from Pantalone's throat before he could suppress it.
It wasn't enough.
Dottore's fingers left him aching, desperate and maddeningly unsatisfied. Every slow thrust pushed him closer to the edge only to abandon him there, trembling and painfully hard. His body burned with neglect, each nerve crying out for more while pleasure continued to hover just beyond his reach.
Slowly, he lowered his hand towards his weeping length, only for Dottore to intercept him midway. With effortless strength, he forced Pantalone's arm behind his back and held it there.
“What did I say?”
Pantalone offered no rebuttal. What defence could he possibly muster when Dottore kept dragging him to the very brink, only to pull him back again at the last possible moment? Every fleeting scrap of pleasure came carefully measured, cruelly controlled. Whenever Pantalone thought Dottore might finally grant him what he wanted, the man snatched it away again, no doubt wearing that infuriatingly self-satisfied smile.
And Pantalone knew he had brought this upon himself.
His endless taunts, his sharp tongue, the dismissive arrogance he wielded so freely—all of it had fed Dottore's vindictive streak until it twisted into this slow, deliberate torment.
Once more, Dottore's fingers brushed against the sensitive nerves inside him.
Pantalone's breath caught.
He was close. So painfully, desperately close, and—
Dottore withdrew completely.
“No!” The cry tore itself from Pantalone's throat, raw and broken. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes as frustration and need crashed through him all at once. It was unbearable—too much and never enough, pleasure dangled before him only to be ripped away again and again until he thought he might lose his mind.
“Zandik!”
Dottore stilled.
For a brief moment, silence swallowed the room, thick and heavy around the name Pantalone had let slip.
“Feofan.” Dottore spoke the name with calm certainty, as though to remind Pantalone that they still stood on equal footing despite everything.
Pantalone swallowed hard against the tightness in his throat. “I will not beg,” he said, the words leaving him strained and uneven, as though he needed to reaffirm the act as much to himself as to Dottore.
“I know,” Dottore replied.
The immediate answer unsettled him more than mockery would have.
Pantalone's fingers twisted weakly against the piano keys beneath him, drawing another, discordant note from the instrument. “Then why?” he asked quietly.
A faint smile tugged at the corners of Dottore's mouth, sharp with cruel amusement.
“Because watching you try not to,” he murmured, “is far more pleasurable than any result could ever be.”
Pantalone turned towards Dottore, fury set hard across his face. With sudden, uncharacteristic aggression, he seized the loose strand of hair that fell across the accursed mask and yanked Dottore down to his level. He had grown tired of staring at the porcelain and metal when what he truly wanted were his eyes.
Dottore hissed at the pull but allowed himself to be dragged closer all the same. Meanwhile, Pantalone's other hand rose to the mask adorning his face, fingers brushing against its edge with barely restrained irritation.
At last, their eyes met.
Yet even then, neither found what they searched for in the other's gaze.
“Get it over with,” Pantalone ordered.
Not begged.
That distinction still mattered.
Dottore held his gaze with an unnamed intensity, now visible without obstruction in those eyes Pantalone had so long been denied. Wordlessly, he stepped closer, positioning himself between Pantalone's legs as he worked open the fastening of his trousers.
A faint, relieved breath slipped from Pantalone before he could stop it.
“Your body is honest,” Pantalone said with an edge of disdain through his voice as Dottore's arousal pressed against his own.
Dottore gave a quiet huff that might have been amusement. “I have never been dishonest about my needs,” he replied. “Your patience, however, seems to be where the problem lies.”
“Do not fault me for your experimentation leaving me in my current predicament,” Pantalone said, each word clipped with controlled irritation.
He cast a pointed glance downward, deliberately guiding Dottore's attention to where he meant it to land.
Hard, flushed, and tense with restraint—
“You chose this,” Dottore said. “You needn't come to me to vent your frustration. There are plenty of others—segments, subordinates—who would obey you without question, should you so much as order it.”
Dottore watched him as he spoke, as though weighing every reaction.
“Any of whom would hang on to your every word.”
“And just moments ago you claimed not to have been dishonest about your needs,” Pantalone replied, rolling his eyes as fatigue crept into his expression. The chase, the careful push and pull of it all, began to wear thin.
Dottore did not look away.
“I'm not talking about my needs,” he said.
Something in Pantalone snapped. He seized Dottore by the hair again and used it to close the distance between them, dragging him into a forceful kiss. At the same time, he reached between them, gripping them both in a rough, decisive motion—not to linger, but to bring matters to a swift end.
Within seconds, he came undone, releasing Dottore's lips with a low, satisfied sigh. He let his head fall back against the piano, eyes closing as he rode out the last of it in quiet satisfaction.
“Rather anticlimactic,” Dottore hummed.
“Don't pout,” Pantalone replied, his voice still breathless. He tipped his head back up, his eyes meeting Dottore's. “Such a look does you no favours.”
Yet when he met Dottore's eyes again, the expression he had expected was not there. No pout. No complaints. Only a faint, knowing sneer—something far more dangerous.
Pantalone's confidence faltered for the briefest moment. “What—”
Dottore pulled free from his grip without warning, shifting in close and pressing inside him in a sudden, decisive moment.
“No, wait—” Pantalone gasped as Dottore pressed into him without warning, the suddenness stealing what little sense of self he had left. His breath caught, body tensing at the oversensitivity lingering from his release.
“Ah—!”
Pantalone bit down on his lip until he tasted blood as Dottore pressed closer, holding him firmly in place while he struggled against the overwhelming intensity of it all. Every nerve in his body flared in protest, oversensitive and strained, and instinct drove him to twist away from the position despite knowing escape was impossible.
Dottore caught his hands before he could push him off properly and pinned them above his head with effortless control. Then, with infuriating gentleness, he brushed the blood from Pantalone’s mouth with his thumb and brought it to his lips, licking the crimson stain clean off.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Dottore whispered against his ear, though the absence of genuine concern rang unmistakably through his voice.
Pantalone wanted to laugh. Wanted to spit some sarcastic remark about Dottore’s jealousy—childish, possessive jealousy that refused to tolerate anyone else leaving marks upon him. As though another person could ever compare.
Yet Dottore denied him even this small act of defiance. Even biting his own lip bloody in an attempt to maintain composure, to keep his voice restrained, seemed to fall outside the liberties Dottore intended to allow him.
“You infuriate me,” Dottore spat, the words edged with genuine irritation now rather than his usual amused cruelty. His grip tightened, restraint bleeding into something harsher and far less controlled. “Your arrogance. Your endless need to provoke. Every look, every word—all of it crafted to demand attention.”
He leaned in closer, voice lowering into something dangerous.
“And despite all the people who would gladly throw themselves at your feet, you still insist on coming to me.” A bitter laugh escaped him. “As though I alone should tolerate your pathetic needs.”
He pulled out, then thrust straight back in.
Pantalone flinched as Dottore’s temper finally surfaced in earnest. Gone was the measured teasing from before; frustration now drove every movement and clipped breath. Yet even through the anger, Dottore refused to let him pull away.
And again.
“You push and push until you get a reaction,” Dottore continued, his voice tightening with each word. “Then you act surprised when I finally lose my patience.”
And again.
Beneath him, Pantalone trembled despite himself, every strained breath and involuntary twitch betraying just how overwhelming the situation had become. Still, Dottore showed no intention of relenting.
When Dottore slowed, his gaze travelled over Pantalone’s body, taking in the ruin he had made of him.
Pantalone’s composure had long since shattered, leaving behind only frayed restraint and exhausted defiance. His abdomen bore evidence of a new release, while the rest of him trembled faintly from straight and overstimulation. Tears smeared at the corners of his eyes, and thin streaks of blood trailed from where he had bitten his lip raw again and again in a desperate attempt to endure in silence.
And yet, even now, even reduced to this—
A faint smirk still lingered at the corners of his mouth.
Dottore stared at him for a long moment before a disbelieving laugh escaped him, edged somewhere between amusement and genuine madness.
“You’re insane,” he said.
The laugh lingered under the words as he tilted Pantalone’s chin upward, forcing him to meet his gaze properly.
“You lay trembling beneath me, barely holding yourself together, yet somehow I am the one who has lost.” His mouth twisted into something darkly entertained. “You look far too content for someone suffering so greatly.”
Dottore traced a single finger along Pantalone’s oversensitive length, a low laugh rumbling from his chest when the touch drew a shiver and strained whine from him.
In one abrupt movement, Dottore dragged Pantalone down and forced him into his knees with little regard for his wellbeing. The impact sent an ache through him, but Dottore gave him no time to recover.
A hand buried itself in the hair at the crown of Pantalone’s head, fingers tangling tightly before tugging hard enough to keep him still. Then Dottore pressed his head firmly against his abdomen, the gesture possessive, impatient, and unmistakably deliberate.
As Pantalone forced his eyes open again, his gaze immediately fell to Dottore.
He was still painfully hard.
Through all of this, Dottore had denied himself any real release, letting frustration simmer beneath every movement and biting remark. And now, with Pantalone kneeling before him and Dottore’s hand still tangled in his hair, the expectation hanging between them could not have been clearer.
Dottore wanted something in return.
Pantalone exhaled through parted lips, exhaustion weighing through his limbs, yet a flicker of satisfaction still lingered beneath it all. After everything Dottore had dragged from him, perhaps indulging him now felt only fair.
Pantalone complied, never once breaking eye contact with Dottore as he leaned in close. Distrust lingered tight beneath his skin; experience had taught him that any gentleness offered by Dottore could vanish without warning the moment he grew comfortable enough to trust it.
Yet, for now, Dottore remained still.
Patient, almost indulgent, he allowed Pantalone to dictate the pace himself, and little by little, the tension in Pantalone’s shoulders began to ease.
A mistake.
Sudden pressure against his oversensitive cock tore a breath from him. Unable to glance down from where Dottore held him, Pantalone only caught the unmistakable curve of amusement spreading across his face.
A boot.
Of course.
Pantalone held the smirk in check with a frown of his own, but he refused to stop. Pride kept him steady, even as irritation began to build beneath his restraint.
Dottore, meanwhile, maintained that same measured precision—too deliberate to be anything but intentional. Whether it was punishment or simply another reminder of control, it was clear he had no intention of letting Pantalone dictate the terms for long.
Acting on impulse more than judgement, Pantalone retaliated by scraping his teeth across the delicate skin of Dottore’s cock.
Dottore’s expression shifted—amusement vanishing in an instant. His grip tightened, forcing Pantalone still as control snapped back into his hands with ruthless efficiency.
Pantalone tensed under the sudden reversal, breath catching as the dynamic shifted once again, his earlier confidence cut cleanly short by the cock deep inside his throat.
“Careful,” Dottore murmured, the edge of his voice far sharper now. “You forget yourself.”
Pantalone struggled against the fullness of his mouth; his lips were spread wide, and he could taste blood as it trickled from his cut and onto the coarse hair at the base of Dottore’s cock.
Then something in Dottore cracked.
His composure slipped, breath turning rough and uneven, expression tightening with strain that he could no longer fully conceal. But any thought of respite was quickly dispelled.
Dottore’s movements grew more forceful—chasing his own release. He seized Pantalone more firmly, pulling him in with both hands and holding him there as the last remnants of restraint vanished into something far less measured. He thrust his cock down Pantalone’s throat as he pushed his head towards him with an unrelenting grip.
Pantalone tensed, overwhelmed, caught in the shift once more. Whatever control he had thought he might still claim evaporated in an instant, his throat reduced to nothing more than a toy intended for Dottore’s pleasure, gagging and drooling around his cock.
When Dottore pulled him close, he exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes closing as he forced himself to focus on the torrent of the man’s release, swallowing it down as if he’d been trained to do so.
Dottore pulled away, and the room stilled.
He stared down at Pantalone, taking in his dishevelled state—flushed, breathing unevenly, his cock limply hanging between his legs and a trail of Dottore’s release trickling down his chin.
And yet, for all of it, he did not look nearly as broken as Dottore might have liked.
A laugh escaped him then—low and amused—as he reached out and hauled Pantalone upright with an almost casual efficiency, restoring order after chaos.
Pantalone brushed past him, smoothing the creases from his coat. The chaise gave a soft sigh as he settled into it again, one leg crossing neatly over the other. His lighter flared between his fingers; smoke curled upward as he drew from a fresh cigarette.
“Why don’t you play another song for me, Zandik?”
Dottore held his gaze for a beat, amusement flickering at the corners of his mouth. Then a laugh slipped from him as he turned back to the piano, fingers already drifting towards the keys.
“Of course, Feofan.”