Archive of Our Own

Desultory is the snow that falls in the midst of Snezhnaya’s autumn, Pantalone decides. Not quite heavy enough to cloak the streets; not quite runny to be taken by the sun at noon. Rather, it powders–like a pastry, dotted with confectioner’s sugar–atop coats, within the folds of fur linings. Sludgy and noncommittal.

Pantalone is, as always, rather unsatisfied with the sporadic nature of early snowfall. What a bother, he concludes, because there is no purpose to suffering from both Snezhnaya’s egregiously early sunsets and the cold. Thus a nightly retreat to a beating fire within his chambers and a pot of tea is appealing, indeed.

He should have known all good things come with a price. A mere ten minutes after Pantalone returns to the palace, shivering and frosted, a letter finds its way into his hands. A thin, unsubstantial little thing, decorated with ruby red insignias inlaid upon a wax seal. 

And just as he was beginning to grow comfortable; godsdamnit!

His servant casts him a curious glance as he shuts the door to his office, but says nothing. Good. It would do neither of them well to ruin his mood further. So, he sits at his desk. 

Swiftly, though not with haste, Pantalone slips his letter opener underneath the seal. Its pop suggests a recency that intrigues him; he shifts in his seat and narrows his eyes.

What follows is a sigh; he fishes his lighter from deep within his coat and sparks it. Once, twice. Then, a full flame, underneath the cigarette he nurses.

Ah. Now, a frown.

Regrator,

If you are wondering why I tracked your coordinates and awaited your return, it is due to an emergency. An emergency, hear me!

Pantalone was, in fact, not wondering. Yet, details were provided. Such is the nature of Il Dottore–he does not need to parse the letter for its sender, for his handwriting is enough evidence.

I humbly request your presence at the palace cathedral tonight–sometime around 1:00. Yes, it is late; no, I do not particularly care. Nevertheless, I still do not quite know when I will be ready. I am well aware this is a favor, and that my chances of your compliance are low. Let me reiterate: an emergency!!!

Il Dottore

If there is one thing Dottore is well-versed in outside of his scientific realm, it is the art of being a grievance. This has not changed in the many, many years they have spent as colleagues. Pantalone takes a drag and pinches the bridge of his nose.

Now, a decision: should he, or should he not entertain him? A quick nod to his clock suggests he is running out of time to weigh the pros and cons. Gods, had he arrived late–and gods, is he tired.

Pros: Dottore is his superior, thus having him in his debt would be valuable, indeed. Irresistibly so. Depending on the severity of this “emergency,” Pantalone could have him trapped within the palm of his hand for a rather long time–plus interest. Oh, merely pondering the array of options he could have in his grasp makes him smile. How utterly delightful.

Cons: paperwork. There is always paperwork to be done when mingling with coworkers’ affairs beyond certain thresholds. Repairing loopholes and such.

Nicotine makes everything more manageable, he finally decides. Even procuring paperwork from Dottore, of all people.

And so, begins his trek to the cathedral. He instructs his night shift guards to search for him if he does not return by first light. This, at least, is a comfort.

Deep within the bowels of the Tsaritsa’s domain lies the palace’s cathedral. A glorious building of sweeping, organic shapes and high ceilings; not in use anymore, however. Perhaps a century after the Tsaritsa’s climb to power, all architecture alluding to the previous Tsar had been left to rot. Maybe, Pantalone reasons, it is due to the Tsaritsa’s own grief, a gnawing chasm in her heart. Maybe it is envy. He surmises he will never truly understand.

But this does give Pantalone pause, caution forcing his boots to a halt before the looming structure. It blots out the silver moonlight with spiraling points. Almost akin to a crown

Why, now, would Dottore press him to meet in such a secluded location? Would his laboratory not yield identical results? In fact, the laboratory holds all of the tools that he would–hypothetically–desire to run such an experiment. That is what this is, Pantalone knows, because there is nothing else that comes out of that forsaken man’s mouth. 

Experimentation, statistics, reagents, reactants, nomenclature, and proposals for extensions on his very overdue debts. Nearly two million mora. The imbecile!

He supposes this, here, is his opportunity to press him on the matter. Such is why his opening line, upon entering the cathedral, is as follows:

“You have quite a bit of nerve, Doctor.”

As if he’d expected Pantalone’s dissent (of which he likely had), Dottore’s own echoed response is, “well, you are here, aren’t you?”

Pleasantly, the cathedral borders on warm despite the chill of the night. Pantalone allows the double doors to fall shut with a slam. Finality in brass and steel.

“Indeed.”

He twirls his cane within the palm of his hand. Goes over the dilemma of whether he should wear his coat or not. He relents and peels off his coat, draping it over the back of an ornate chair.

“You may thank me for considering your weak constitution,” Dottore calls. Pantalone is aware this is his way of expressing gratitude for his acquiescence. “Only the gods know why you are not acclimated to the cold yet.”

The source of the warmth becomes clear to him as he steps further towards the pews. Candles, in haphazard rows, dot the stone floor in a path to the altar. At its apex stands Dottore: tall, broad-shouldered, masked, and grinning. As per usual.

“As I am,” Pantalone glances at his pocket watch, “approximately four minutes early, I do expect an ample apology for summoning me outside of work hours.”

“Ha!” Dottore tips his head back in a cackle. “I applaud your attempt.”

It is now that Pantalone notices something… rather odd about Dottore’s constitution. Despite the fact that Dottore summoned him, he seems to be the most nervous out of the two of them. Well, not nervous–jittery, perhaps. A nervous Dottore is a menacing, angry man. Is it anxiety? Caffeine?

Shifting back and forth, leg to leg. His mask gleams with amber hues. Hm.

“Until you apologize–with enthusiasm–I refuse any further conversation,” Pantalone rebukes. Here it is: this familiar dance. A tiptoe to the left, a lilting waltz to the right. Dottore peers this way and that, ensures they are alone, and lifts his mask. Red eyes assess him with purpose. With glee.

“Well, anyway, I am in a bit of a bind.” Dottore tosses his mask towards the pew nearest to him. It lands with a metallic clatter. “As you could have predicted by the urgency of my letter.”

With his lips firmly sealed, Pantalone inspects his rings. To claim their work relations are past cordial is an understatement; rather they’d flung themselves off of the edge miraculously quickly. Nothing too physical nor intimate–only a sly remark, or a teasing brush of finger against the tender nape of Dottore’s neck, or the swath of his chest. Which is how Pantalone knows Dottore prefers him like this: slinking down the rows of pews with an unaffected smile. He comes to a stop a few meters before the steps to the altar.

“I am well aware I would be in your debt if you were to accept my proposal,” Dottore continues. Now, closer. His voice drops to a low murmur, as if afraid of eavesdropping subordinates. When Pantalone raises an eyebrow, he corrects himself. “Further in your debt.”

What an image he makes in the dead of night: luminous, somehow, in spite of the creeping shadows. Flickering, sharpening his edges into serrated blades not unlike his teeth. A jagged maw of unending pursuit and hunger. The scar tissue of his cheeks creases into a frown when Pantalone hums, but does not speak.

“Therefore,” Dottore continues, “it would be unbecoming of me to not offer you something of value in return.”

In lieu of a response, Pantalone grasps at the opportunity to make him squirm. It is precisely what he deserves for forcing Pantalone to chase the exhaustion from his system with caffeine of his own.

“At least give me a nod,” he whines. Pantalone shrugs. “Fine! Alright, fine. I suppose I apologize.”

Ample, Pantalone mouths. Too easy. They both know it is intentional.

“I apologize, Banker. I apologize for summoning you at this ungodly hour, for requesting your presence after work hours, and for lighting at least ninety candles for you,” Dottore says. His voice teems with sarcasm. It is the best Pantalone will get. “Will you ever consider forgiving me for such transgressions?”

“Mmh, perhaps,” Pantalone answers, a bit too quickly, “although my forgiveness depends on your performance.”

“What a subtle innuendo,” Dottore sneers. In their metaphorical dance he braces his forearm against Pantalone’s back, cradling his waist. “What an honor it is to have your forgiveness. I will surely treasure it for decades.”

Even through his monotonous tone, something audibly shifts. Quietly, softly. The sweet lull of a sunrise, encapsulating a room with its cold rays and stark shadows. Before long, the tension grows to its maximum capacity; a magnetic pull, unforgiving in its ferocity. Pantalone relents.

One step. Dottore’s eyes narrow. Two steps. His tongue passes over his lower lip. Three steps. He smirks.

“Passable,” Pantalone says. Dottore’s smirk splits into a grin.

“Banker,” he purrs, low in the back of his throat, “do you trust me?”

Surprise makes its way over his face before he can catch it and squash it down. Dottore appears pleased with himself.

“Oh? Where did this come from, hm?”

Trust is a rather strong word for their relationship–even in terms of business partnership. Coexistence is a more apt description. The barometer to measure trust requires a positive rapport and significant time spent together. Only one of these concepts applies, and it is certainly not the former.

“And? Do you?”

Dottore must see the disdain in his eyes, for he does not appear particularly shocked when Pantalone says, “my, my. That is hardly the first term I would use in regards to you.”

“Hmmm. Perhaps that is what you believe,” Dottore seems to reason, leaning his back against the altar. Is this forced nonchalance, or a true display of comfort? And if it is genuine–if this is a Dottore within his element, even outside of his quarters–what, exactly, does that entail?

Oh, but Pantalone knows. Inside and out, he knows. It curls up his spine in cold pulses, a primal warning. This is not the affect of a man prostrating himself to appease. 

If Dottore were really, truly seeking his aid, he would not be so placid.

“Well, are you going to tell me what this is about?” Pantalone demands. Despite his efforts, he steps forward once more. Dottore chuckles and leans towards him, as if he had predicted his move. “I do believe I am owed a thorough explanation for your stalling.”

Dottore nods with faux sympathy. So sure of himself, in all aspects. Always one step ahead, methodical and calculated. Perched atop a shrouded canopy with those deeply set eyes of his, analysis in the form of quiet amusement.

Pantalone can, of course, keep his pace–and this is precisely why Dottore favors him.

Except for now, it seems. Well, Dottore does clearly favor him here, in this proximity; it is just that Pantalone has exactly zero inclination as to what he is planning. His eyes glimmer with something urgent, yes, but not antsy. As if observing his meal as it is prepared for slaughter.

Hunger. Yes, hunger. But–most importantly–why?

“If you did not trust me, you would not be here.”

Pantalone regards him as if he were talking to a small child. He says, slowly, “Doctor, you summoned me.”

“You were not required to show.”

“Ah, and that would reflect negatively on our business relationship,” Pantalone counters, “for your future compliance is most enticing, indeed.”

“Look around, then,” Dottore urges. Pantalone blinks at him and remains as is. “Or shall I describe your surroundings to you?”

A low, simmering anger swells in his gut. Pantalone barks, “do not condescend me-”

“You are here,” Dottore interrupts with a sharp laugh, “before me, in an isolated location, with nothing but the weapons you carry. And I am aware,” Dottore points at precisely where he stashes his knives, “you are not as proficient in combat as I am.”

“Oh, would you simply elaborate?”

What a strange, strange silence. In lieu of their typical push and pull, bloated with an egregious amount of audacity, this tension borders on cautious. And it is not solely from Pantalone–no, in fact, the vast majority of it stems from the shifting of Dottore’s posture. From head to toe, eyes trailing each corner of the cathedral with measured pulses. 

Somewhere between the doors and Pantalone’s body, Dottore seems to make a decision. Firmly, manifesting as a frown.

“Anything for you, dear Regrator. Perhaps a physical demonstration shall do?”

Two things occur within the same moment. The first, Pantalone could have predicted with his eyes closed and ears plugged: Dottore plucks his knives from their holsters with ease, dropping them to the ground–all except one. They fall in tandem with his cane, sweet notes of metal against marble flooring. The second is what causes Pantalone to freeze.

All of the pressure crystalizes into a singular, oppressive force. All of it, from the depths of his spine to the top of his head. Swollen and heated within his throat. And outside of it. Because there, against the tender flesh of his neck, is Dottore’s mouth.

Languid, sultry, and decidedly out of character. Almost kind, as a lover would–unfathomable, to treat Pantalone so coyly. That is his role Dottore bastardizes within their dynamic. This is his type of technique, and most importantly, these are his eyes that widen so much that he swears they may pop out of their sockets.

He fights back, squirming in Dottore’s grip–of which has been magnified by exponential numbers, as if Pantalone is his lifeline. A shock of something white-hot sears through him. 

Oh. Oh, no, no, no. This simply cannot be happening!

“What–Doctor, what in the hells are you doing?” Pantalone hisses, to the tall ceiling. Its painted figures seem to mock him with their cherubic smiles. “If this is intended as a taunt, I can assure you I-”

“Tsaritsa almighty, do you ever stop talking?” Dottore sneers, right against the wetness of his spit. Pantalone shudders before he can help it, eyes squeezing shut.

“Unhand me!”

He struggles with more fervor. Dottore snarls something wholly animalistic and shakes his head. Minty locks curl in between Pantalone’s fingers–and then stretch as he yanks him up by his scalp.

“Ack-” Dottore winces. Serves him right, Pantalone thinks. “That hurts!”

Curse the poor lighting he had decided was ample enough. Pantalone must narrow his eyes, leaning in much further than he would prefer–all to search Dottore’s eyes for an explanation. Any explanation.

He’d been prepared for claims of a joke gone too far, or passionate declarations of adoration; inlaid sickeningly sweet, like the wetness of his tongue. Even hatred, solely constructed to cause Pantalone as much misery as possible. 

What he finds is precisely what he had been afraid of: an option unbeknownst to him entirely. 

“You will tell me what this is about,” Pantalone murmurs–squeezes his hand into a fist as Dottore growls, “or I will snap your neck here and now.”

“Ha! You wouldn’t dare,” Dottore says. Commendable bravado for someone in his position, flustered and off-guard as he is. Pantalone raises an eyebrow. “You’d really incite the Tsaritsa’s fury?”

Urgh. What a nuisance! Pantalone sneers and jostles his head about–just enough to prove his point.

“Oh, my! And does my fury not hold any significance to you?”

With great effort, Dottore wriggles his way out of Pantalone’s grasp. Well, it is more of a jagged lurch accented with a sharp curse. He cannot hide the flush on his cheeks as much as Pantalone’s own.

And what does this mean, exactly? Better yet, why does Pantalone stay?

“Oh, but you are a practical man.”

“As are you,” Pantalone points out, “yet here we are.”

“You and your endless mind games,” Dottore sneers, through gritted teeth. How odd–for but a moment, the light catches on his teeth with atypical severity. “I should have known you would be far from easy pickings.”

Wait a moment. A shift: two gears colliding into smooth synchronicity, whirling and pulsating with enough momentum to propel Pantalone into motion. Swiftly, Pantalone sweeps forward and slams Dottore’s back into the altar, unforgiving despite how its edge surely digs into his spine. Dottore crows something to the effect of an insult; no mind.

What matters is this, here: Pantalone jams his pointer and middle fingers into his mouth. A rosy fixture atop porcelain skin marred into creases–both from age and fire–ajar to send a protest Pantalone’s way. Before he can try, Pantalone parts his fingers and slides them to either side of his gums, exposing two rows of exquisite teeth.

And four unmistakably pointed canines.

Oh. Oh, now he understands.

A pause. Sweeping adrenaline rushes through Pantalone’s veins, pumps his heartbeat into his ears. Dottore’s eyes widen in shock, his hands utterly still against Pantalone’s shoulders. His chest rises and falls with rapid breaths, ghosting along the leather of Pantalone’s glove.

Folklore from his homeland refers to them as jiangshi. In tales of ancient Snezhnaya, their close relatives seem to be the Fae. Yet, still; of all of the possibilities–hundreds of thousands of them–Pantalone had not considered this one. But it makes sense, oh does it make too much sense to disregard.

Dottore is a vampire.

“Oh?” Pantalone muses. Then, with passion, “oh, Doctor. You've been keeping secrets from me.”

There it is again: that very same hunger. Amplified, now, to a degree Pantalone had not thought possible. Dottore careens forward with so much ferocity that Pantalone stumbles lest he fall, wrapping him in an embrace. Purely functional. Tactless.

“You simply had to know, didn’t you?” Dottore says, hotly against his ear. Pantalone bites his lip against a startled yelp. “Your greed is horrific to behold.”

“Oh, dear. That is beyond hypocritical of you to say.”

“This could have been significantly easier if you had let me have my way with you,” Dottore says with a bitter laugh, “but no.”

Unfortunately, Pantalone cannot dismiss the stirring in his gut at his words. He still expresses disappointment.

“How disheartening.” If his memory is correct, his knives are a silver alloy–which should be a dangerous material against undead skin, enough to sunder it with ease. “You left me one of my blades. Were you expecting a confrontation, hm?”

“I could take your life just as well. You are aware of this, right?”

With that, Dottore parts his lips and jams his teeth into his neck. Jagged pinpricks of pain lace his skin with dueling sensations of hot-cold-hot. Pantalone snarls and tears him off with enough movement to dislodge his glasses; as Dottore stands he rights them. Merely to embrace the entirety of his being in this fascinating new light.

A trickle of something sticky oozes down his neck, into the collar of his dress shirt. Dottore’s blazing eyes follow its path. He licks his lips. Noticeably, they are lacking blood.

“My, my,” Pantalone murmurs. Here Dottore is, in all of his glory: pallor, strength, alluring muscle definition, and sharp teeth. Made to carve, for gnawing and tearing; even without the addition of his fangs. Ah, it is no wonder he seems to be beyond this world, despite his visionless status. Pantalone had only assumed his immortality had been tied to his experimentation.

“I could make it all so easy,” Dottore reasons. His words hold little impact when he gazes at Pantalone with such ample longing. “Absolutely painless.”

With a sly laugh, Pantalone asks, “oh, really?”

“Yes, really. You would not feel a thing.”

“Mmh, I find that hard to believe.” Dottore scowls and nearly stomps his foot. How delightful he is when he does not get his way. “You are not particularly known to be gentle with your food.”

“I cannot deny that–but I could numb you with morphine,” Dottore still tries, gesturing to his earring. Its contents sway in tune with Pantalone’s laughter, casting neon blues against his jaw. “Come on! Doesn’t that sound nice? ”

“Let me see if I am understanding this correctly,” Pantalone says. Dottore moves to lunge at him. In an instant, Pantalone grips his neck with both hands. “Goodness, how needy!”

“You–do not tell me what to do!” Dottore heaves. Pantalone shakes his head and smiles. In response, Dottore gnashes his teeth like a cornered animal.

“Oh, but I do. You sought me, remember?” Pantalone laughs, tightens his grip, “out of all of your subordinates–and all of our colleagues–you chose me as your benefactor.”

“Ack–fuck you,” Dottore spits. He claws at Pantalone’s forearms. Pantalone lessens his grip, watches his anger swell. “Meaningless jabber. Why in Teyvat did you think I wasted so much of my precious time in your insufferable presence?”

At least the exorbitant amount of time they’ve spent together has a purpose, now. Well, an additional purpose. As much as Dottore clearly wishes Pantalone were less intelligent than he is, it is simply not the truth.

“Hm. Are all vampires as crude as you are, Doctor?” Pantalone ponders. As if to prove his point, Dottore sucks in a breath and hisses. “No, I suppose you are a special case.”

“I will rip your throat out,” Dottore rages, “I will gut you and devour your entrails!”

“My! I am sure you will.” As much as it is not an empty threat, Pantalone simply cannot resist this game. Delicious, a ripened fruit ready to be gorged. Within their mental dance he lifts his leg in preparation. “Open wide, Doctor.”

“I will make you beg for me to have mercy on you.” A twinge of fear sinks its nails into Pantalone’s spine, the hairs at the back of his neck standing on edge. A touch too late for him to correct; Dottore latches onto this vulnerability with a ravenous snarl. “Oh, so you do value your life.”

“Hm,” Pantalone offers. Pulsating, nauseating, the heat within him catapults out of his skin. He must appear to be a mirror of Dottore: red-faced and stubborn.

“You are nothing compared to me.” Surely. “You will bow down to me.” Right. “I am divine.”

“Enough of this,” Pantalone sighs, and steps back. In one, sharp movement, he braces his hands against Dottore’s shoulders–and shoves. As he takes his own plunge, Dottore falls to his knees with a cry. “I told you to open.”

How exquisite he appears like this, Pantalone decides–and who else has seen the esteemed Second as debased as this, he wonders? No one of note, lest Dottore would not gaze upon him with such palpable shock. On his knees, eyes wide and brimming with hatred, lips open on a wordless expletive. Within the beat of silence that follows, Pantalone sheds his rings and gloves. Exposing, in teasing swaths, the pale undersides of his arms.

Dottore follows each and every movement with reverence. Pantalone steps forward, decisively, and caresses the crown of his head.

“How very intriguing.”

A pretense of mercy: Pantalone draws soothing circles atop Dottore’s scalp, as if petting a dog. He may as well be, given the way in which he acts–all bark and little bite. 

They both know very well the strength Dottore has, as a vampire, easily eclipses Pantalone’s own. Even still, Dottore quite nearly melts, eyes lidded and hazy.

“Stop this–this madness,” he seems to say with much effort. Retaliation: Pantalone smiles something warm and yanks him forward so hard, Dottore nearly screams. “Fuck!”

He does not resist. He should. Pantalone raises an eyebrow.

“What is this, hm?”

It is now that Pantalone understands the crux of their meeting. He’d assumed this would be all–just enough to frighten Dottore into subservience, never to taste a drop of his blood. Perhaps their business relations would suffer; so be it, Pantalone had accepted. But that is not the case. Not one bit.

He pauses, pretends to contemplate his next move. Dottore seizes his opportunity to speak.

“This is unacceptable,” he warns, a low growl at the back of his throat. Pantalone shrugs and raises his good leg. “You are beyond deranged.”

Well, he should have considered this possibility. Just as he should have considered Pantalone’s pristine boot, drawing a firm line up the inner seam of his trousers. Dottore’s next intake of breath is sharp, his throat bobbing.

“Oh, and it is acceptable for me to submit to your abuse?” Pantalone laughs. Slowly, tauntingly, he presses the tip of his boot against Dottore’s cock. High and proud in his trousers so soon–utterly unmistakable. 

What a pity it is he’d cornered Pantalone, of all men.

“Why, of course it is. You are nothing but fodder.”

Is he now? Pantalone purses his lips in faux pity and intones, “you must understand, Doctor–I do not take very kindly to your habit of exploitation.”

Gorgeous, Pantalone decides–how gorgeous he is when he has lost his footing, fumbling for control. Even at his proper place at Pantalone’s feet he postures himself as superior, shoulders raised and eyes narrowed. So be it. Pantalone raises his foot, licks his lips–and presses his pointed heel into the base of Dottore’s cock.

Dottore wheezes as if it had been torn from his chest. He grasps at Pantalone’s calf, and snarls when Pantalone barks, “no touching.”

“I will do precisely what I want,” Dottore spits, to no avail–his chance to profess his disagreement had long passed. He will fight and fight, Pantalone knows, until his ego is bruised enough to wither. “Need I remind you that you are below me?”

Pantalone narrows his eyes: a challenge. Therefore it is not exactly unexpected when Dottore claws at him with fervor, fingertips digging into the crease of his knee. Dull and aching.

“There is no need,” Pantalone says, all-too placidly, “and it would do you well to remember your position.”

He rips Dottore’s hands away and tightens his grip within his hair. There is something reckless hidden underneath Dottore’s layers of cold analysis and self-proclaimed superiority. Only Pantalone is capable of coaxing it out, with promises of fighting equal footing. Of barbed tongues and taunts with true substance.

It pleases him to no end.

“There is always a need to make you remember I am superior to you,” Dottore counters. A pause; then, a lecherous grin. “Considering your ranking, you should bow to me.”

Well, that simply will not do.

“What are you–ah, that hurts!” Dottore hisses. Pantalone takes advantage of having his free hand at the ready by prying his jaw open. Saliva pools at the tip of his tongue, dripping in sticky lines down his chin. A swell of pride consumes Pantalone entirely; he is this aroused, already?

“Keep your mouth open for me,” he muses. The muscles in Dottore’s jaw contract. “Ah-ah. No biting.”

The mouth of a predator. A steel trap, sharpened so exquisitely. It would take only one bite for him to tear Pantalone’s hand asunder–perhaps to the bone. Yet he sits. He waits.

He obeys.

“Good,” Pantalone praises, merely to see what Dottore will do. Something malicious crawls its way across his features, from his eyes to his mouth. “Oh, my! If I did not know better, I would assume you intend to harm me.”

No matter. Before Dottore can attempt to retaliate he grinds a vicious line down his cock and gathers the saliva in his mouth. Dottore’s mouth opens wide on a voiceless cry; the perfect opportunity.

Pantalone reels back, smiles, and spits cleanly into his mouth. Then, he slides his fingers out–or, he attempts to.

How proactive his Doctor is: so, very quick to clamp his mouth around his fingers, teeth scraping against his knuckles. Only barely. Now, Pantalone would condemn him under typical circumstances; but here, with his cheeks hollowed and eyes blazing with urgency, an idea flickers to life.

“Oh, look at you,” Pantalone sighs, stroking Dottore’s chin with his thumb, “you do not wish to let me go?”

Of course, Dottore cannot answer him. So, Pantalone conjoins his fingers, lays them flat within Dottore’s mouth–so hot and wet, his exhales reaching him in a staccato rhythm against his wrist.

“How do I taste, hm?” he taunts, rolling the pads of his fingers atop Dottore’s tongue. From the tip to its widest bit, then from side to side. Dottore positively trembles, lips glistening. “Tell me, mutt.”

He lodges Dottore’s mouth open, watches his drool split in crystalline lines.

“You taste of nicotine,” Dottore snarls, “disgusting.”

As if Pantalone’s blood would taste any different. He merely laughs–clearly, this is not the response Dottore had anticipated, for he peers up at him like he’d been wounded.

Ah, well. It would not be fruitful to Pantalone’s goal if he withheld what he desires for too long. Rushing hotly, his blood pumps a steady pulse in his ears, at his carotid artery. Surely compensating for the loss, still oozing into his shirt. He will simply be made to press Dottore to replace it–so messy!

“I have a proposal of my own, Doctor.” Mutual benefit is the key to a prosperous outcome. But Pantalone does not wish to hand every bit of control over to Dottore on a silver (rather gold?) platter, mind; absolutely not! So he does this: flashes a condescending smile, all venom and fangs, and slides a teasing hand up his torso. Up, up, all the way until he finds his neck, digging bare fingers into the wound. He grits his teeth through the sting; and to his pleasure, Dottore squeezes his eyes shut and inhales deeply. “Before I expand upon the details, I must ask you once more.”

With a grandiose effort, Dottore opens his eyes–hazy and unfocused–and stutters on an exhale. Slowly, ever-so-slowly, Pantalone guides his bloodied fingertips to Dottore’s nose. His nostrils flare, eyes wide with desire–but he does not move. 

True pride swells through Pantalone. Perhaps he can withstand more than he imagined.

A reward in the form of dragging his fingers along Dottore’s waiting tongue. So imperceptible he may as well not be there at all, the barest hint of a touch. Dottore’s eyes widen to such a degree, Pantalone fears they will remain stuck forever. But, no, when Dottore’s tongue wraps around him he quite nearly weeps, his eyes shut in such ecstasy. Oh, Pantalone envies him; what sweet moans, what utter bliss, thighs clenching and rubbing together against his heel.

He need not ask how he tastes when the answer lies before him. So, instead, he ponders, “it certainly appears as if my taste is exquisite. Am I an anomaly, hm?”

“I can’t, I–” Dottore’s voice shatters and dips into a whine as Pantalone pulls his fingers away. A string of Dottore’s spit follows in yearning. With immense effort he steadies himself, tongue trailing over his upper canines as if to soothe them. “I only need blood, see. I have not fed in weeks!”

“Mmh. This is my problem, how?”

“It is absolutely imperative that I feed lest my output suffers.”

“And a situation so dire leads me to assume you would seek any soul to defile,” Pantalone says. Yet here they are. Here Pantalone is, grinding slow and dirty circles against Dottore. His slacks darken considerably. He is this wet with his arousal? Truly?

“As if I would stroke your ego beyond what is necessary to keep you around,” Dottore laughs. Fair enough, Pantalone supposes. With tentative hands, Dottore loosens the tie of his jabot and undoes the button of his shirt collar. As if he is wary to break the spell, laden with the scent of iron. “Give me more.”

“Oh, my. Ask politely and I may do so.” In truth, Pantalone has no plans of allowing Dottore to take his blood–yet. “However, this does tie into my proposal.”

Swiftly, Pantalone brings his once-bloodied hand to Dottore’s neck. A gentle caress, just in case–then action, his spine lengthening as he bends at his waist. His breath ghosts against the swell of Dottore’s lower lip. He wets his own lips.

“Does your proposal include your typical, frivolous demands?” Dottore breathes. Pantalone opens his mouth wider, licks a line across Dottore’s cheek, to his decorated ear. “Ah-!”

“If you can manage to bring me to orgasm,” Pantalone whispers against the shell of his ear, and grins when Dottore’s shoulders jerk, “I will provide only as much blood as you require to function.”

Why not keep him as he is? Ah, what a delicious thought; the almighty Dottore, wrapped around his finger and pleading for sustenance. Aching to claim him. For weeks it seems, drawn out to a torturous degree. The reality is, of course, not quite as Pantalone would enjoy.

“‘To function?’ Haha!” Dottore sneers, and orients himself so that they are face-to-face. Vigor brings them in even closer, almost touching. A livewire, thrumming and ready to snap. “I will accept your asinine proposal if you give me as much blood as I desire.”

“How much blood does a human body contain?” Pantalone muses. A threatening finger slips its way underneath Dottore’s collar. “I shall modify my proposal as needed.”

“Approximately five to six liters,” Dottore growls. Its impact is severely dampened by the quickening of his breaths.

“Then I will allow you to take no more than one half of a liter per feeding.”

In lieu of a verbal response, Dottore lunges upwards and gnaws at Pantalone’s lip. Not enough to draw blood, but he certainly is not gentle. A desperate noise rises from Dottore’s throat, and Pantalone claims it with a proper kiss.

Languid, sultry–then decisive, Dottore’s tongue forcing its way past his lips. Pantalone permits the aggression, running his teeth over the meat of Dottore’s tongue. Although he is certain it stings, Dottore groans and bucks his hips, seeking friction, yes, glorious friction. Such is why Pantalone pushes more of his weight into Dottore’s cock, nearly to the point of agony.

A broken moan rasps between their lips. Pantalone is unsure whether it is his or Dottore’s. The result is all the same–closer, more proximity, now–laden with pulsing electricity. Down, all the way into his gut, writhing and pulsing for more. His own cock stirs, aching within the confines of his slacks. He almost gives in and finishes his teasing for his own sake, lets himself have mercy on Dottore–perish the thought! What would the fun be in that?

All good things come with patience.

“Down, Doctor,” Pantalone hums into his mouth. Dottore acquiesces, pulling back and sitting on his heels with a ravaged growl. “Oh, you learn quickly! Good boy.”

Now, something utterly fascinating: Dottore positively shudders, lips bitten and swollen in the precise hue of a bloomed rose. Would it be uncharacteristic for him to be beautiful? Yes. That is still the lone thought that wills itself into Pantalone’s mind, because he is. Flushed and wanting, eyes hazy with desire.

“Beautiful,” he enunciates aloud, and runs his fingers through Dottore’s hair at the precise moment he presses down, and hard. Decidedly more pressure than previously established, accented with a deliberate grind. Dottore’s eyes roll back on a voiceless cry. “My, you are such a masochist!”

“You–deplorable sadist,” Dottore wheezes. Oh, Pantalone cannot take this anymore–him and all of his defiance, still so strong-willed even after all of this. All of his pain, the temptation of Pantalone standing before him; surely an agonizing feat. Within his eyes, malice teems and glimmers like spilt blood. Pantalone swoops down and presses a filthy kiss into his mouth, ravishing him with his tongue.

“Pray tell,” Pantalone whispers against him, “could you cum from this alone? From me stepping on your cock as you drool like a mutt?”

“I–ahh, do not-” Dottore moans, and Pantalone pauses. Waits. A small respite. Breathlessly, Dottore struggles against his hold, wheezes, “I do not know.”

“Yet you wish to learn,” Pantalone guesses. He need not wait for Dottore’s response. With brutality he kicks a firm circle, up to the tip of his cock–and holds steady. Elastic pulled taut, the muscles in Dottore’s arms jump and contract, his next breath hissing through his teeth. “My, how pathetic you are! Humiliated by a mere mortal.”

He adjusts his posture. Then, with a smile, steps directly onto his cock. Dottore keens, thrashes, grips his own thighs with immense effort, wails something incomprehensible and low in his chest. Sweetly, Pantalone presses against his lips, “remember: no touching.”

“Ah! Oh, it hurts, fuck,” Dottore heaves, chest rising with rapid breaths, “it’s too much!”

“Hm. You can handle more,” Pantalone says, and demonstrates just so. This is for summoning me after hours, Pantalone snarks within the comfort of his mind, and kicks another vicious grind into Dottore. His voice splits as he throws his head back, the pallor of his neck on full display. The perfect opportunity for Pantalone to grip his collar with effort, straining against his throat. As intended, Dottore seizes up and keens, fingers frozen in the midst of a futile plea.

Precum leaks through his trousers, onto the sole of Pantalone’s boot. Pantalone sneers; Dottore’s shoulders rise to his ears, ruddy and hot.

“Filthy mutt. Look at what you’ve done.”

He yanks Dottore’s head down. Sweat dots his browbone, stringing the frontmost strands of his fringe together. Pantalone is well aware he hardly has the mental faculties to focus on providing an answer. No matter.

“My, what a mess!” Pantalone continues. Even if Dottore wishes to counter him, Pantalone ensures he cannot–physically, as he tightens his hold on the collar. Dottore chokes on a sharp inhale, eyes wide yet unseeing. “To think a man of your caliber possesses such base needs.”

It is twofold, in a way. Pantalone deliberates on his next move–to allow him to release, or to prolong his torture–and settles on increasing his rhythm with a shrug. Release may even make him more pliant.

“Ah, ah,” Dottore moans under his breath, staring endlessly at Pantalone’s boot. Pristine leather soiled by his own arousal, slick and dripping. “More, fuck-”

“I believe I understand you with more clarity, Doctor.” Faster, with more vigor. Dottore thrusts against him helplessly, his head lolling to one side. Upon each grind his earring sways to and fro, casting neon hues against his cheek. “What bravado you have, despite your desire to be touched with such apathy.”

“No,” Dottore mumbles. A fruitless endeavor to prove his strength, Pantalone supposes. “Almost–I’m so close.”

“Admit it to me,” Pantalone commands. He ceases all movement. Dottore flails. His throat flutters on a useless breath, eyes screwed shut. “Oh, you poor thing. Does your pride hold you back so much?”

“That's enough patronizing!” Dottore cries. Well. Pantalone merely shrugs and forces Dottore’s head back into his line of sight. He waits for his eyes to open–oh, so wet already, glittering with crystalline tears–and grins.

“And why not?” Pantalone laughs, “this is precisely what you desire.”

Then, he wrenches the collar back as far as it will go, tendons in his wrist straining. A proper choke, deliciously devoid of relief; surely enough to mar Dottore’s flesh with bruises. A reminder of his lack of power, Pantalone thinks, giddy and sweltering. 

The result is instantaneous: Dottore’s entire body freezes, jerks, and melts against him, eyes rolling back and mouth ajar. Pantalone does not need to check to see if he had cum.

Clarity seems to ram into Dottore with the velocity of a steam-powered train. Despite this–the sudden lucidity of his eyes, the tightening of his jaw–he remains in his rightful place at Pantalone’s feet. An adequate effort, but Pantalone is no benevolent man.

“Hmm,” he murmurs, tilts his head just so. In silver and violet, the chain of his glasses slips down one shoulder. “You did cum, after all.”

With a ferocious scowl (how endearing; so fierce in spite of his visible blush) Dottore gestures to the whole of Pantalone’s being. He focuses on Pantalone’s own erection for a brief moment–still, he appears satisfied with himself.

“What in the hells are you saying? Is that not what you wanted?” he scoffs. Sure it is, but that does not entitle him to seeing through the veil of Pantalone’s faux disappointment. For only millimeters beyond its cover lies a writhing, pulsating mass of desire. Chanting, begging him to take, disarm, own. 

Even deeper, smothered betwixt the chambers of his heart and beating in its rhythm is the unmistakable urge to defile Dottore beyond recognition–to bite, to maim, to mark him upon each and every swath of flesh. Laying in wait. He raises an eyebrow and lifts his soiled boot, eyes Dottore’s equally as soiled trousers.

“I do believe my condition entailed you bringing me to orgasm,” he says. Then, a shrewd grin. “My, I suppose you are a masochist, after all.”

“Fuck you, Banker,” Dottore spits. All in due time. “What was I supposed to do?”

“If you had surrendered yourself to me verbally, I would have treated you with far more kindness.” A boisterous laugh, as if Dottore would never believe him; and he is certainly correct. Now, all eyes turn to the matter of Pantalone’s boot. Slowly, deliberately, Pantalone lifts his leg–must use the altar for balance–and presses the tip of his boot into Dottore’s chin. “But that is not your prerogative, is it?”

In one fluid motion, the sole of his boot pushes against Dottore’s lips. Absolute stillness: Dottore jolts, a shockwave through his body. From limb to core, eyes wide with abject disgust.

“This is most disgraceful,” Dottore sneers, and attempts to avoid Pantalone’s boot as much as he can. With a warning hum, he shivers and halts. “And entirely unnecessary."

Of course it is not. Pantalone snickers.

“Is it now?” he muses, smears Dottore’s filth atop his lips, “tell me, Doctor. For how long have you wished to be humiliated?”

He does not allow Dottore to answer. The moment he opens his mouth is the very same Pantalone pins his face against his boot–and does not relent. What a picture he makes: gasping and writhing in his revulsion, hands tapping wildly against his knees with the fruitless urge to push Pantalone away. His Doctor is exquisitely meticulous with his cleanliness, Pantalone knows–flasks and test tubes labeled, compound microscopes scrubbed at least twice per use–thus his reaction. Gagging, hissing.

“Clean up your mess, mutt,” Pantalone orders. Then, for the sake of reminding Dottore of his predicament, says, “or would you prefer if I left you unfed?”

In quick succession, a vast series of emotions flickers over Dottore’s face akin to switching radio stations. Fury, disbelief, potent amusement, despair, and at last, determination. Nothing so grand as to cause him to disobey, yet motivating enough to swerve his gaze up to Pantalone’s. Teeming with unadulterated hatred, his scowl so deeply set it wrinkles the edges of his scar tissue.

“I,” Dottore bites through gritted teeth, “loathe you.”

Now, acceptance. With one final shudder Dottore tentatively opens his mouth, swipes his tongue over his bottom lip–and in doing so, Pantalone’s boot. In between the grooves of the sole, all along the pointed tip, leaving wet trails of his spit against shiny leather. He swallows each and every drop of his release with reverence, an act of worship.

Spearing hotly through his gut, arousal clamps its eager jaws around Pantalone’s spine. He cannot withhold his groan; bites his lip and inhales deeply, even when Dottore smirks.

“Stand up, now,” he breathes, punctuating himself with a gesture. On shaking limbs, Dottore rises to his feet. “Good boy.”

Something tepid unravels itself within the charged distance–shortening with each breath–between their bodies. Pantalone is no stranger to mortal pleasures: addictions, numbing agents, stimulants, indulgences. But this softens the ever-frozen layers of his intercostals. Muscle tissue pooling in between his ribs.

“Fascinating,” Dottore observes, glances at Pantalone from head to toe. When Pantalone hums he grins, with all of the poison and wickedness of his undesirable reputation. “I can hear that your heart rate has elevated beyond anticipated. Am I to assume you enjoy my presence more than you’re letting on?”

And now, the mood sours. Pantalone sneers, “there is no guarantee that I will indulge in your proclivities for violence. Do not assess me as if I am food.”

Speaking of….

“Now,” he instructs, slides away from the altar and urges Dottore against its wooden face, “shall we tidy you up, hm?”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Dottore grunts. Then, quite nearly chokes on his own breath, eyes wide with panic. “Wait! I figured you would–Banker!”

Must he act so inexperienced? It is as if he has never witnessed his own trousers coming undone by another’s hands, his belt landing beside Pantalone’s boots with a clink. But the automatic nature in which he places a hand atop Pantalone’s head as he kneels, prying the hem of his trousers down with him, suggests otherwise.

“Pray tell, did you believe I would allow your mess inside of me?” Pantalone condescends. A thrum of energy jitters Dottore’s body and leaves him gaping down at him. Processing, operations halted for a brief moment, cogs stuttering to life. Then, a languid smile, fangs flashing ghastly white.

“Oh. Now I understand,” Dottore purrs. He dares to card his fingertips within Pantalone’s hair; a pointed look is all it takes for him to relent, hands held up in surrender. “You do enjoy my presence; I was correct!”

Shall he encourage him? Pantalone gnaws at his lip, adjusts himself within his slacks. Weighs these pros and cons, too. He settles on a placid smile, circling his thumbs over the exposed swath of Dottore’s hips: angular, as if he’d been plucked from the ley Lines to be a tool of war.

“As you tend to be,” Pantalone praises. Hook, line, and sinker; Dottore’s cock twitches back to life, pink tongue peeking out from his lips. “My, aren’t you eager?”

A lone finger draws a taunting line over Dottore’s stirring cock, and reroutes to Pantalone’s own arousal. Palming himself, he steadies his body, readjusts his posture so that he kneels with his back straightened.

Power follows him even here. Dottore, in his ceaseless journey for power of his own, does not abuse his position–as he very well could, a looming presence with a halo of stained glass. He merely stands, both of his hands braced against the altar. Awaiting his instruction.

Oh, how Pantalone’s head swims. With a sigh he neglects himself further, focuses on pulling Dottore’s boxers down. Centimeter by grueling centimeter, his cock is revealed–flushed such a deep red and oh, so big. Pantalone’s mouth waters.

Dottore must mistake his pause for dissatisfaction for he says, "physiologically speaking, this could be much quicker if you let me feed.”

“Hm. I will not.”

Oh, dear. What a filthy mutt. A sticky line of his own release catches on the elastic of his boxers. Pantalone licks his lips–call and response, uninhibited reactions.

To hells with appearances. Pantalone shoves his boxers down, opens his mouth, and presses a languid kiss to his shaft.

“Ahh,” Dottore breathes. In Pantalone’s peripheral vision, movement shifts towards him. He pauses; and relaxes when Dottore grips the hem of his dress shirt. Another kiss, this one wetter, with more purpose. “Your teasing is most undesirable."

“Do you wish to feed, or not?” Still, Pantalone can no longer deny his own pleasure, thighs jumping as he presses the heel of his palm against himself. In tandem, Dottore’s cock twitches, precum swelling at his head. “Such a greedy mutt. You will take what I give, and no more.”

“Are you as stingy with offering pleasure as you are with mora?” Dottore huffs. He opens his mouth. As does Pantalone, coincidentally. He inhales, smiles, and swallows Dottore halfway with little preamble. “I–ohhhh.”

Just in time for Dottore’s moan, Pantalone pulls himself back. Dottore’s hips move of their own volition, chasing the heat of Pantalone’s mouth. How very satisfying. Pantalone smiles and laves his tongue against his slit, chases the taste of his precum. 

He is all too aware of the mess he makes: Dottore’s cum dripping down his chin, silver lenses fogging with his own breaths. He cannot bring himself to care. His free hand wraps around Dottore’s shaft and glides in tandem with the bobbing of his head, tongue swirling around the entirety of him. So, very vulnerable, twitching wildly within his grip.

“I thought you insinuated–ah, shit,” Dottore rasps, pulling his shirt into stressed wrinkles, “this was purely functional.”

Pantalone pulls off of him with an obscene pop. He licks his bottom lip, hums, savors Dottore’s taste. Mercy does not find him, as much as Dottore would like. Pantalone jerks him off with vigor, licking at his head to collect his arousal. Success: Dottore shudders, bites his lip, and moans–from overstimulation or arousal?

Faster, now, with a tighter grip. With a giddy laugh, Pantalone says, “and you believed me? What a shame.”

He inhales–Dottore bites his lip with one pointed fang, eyebrows turned up with the effort to grapple for his composure–and sinks down his cock. Down, nearly all the way. Only a minor adjustment is necessary as he steels his gag reflex.

In truth, he’d anticipated the shock, pretty lips agape as Dottore stares down at him with sheer disbelief. Then, something close to fear, realization settling in with each pass of Pantalone’s tongue along his shaft. Further down, now, until Pantalone’s nose presses against his pelvis. Oh, how Dottore twitches from within his throat; how he sings for him, head thrown back towards the ceiling in a desperate hymn.

“Too much, too much, too much,” Dottore chants, muscles of his abdomen trembling, “I can’t!”

But he can. To illustrate his point, Pantalone hums around him; Dottore clasps a gloved hand over his mouth and wails.

And then, the inevitable. Something shifts within the creases of Dottore’s eyes–palpable, vicious enough to sink its teeth into Pantalone’s skin. Then, within his bloodstream, adrenaline pumping hot through his veins. It flushes him with sweat along his neck, laden with the twitching of Dottore’s cock, the bitter taste of him. 

Dottore bites his lip and hesitates–for one second, two–and seems to settle upon a decision with a nod to himself.

Shaking hands press against the back of his head. A sweet gesture, tentative in its movements; then with severity, fingers grasping at his hair enough to sting. Pantalone pauses, eyes narrowed–but does not get the chance to question him.

“I would apologize,” Dottore breathes, his only warning, “but I am not particularly sorry.”

He bucks his hips. Pantalone hisses, forces himself rigid against the reflex to veer away. Dottore must assume this is an invitation. That, or he merely does not consider his comfort, eyes growing wide with pure wonder. 

With a smirk he pulls out, nearly all the way, and slams back into him–and Pantalone gags, slaps his palms against the bare flesh of Dottore’s thighs.

“Ghk-” Pantalone tries to speak. He does not get the chance. “Doh-gghk!”

All Dottore does is laugh, fucking into him with more vigor. The sheer audacity of this man! Pantalone swears on the Tsaritsa he is going to slash his pay by seventy-five percent! But, ah, it is rather difficult to focus on his brewing vengeance when Dottore coaxes him forward, smearing his spit along his lips, down his chin. Oozing down his chest, staining his slacks. Disgusting! He digs his nails into the muscles of Dottore’s thighs–but of course, all this does is propel Dottore to grasp onto him like his lifeline.

“Oh, ahh,” Dottore groans, bites his lip and thrusts into him so hard, Pantalone’s glasses slip down his nose. He could not withhold his gag if he tried, nor the relief blooming through his chest at the first true intake of air Dottore allows–pulling back so that just his leaking tip rests on his tongue. It does not last for very long. Dottore rams himself down–all the way down, deep into his throat, and whines, “mmmh, yes.”

He sets a brutal pace. Pantalone is forced to choose between grasping onto the shards of his dignity or surrender, and settles for something distinctly in between the two, pumping as much hatred into his glare as he can manage. But still–despite his rage, the unforgiving strength at which he squeezes Dottore’s thighs–he remains open. Willing. Dottore’s own gaze grows fuzzy, hips stuttering.

“Ah, hah, your presence is much more tolerable when you shut up,” Dottore says from behind gritted teeth, “in fact, I dare to hypothesize you enjoy this.”

A small act of retribution: Pantalone tightens the ring of his lips and hums his disapproval. Dottore keens, thighs jerking with effort.

“You do, huh,” Dottore continues. Pantalone kneads at his thighs–half in reverence (because, honestly–all of this definition hidden behind his lab coat is a crime) and half as punishment. Unfortunately, he seems to have the opposite effect as intended. Dottore chokes on a breath and says, “ah, fuck. Do that again.”

A peculiar gnawing presses its honeyed fingertips into his gut. Oh, what a sight his Doctor makes for: such lewdity, unabashed in his gluttony for more, yes more. More sensation, more pain, lips curled in a scythed smile as Pantalone acquiesces, digging crescents into his skin.

“Yeah, there you go,” Dottore sighs. Hm. Pantalone ceases all movement and blinks up at him in question. “What’s the matter, Banker? Not so domineering when you’re on your knees, are you?”

Oh, that’s it. Pantalone snarls, tears Dottore’s hands out of his hair–even ignores how his own cock stirs, begging for stimulation–and pulls away. But he does not manage to get far. Dottore whimpers, eyes rolling all the way to the back of his skull, and twitches inside of his mouth. It is as much of a word of caution as he can receive; so he digs the tip of his tongue into Dottore’s slit, sucks him as hard as he can, and waits.

Not for long. With a languid sigh Dottore trembles and releases inside of his mouth, for the second time tonight. Now Pantalone would spit him out, mind–but he cannot bring himself to for reasons unbeknownst to himself. And he should, but at the first taste of him, he simply caves. Shuts his eyes and devours him in all of his vulnerability.

Dottore’s cum pools atop his tongue, spills down his chin, then his neck in sticky lines. Gods, is it overwhelming–so much of it, and Pantalone savors each drop. Absolutely filthy. Utterly divine.

He pulls off of him with effort, clears his throat to soothe the pain. And, as if planned, Dottore grins and swiftly aims himself for–ah.

“Oh, my.”

It would be impossible for him to open his mouth in time. Such is why he merely sits and takes what Dottore gives him. Splattered over his lenses, dripping down his cheeks, across his bruised lips. He licks Dottore’s cum off of his bottom lip and does not swallow.

If Pantalone could encapsulate this moment into picture form, he would display the image of Dottore’s blown out pupils for when he finds himself particularly irritated. There is nothing better in this world, he believes, than demolishing each and every one of his foundations; and what disarray he is in without them!

How repulsive. How it makes him shudder with need.

Well, Pantalone would never admit this to him in plain speech–but his actions surely speak for themselves, tongue laving over Dottore until he protests with claims of overstimulation. Serves him right for treating him with such rough hands.

Speaking of vengeance. Pantalone rises, ignores the pain in his knees, and pauses. Considers. Shrugs and decides Dottore's shirt acts as a suitable handkerchief, wiping his lenses down until they sparkle.

“Hey!” Dottore protests, “that's disgusting.”

Pantalone grabs Dottore’s face with one hand, squishing his cheeks together. His mouth is forced open this way–not that it would take an iota of effort to. Pantalone decides, now, that he prefers him so utterly debauched.

“Now,” Pantalone murmurs, runs his thumbnail underneath Dottore’s bottom lip, “you know very well such disrespect will not be tolerated.”

All semblance of self control seems to leave Dottore in a violent shudder, from head to toe, dazed eyes searching the ruddy flush atop Pantalone’s cheeks. Then, his mouth. Dottore licks his lips.

So pliant in Pantalone’s hands. Not one word of protest leaves him as Pantalone pries his mouth open and kisses the remains of his own release into his mouth. He even swallows without being told, throat bobbing. A reward: Pantalone presses a tender kiss to his neck, and Dottore sighs.

“Down.” Pantalone draws back, points to the nearest pew–where his forgotten mask resides, winking in softened light. “Go on, mutt.”

Hesitation. Dottore winces, palms at his soft cock with an uncharacteristic frown.

“Wait a moment,” he blurts. A lingering moment of apprehension. Pantalone raises an eyebrow. “Urgh, you really–how could you possibly expect me to do as you command? I need to recover.”

Perhaps he should have considered this before acting upon his urges. The willpower of a man of his status surely rivals that of Pantalone’s own; thus why Pantalone smiles. Wholly intended to patronize him.

“To quote you, ‘I am not particularly sorry’ that you have found yourself in such a predicament.” Pantalone is well aware Dottore has biological limits–a refractory period, exhaustion–he simply does not particularly care. “Go on, now. Kneel.”

“This is not–I believe,” Dottore says–clears his throat as his voice splits his sentence in two, “I have reached my limit, and what you desire of me is not possible.”

Oh? He believes? So he still misunderstands–how absolutely adorable. Pantalone presses a hand to his mouth and laughs.

“Your ‘limit?’” Pantalone taunts, and guides his free hand to Dottore’s neck. A delicious hue of plum in the shape of a bruise, swollen and ripened enough to burst. “My, I warned you, did I not?”

Steady and unforgiving, he grasps Dottore’s throat. Merely with enough strength to remind him of his place. Still, Dottore splutters out a curse and attempts to push him away.

“Ah-ah,” Pantalone says, with proper disdain, “aren’t you forgetting something rather dire?”

This is a bad idea, possibly the worst he has had in months, rivaling that of a risky negotiation amidst the annals of Sumeru’s political landscape. In the aftermath of Dottore’s meddling, of course; however–and there is always a ‘however’ factor–he had succeeded. Such is why, despite the odds stacked against him, Pantalone simply cannot resist the siren song of a gamble. Each man has his weakness.

He unsheathes his remaining blade. Dottore’s eyes zero in on his hand like a hawk.

Oh, he may die here. What a poetic finale to a life like his: within a cathedral, devoured by a vampire, in spite of his hatred for the divine and their Holy spaces. Yet still, he twirls his blade–makes a show of it, dancing along the veins of his underarm–and points its sharp edge against his ring finger.

Inhale, exhale. Dottore’s chest rises and falls with staccato breaths. Inhale. Pantalone swivels the blade into the meat of his palm. Exhale. He pricks his skin.

Instantaneous action. Dottore falls to his knees as if by force–but, no, only the scent of Pantalone’s blood compels him. This is overt given the way Dottore’s nostrils flare and his mouth salivates beyond human comprehension. So wet he struggles to speak.

“You are,” Dottore whispers, nearly inaudible with how he heaves, “perhaps the most spiteful man I have ever had the displeasure of meeting.”

Likewise. Pantalone flexes his hand–even as it stings with raw flesh, blood far more inclined to flee from this wound than his neck. It burrows into the crook of his elbow and seeps down–gushing steadily–to the floor. As stark of a contrast as blood atop snow.

“My eyes are up here,” Pantalone teases. Dottore whines, tongue falling out of his mouth. Gods, he truly is a dog! “Oh, dear. How needy.”

Time to push his luck. He traces Dottore’s tongue with the tip of the blade. In a wet hiss, steam billows in between Dottore’s teeth. Something caught between a sob and a moan whistles its way out of Dottore’s throat, and Pantalone nods to himself, whispers, “it is as I thought. Silver is fatal to your kind, hm?”

“In high enough quantities,” Dottore heaves. Noted. Pantalone smiles and tosses his blade aside, licks his lip as Dottore shudders on a whine. “Your audacity knows no bounds.”

Still, Dottore squirms towards him with shaking hands clasped behind his back–perhaps in preparation for Pantalone’s wrath–and his mouth wide open. A gorgeous display of obedience, but he should know Pantalone’s avarice extends beyond a mere display. This simply will not do.

“You wish to feed, yes?” Pantalone taunts, and Dottore nods. Oh, is he panting? Indeed, he is; Pantalone leans down a tad–only to confirm his suspicions–and Dottore nearly weeps. “My, my! Panting for me like the mutt you are, hm?”

Emphasis: Pantalone raises his arm, only enough to disorient Dottore; then squeezes his hand, compelling blood to ooze down his wrist. Sweet lines of wine red–until they drip atop Dottore’s cheek. Dottore freezes, eyes zeroed in on precisely where his blood lands.

Oh, this is where he should be. There is no need for him to prostrate himself as superior when the reality is this: he is a filthy mutt who desires nothing more than to be put in his place. How Pantalone adores him.

“Well? Do you?” He punctuates his words with a sultry grin, and can physically feel how the air shifts in Dottore’s lungs. A poignant, tangible press of barometric pressure as he inhales–then exhales, chest caving in with defeat. “Tell me, Doctor.”

“Ah,” Dottore whimpers, “oh, I need to–you abhorrent bastard! Vile sadist!”

And Pantalone is a mortal, so he does not quite comprehend the extent at which Dottore craves his blood. That does not mean he cannot understand him. Indeed, the scent is hypnotic–sickly sweet, metallic qualities stuck to the back of his throat like a rich confectionery. He acts upon impulse, now; lifts his arm to his own mouth, smiles, and licks himself up.

The sound that comes from Dottore is punched-out and wild. Like an animal, caged and bound, bashing himself dizzy against the dueling urges to abandon his convictions or his sanity. He very well could; there is virtually nothing keeping him from using his superior physical strength to force Pantalone to do his own bidding. Mauled and drained. He would have little control with Dottore looming over him, blood splattered across his pretty features.

Inhuman. Dreadful. Beautiful.

Oh, the mere thought renders Pantalone’s legs to jelly, eyes rolling back. In languid strokes, he allows his blood to pool at his tongue–displays himself to Dottore, a taunt–and swallows. He moans in sync with Dottore. In truth, his blood tastes as normal as could be; it is simply blood and nothing more. Yet still, Dottore cries as if he’d been shot.

“You poor thing.” In enunciated circles, Pantalone scrapes his nails along Dottore’s scalp. A full-body shiver is the only response he gets. “My mutt must be so hungry by now.”

“Yes,” Dottore whimpers, leans into his touch with a little huff, “no thanks to your vindictive nature.”

A warning: Pantalone squeezes his roots. Surely Dottore’s scalp must still be sore, for he winces and shifts his gaze to his bare knees.

“Yet, you can hardly fight back,” Pantalone says, tilts his head to one side. The chain of his glasses sways in tune with his inquisitive hum. “Am I to surmise you are weaker when you have not fed?”

And, well, Dottore need not answer him. Still, he bites his lip and mutters, “given how shrewd you are, I am quite sure you already know.”

“Therefore, would it not benefit you to be a good mutt?” Dottore screws his eyes shut and shakes his head–not necessarily to disagree. To ease his burden, Pantalone licks his blood off of his cheek and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I am right here, Doctor. You must only hold up your part of our bargain.”

“Ha! Ahaha! ‘Our bargain,’” Dottore chuckles with a sardonic grin, then refocuses. With newfound determination, he steels himself and says, “so be it.”

“Indeed; our bargain.”

A shift of Pantalone’s eyes, towards the pew. Dottore follows his gaze. His face falls.

“No.”

“Oh, my.” Pantalone presses his clean hand to his lips in faux shock. “Would you rather I leave you starved and alone, after all?”

“This is beyond humiliating,” Dottore growls. How he had assessed Pantalone’s command with such intuition, Pantalone does not quite understand; and what a shame it is. Pantalone would have cherished his inevitable expression of sheer disgust for days. “I refuse to crawl for you, of all people!”

“I will not bleed forever,” Pantalone sings, sways his bloodied hand back and forth, “do make your decision, now.”

They both know the outcome had been decided for them long before this moment. Inescapable, the rhythmic metronome of their twin heartbeats counting down the grains of sand that fall in between them; bit by bit, drop of blood by drop. With a petulant huff, Dottore shoots him a glare that could singe the flesh clean off his bones.

“I abhor you more than anyone else in this wretched world.”

Sure he does. Even as he chews on the inside of his cheek and bends his spine, bowing his head to spread his hands atop the floor. Surely. Once settled, Dottore peers up at him with unfiltered malice. Most definitely.

The Second Harbinger, on all fours, awaits his further instruction. Godmaker, genius, unequaled in his intelligence and power, and he bows to Pantalone. Oh. Oh, gods.

Sheer, unadulterated pleasure spears through Pantalone like a hot poker. He grips his cock hard, tries his very best to keep his orgasm at bay; but it is so, so difficult. Nearly unfeasible. Still, he lets out a breathless groan, shuts his eyes momentarily, and clears his mind. Then, he grins down at Dottore with a level of smugness he did not recognize he possesses.

“Come, now.”

He beckons Dottore forward with a flick of his wrist–as he would an actual dog. Dottore seems to consider disobeying, but sighs and obliges.

He crawls gingerly, as if it physically pains him to do so. Then, halts and anticipates Pantalone’s next words. Positively giddy, Pantalone pushes the rims of his glasses up his nose–when had they gotten so foggy?

“Hmm, good boy.” He pets Dottore with a condescending laugh and instructs, “heel.”

“Fuck you,” Dottore spits; yet he complies, circling Pantalone and coming to a stop at his right leg. What a good mutt he is training him to be!

“Oh, dear,” Pantalone says, pours as much disappointment into his voice as he can muster, “mutts do not speak, do they?”

At Pantalone’s side, Dottore stiffens and chokes on a violent inhale. Then, shudders with so much force that he nearly falls, off-kilter in more ways than purely mentally. Pantalone adjusts his glasses once more to get a proper look.

Dottore bares his teeth, spits at his feet, and snarls, “woof, woof.”

“Mmh, satisfactory,” Pantalone lies. Certainly not to his body, for Dottore’s words ring through his head akin to church bells; an endless cycle of delightful anticipation and heat swirling in his gut. Oh how he wishes he hadn’t held back for this long, because he truly wonders: how far can he push Dottore now that he has him where he prefers? And for how long? Endless possibilities. It makes his vision swim. “Are you going to be good for your reward, Doctor?”

“Woof,” Dottore sneers. The positive of not being forced to hear his spiteful words is Pantalone can twist this in any way he wishes.

“You are, indeed,” Pantalone murmurs, and presses his bloodied thumb to Dottore’s bottom lip. He simply adores watching his fangs unsheathe in between quivering lips. “My, my.”

“Woof.”

“Oh, none of that. Be a good mutt and crawl for me.”

Without further protest, Dottore sighs, shuts his mouth, and clenches his jaw. And he crawls. At this angle, Pantalone finds the line of his spine as enticing as the gradual filling of his cock; still leaking, dripping his precum onto the floor with each step. For a fleeting moment, Dottore pauses at the apex of the altar’s steps–hesitates, casts a glance over his broad shoulder–and makes his descent on unsteady limbs. 

He falters at the designated pew. Pantalone crosses his arms and nods.

“Woof?” Dottore intones, as if to ask, really? Again, Pantalone nods. “You–I mean, woof.”

He tries his best, he really does. Pantalone is well aware it would be impossible unless Dottore had more space. He takes cruel enjoyment in watching him struggle. After his third attempt to climb the bench, Pantalone slinks over to him and gives him a tap at the nape of his neck.

“A commendable effort.” He pauses. Dottore looks at him with clear expectation. “You have done well for such an untrained dog. You may speak.”

“I suppose I may have underestimated your sadism,” Dottore grunts. Then, he gestures to the pew; as Pantalone nods, he rises and takes his seat.

In swaths of scars, he reveals his body. Jagged imprints of inexperienced blades at his shoulders, surely from assassination attempts; and lacerations along his spine, towards the margin of his ribs. The cleaner the scar tissue, the more deliberate the cut. Pantalone brushes his fingers along a particularly-shaped indent over his heart.

Dottore swiftly sheds the rest of his layers. All except for his harness–because of course. Onyx leather dips into the pallor of his skin in a tantalizing separation of muscle. Pantalone licks his lips. 

“Come on, come on. Off with your clothes.”

“Eager, are we?” Pantalone condescends. Still, he cannot deny his own impatience. He rushes through peeling his slacks off, tossing his shirt atop the opposite arm rest; even his boxers, stained with his arousal. A thin line of his precum spreads and snaps as he pries its hem down his legs. Dottore stares at him with such awe, he swears he can see the short circuiting of his brain. “Hm. Position yourself against the arm rest.”

Dottore shifts his posture and extends his legs across the bench. What defined thighs, just plush enough for Pantalone to want to sink his teeth into. And what flattery it is, having the knowledge that Dottore positively cannot keep his eyes off of him. Pantalone is well aware he is visually appealing–he would be a fool not to use his charm to his advantage–but Dottore had never shown such interest in him until now. Now, with his slender form on full display, the tender carving of his waist, the definition of his arms.

Perhaps, Pantalone wonders as he kneels on the pew, Dottore had always been interested in him. That would explain the odd worship of his fingertips: pressing delicate lines to his ribs, his collarbone, the dip of his neck, his spine. It would also explain the sudden shortness of his breath as Pantalone smirks and turns on his knees and leans forward–on full display, only for him.

“I,” Dottore blurts, clears his throat, “I had assumed you would be on top.”

“All fruitful endeavors require patience,” Pantalone muses. He does not quite flinch when Dottore places a hand on the curve of his ass and squeezes, but it is close enough. Dottore squeezes him harder and groans low in his throat. “Would you not agree?”

“I certainly would,” Dottore hums. He really is quite pleased with himself, kneading Pantalone’s ass with firm hands. Then his thighs, his hips, and finally, his waist. “Shall we proceed?”

“Mmh. Do make yourself useful.”

What an enticing dance. Their inevitable push and pull, power transmitting between them in gradual dispersion. Push: Pantalone shifts, arches his back, and presents himself in the precise way he knows Dottore would prefer–vulnerable. Pull: as Dottore laughs in near hysterics, he fishes for his lighter and a cigarette amidst the folds of his shirt.

“You taste foul enough as is,” Dottore lies. He seems to heave a sigh of relief when Pantalone does not counter him, his posture melting into the pew’s armrest. “Well, sure. I suppose it would help you to relax.”

Pantalone rolls his eyes. Even if Dottore cannot see him, he laughs as if he had. With two flicks, his lighter returns to life.

“My, I had merely assumed you would forgo being gentle in favor of striving for thoroughness.”

The first drag is a loving embrace. The second lingers, swelling within his lungs like a timid bonfire. The third occurs in tandem with Dottore’s hesitant left hand, stretching him open in reverence. The pucker of his hole protests at the sudden cool air. He bites his lip and shuts his eyes.

“You assumed correctly.” Dottore pauses, clears his throat. Now, typically, Pantalone harbors little shame–but this is different, somehow, and his cheeks burn with more than arousal. Still, he refuses to back down (and what is he if not a stubborn man? Inconceivable). “How long has it been?”

Disgustingly tender for what they have. Still, Pantalone registers his own voice as a touch too gentle.

“Hmm. Two months, perhaps?”

“Two months,” Dottore repeats. Low and dangerous–in a decidedly foreign way compared to previous encounters, yet eerily similar to when Pantalone allocates more funding to Sandrone in a given billing cycle. A base, human emotion even he cannot scrub from his mortal wiring. Oh goodness, could it be?

“Pray tell, is that jealousy I detect?”

A tepid stillness. Suspicious. Ah, wait–now a wet noise, as if Dottore had pulled his fingers from his mouth.

“Of course I am jealous,” Dottore states, gruffly, “I do not particularly enjoy sharing.”

“Indeed,” Pantalone agrees, and can say no more. A flash of warmth floods his cheeks even further.

“If you would lift your hips–yes, that’s it.”

Realistically, Pantalone could take him as is: faced towards the stained glass walls, gazing upon their gold leaf structures. The issue with this, aside from further relinquishing control, is that he would prefer not to submit to divinity as he gives Dottore what he desires. It would be-

“Oh!”

Pantalone bites the paper filter and winces. But, no, he cannot ignore the shock of his own voice–so quiet, he nearly mistakes it for Dottore’s. 

“‘Oh?’”

Slick fingers circle his rim, firm yet deliberate. With purpose, Pantalone elongates his next breath–holds the nicotine still as Dottore teases him–and exhales upon his next move, sliding into him with little care. All of his ring finger at once, yet it is not enough. Not at all.

“My, you can do better than this,” Pantalone taunts. He sways his hips, and in turn, presses Dottore’s knuckles to his rim. An involuntary twitch makes him shudder–and so he diverts his focus to his cigarette lest he give Dottore further satisfaction. “I expected more from your thoroughness than such caution.”

An eerie stillness settles between them, only broken by dust motes and pooling candle wax. Pantalone watches their dancing flames idly; surely this is when Dottore breaks, he assumes. This must be the moment he recognizes Pantalone’s penchant for power far outweighs his own. But then, Dottore huffs out a laugh–far closer to Pantalone’s ear than he suspects, so he startles–and hoists him upward.

“Doctor!” he barks–but it is too late, and his hips lift much higher than he expects. His palms slam against the pew for balance, right knee slipping off of its surface as Dottore spits a word of malice in his direction. Likely related to Pantalone’s stubbornness, but he cannot hear him; not when Dottore joins two of his fingers and positively slams into him.

“Ah,” he gasps, and again as Dottore places a hand on his back and shoves his chest to the pew, “wait, ah, you will push me off!”

“So be it,” Dottore growls, “at least you will have received a fraction of the agony I have endured.”

Pantalone wants to respond, he truly does–but it is impossible when Dottore hooks his fingers and rubs directly against-

“Oh, Doctor–stop!” Against his will, his lips fall slack. In a panic, he lodges his cigarette to the corner of his mouth, and almost chokes on his next drag. “I instructed you to be thorough, not rough.”

Pantalone knows very well Dottore will refuse him. That does not mean he cannot attempt to veer away from his brutal pace, fingers twitching as he slides down the pew–not nearly enough, of course, for Dottore only adjusts his grip. Three fingers, now, and with more vigor. He bites his lip against a moan. 

“Why should I?” Dottore scoffs, “you would not give me any mercy when I asked.”

Oh, gods, it is too much. Pantalone swears his vision blurs; or are these premature tears? He had withheld his own pleasure for quite a while, after all–oh, and at the mere thought of his release, his cock twitches wildly. It takes every ounce of willpower within his body to not finish himself off when Dottore presses against his prostate. An act of vengeance, rough fingertips kneading him into structureless sentences and closed eyes.

And then it hits him. With enough force to shock him upright, mind blessedly focused, his mind pivots to one, singular thought.

This is what Dottore wants. If he loses himself enough, he will be able to have Pantalone in any way he desires–and who is he kidding? He knows his cock stirs at the mere thought of Dottore unraveling as much as himself.

It simply will not be like this. So, he rises.

Dottore’s fingers slip out of him with a lewd, wet noise. He does not care. Nor does he care about the salacious grin atop Dottore’s face, a decidedly satisfied glow in his eyes. Nor the fact that Dottore is fully hard once again (had he taken a stimulant? Archons, he really is inhuman). Nor the way in which Dottore beckons him forward with a smug nod of his head.

“Was that a thorough enough preparation for you?” Dottore sneers. Out of spite, Pantalone ignores him in favor of spreading his thighs, arching his back when Dottore’s voice loses its self-gratifying luster. “You are still rather tight, you know.”

As if that would not be better for him. Slowly, ever-so tantalizingly slowly, Pantalone slithers up the pew–urges Dottore to lean his back into its arm rest–and straddles his hips. He braces his right arm against the back of the pew, smearing bloody hand prints across mahogany. It seems Dottore cannot decide where to look; whether at Pantalone, or where their hips meet, or the perpetual stream of his blood.

“Your effort is commendable,” Pantalone murmurs. With one fluid movement, he lifts himself up and presses the blunt tip of Dottore’s cock against his hole. “However, you know very well you will not find the power you crave.”

To bait him, Pantalone leans in for a kiss–and hisses a stream of smoke into Dottore’s open mouth. Dottore splutters on a cough, eyes watering.

“Ack–you wretch!” he cries. Well, that is a label Pantalone cannot deny; not like this. He licks a clean line across his other hand and wraps it around Dottore–not that he needs much lubrication with the amount of precum that leaks from his tip. With a nimble hand he jerks Dottore once, twice. Then, settles so that he fully brackets his hips, his calf pinned in between Dottore’s thigh and the pew’s back.

Ah, but he is not finished with him yet.

Dottore bites his lip in anticipation. Then releases a harsh breath when Pantalone grinds against him and does not relent.

“Do you want to make me cum, hm?” Pantalone asks. In a stroke of genius, he lifts his bloodied hand, presents it to Dottore, and encircles his own neck. Then, drags it across the planes of his chest, to his ribcage, down his abdomen, and around his cock. What a mess he makes of himself; still he will not resist the pleasure of scraping against his nipples, twisting them until he bites his lip and sighs. Deliriously, Dottore leans forward. Pantalone snaps his fingers, forces him back to reality. “Ah-ah. You must ask to touch me here, Doctor.”

“This is excruciating and we both know it,” Dottore breathes. It seems Pantalone’s training is beginning to manifest into reality, for he does not dare touch him without exact instructions–even if he aches to, fingertips twitching against his sides. “Ugh, fine. May… may I?”

Clearly, this is a grave matter for Dottore; immediately upon asking he whips his head to the side to disguise his deepening flush. Unsurprising, considering how he values his higher ranking. The urge to dig into this wound is immense–but he shall wait.

“Good boy,” Pantalone praises, and Dottore’s cock twitches wildly against him. He grins and pins Dottore’s hand against his chest, his thumbnail grazing along the hardened bud of his nipple. “You may.”

He presses Dottore’s cock against him–his rim aches, gaping and protesting from their lack of preparation–and grins.

“Tell me how you want me,” he muses. Despite how Dottore’s jaw remains slack, he swallows and grips Pantalone’s chest with enough force to bruise. His flesh is sticky with sweat; Dottore’s thumbnail slips from his nipple and scrapes a line to his collarbone. Pantalone groans, “mmh. if your performance satisfies me, perhaps I shall reward you.”

“Are you certain you wish to know?” Dottore asks, with a vicious little smile, “I am not sure you would enjoy my answer.”

“Oh, dear. It is rather impolite to dismiss a question from your colleague.” Laden with humidity, their breaths mingle. Pantalone’s lenses fog with both their twin heat and his smoke–but who is he to care? “Tell me, Doctor.”

He pushes against Dottore, only slightly, and laughs at his abject misery. Then, plucks his cigarette from his mouth and flicks the cherry in Dottore’s general direction. A silent command.

It is undeniable, now, how intertwined they are. Pantalone is certain neither of them wishes to admit it–but the spark exists. Deep within the conjoined mass of their souls, a match strikes against the rough edge of its counterpart, ignites the space between them with a warmth Pantalone swears he has never been perceptive to. This very fact is why Pantalone pauses and catches his breath upon Dottore’s next words.

“Ah, at least ensure there will be none of your blasted strings attached!”

The string, as tangible as the spark, wraps around their wrists with a keen vengeance to match the magnitude of their denial. Pantalone believes that if he were to allow it, he would lose himself in the abyss of Dottore’s pupils.

“Merely fantasies,” Pantalone ensures. It is not a convincing lie. “Continue.”

“Ugh. I- I want you utterly helpless to me,” Dottore admits, with grueling acceptance. For emphasis, he pinches Pantalone’s nipples, and hard. It is a miracle Pantalone claws onto his composure with how much his body compels him to shatter, pleasure twisting up his spine with every pull of his nipples in between Dottore’s nails. Has he always been this sensitive? “In ways that you cannot begin to comprehend.”

Oh. Archons, he wants–control. Yes, Pantalone must regain control. Try as he might, he cannot withhold his whimper, his rim fluttering in anticipation. Dottore’s eyelids droop with an unseen heaviness, cheeks impossibly red. A shade akin to the hazard light glimmer of his eyes.

“Mhm? And what else?” Pantalone breathes. A wave of precum leaks from Dottore, pressing wetly against him. “Do not tell me that is all you have.”

“I want to have you- ohh,” Dottore groans, and clamps his free hand over his mouth, “oh, fuck.”

Unfortunately, Pantalone cannot savor his reaction for long. Inch by brutal inch, he sinks onto his cock–swallowing every vein, wincing upon each ridge–and settles, ass flush to his lap. He could not disguise the pain in his voice if he tried, but it is worth it, so very worth it for the way Dottore grits his teeth and arches his back in sheer bliss.

“Hmm?” he hums. Despite his efforts, his hole twitches in protest–but Dottore does not seem to notice, digging crescent-shaped indents into the muscle of Pantalone’s chest. “What do you want?”

“I–I ahhh, I want-”

“Go on,” he hisses. Curse his impatience. Each movement is a line of fire lacing through his body, into his gut, settling in his cock with little respect for his self control. But oh, does it make his head spin, the heat within his chest magnified by tenfold. “Mmh, so big. Who would have thought?”

Dottore throws out a weak insult in response. So, Pantalone takes a long drag as support–lifts himself up, bites his lip in tandem with Dottore–and slams himself down. He lands with a resounding slap. Dottore throws his head back and curses just as Pantalone keens, eyes rolling to the back of his head.

“Ahh!”

So much, it is so much–not enough. Pleasure swells and lacerates his veins like livewire, and he knows he is being needy when he rolls his hips forward, but he cannot help himself. Not when he has Dottore as compliant as this, utterly breathless and staring at the ceiling as Pantalone searches desperately for–yes!

“Ah! Ohh, look at you,” Pantalone purrs. Breathless, worn thin; oh, how his throat stutters, spine trembling, muscles in his thighs jumping as he presses down as far as he can go. Gods, he is so full. He swears he can feel Dottore spearing into his chest–so he presses his clean hand to his stomach and nearly passes out with how he moans. That is Dottore’s cock he feels, receding as he lifts himself on shaking knees. That is his cock inside of him. “Such a good boy for me, oh, so eager to please!”

As he lifts himself up, the outline of Dottore’s cock slips–he bites his lip in anticipation–then plunges back in. His knees falter.

 “Mmh, yes!”

“I- uhhn-” Dottore groans, and grows absolutely rigid. Pantalone counts down the seconds in which he holds his bottom lip in between his teeth–four, three, two, one–and screws his eyes shut. Then, shakes his head and shudders. “I can’t last, you’re so–gods, how are you still so tight?”

“Beg, oh–beg to satiate me,” Pantalone demands, with a smile he knows is a touch too delirious. He takes a drag with trembling fingers and presses it right into Dottore’s mouth–even as he coughs, ruby eyes shattered with tears. “Insatiable mutt. You want to make me cum, hm?”

“Enough,” Dottore nearly pleads, “I can’t do this!”

Pantalone heart thunders in his ribcage with a spike of white-hot, all-consuming desire. The power. He holds the power now, biting his way down Dottore’s neck, licking his way into his waiting mouth. Power, power, power. He holds it all, each morsel of it, squeezed in between the gaps of his teeth, bleeding out of Dottore’s shaking frame, his fluttering throat.

With one final drag, Pantalone pries Dottore’s lips open with his teeth–and presses the stub of his cigarette on his tongue.

Absolute euphoria: Dottore screams, writhes, careens his head backwards, thrusts so deeply into Pantalone, he sees stars. Static consumes his limbs, squeezes his guts, makes him whine so loudly, he does not recognize his own voice. It echoes back to him in waves: synchronicity, equal in rhythm to Dottore’s brutal pace.

“Ahh, insatiable,” he repeats–and for good measure, reels his head back and spits perfectly atop the burn. Dottore’s entire body seizes up in abject agony.

He lifts himself in spite of his knees, fucks himself back down in the precise way he wants. Twitching inside of him, Dottore’s cock leaks with his arousal so much that it seeps out of his stretched hole. Down, onto Pantalone’s thighs, glistening and utterly obscene. Disgusting. Glorious.

Of course, Pantalone cannot hide how it makes him whine. He thrashes, fucks Dottore so deep into him that his glasses slip down his nose.

“Oh, oh, mmh, yes,” he chants, and then falters with a cry of, “ah!”

It seems, at long last, Dottore’s composure has snapped. Just as Pantalone spears his cock directly onto his prostate, grinds his hips in staccato movements, and hangs his head to watch. Blearily, his eyes only partially focused as Dottore’s grip tightens on his chest.

And then, so softly Pantalone must strain his ears, comes a, “please.”

A spark of lightning pierces Pantalone’s diaphragm. He chokes on a breath, gasps out, “p-pardon me?”

He looks down upon Dottore: a writhing, broken mess. Eyes shot with teeming desire, bruised and aching, grasping onto Pantalone as if he is his one and only lifeline.

“Please,” Dottore enunciates with a whine, “please, Regrator.”

Oh. Oh. Pantalone's eyes shut of their own accord. Instinctively, his bloodied hand reaches for himself–and hesitates.

He shouldn’t. 

He raises his hand–reopens the wound further, lets himself feel the pain. For grounding purposes, he assures himself. Dottore does not move; he does not demand to be fed. He merely sits and waits.

“You, mmh! Want to feed, yes?” he taunts, simply because he can. Dottore nods vigorously. “Oh, you can do better than that.”

“Please!”

He really, truly shouldn’t. For good measure, he asks, “‘please,’ what?”

“Pl-” Dottore attempts, and fails spectacularly. As he regains his composure Pantalone grinds down, slow and filthy, and smiles. Then, the unexpected: Dottore sniffles and wipes his eyes. “Please let me feed. Please."

“...You are crying,” Pantalone whispers. Through unfeeling lips, a tight chest, utterly still with shock. “Oh, Doctor.”

There is no way to hide it. Furiously, Dottore presses both hands to his eyes, now, jerks his body away from Pantalone. But he does not resist, despite his whining, when Pantalone guides him into facing him; not with malice, mind. This touch is gentle, an inaudible reassurance.

“Fuck you,” Dottore says, and hiccups, “I told you I can’t!”

He shouldn’t, yet he will.

The moment he presses his hand to Dottore’s mouth is the very same Dottore’s voice shatters on a sob. And still, Dottore does not move–not even when Pantalone pries his lips open and wipes his blood along his tongue. Tears well up within his eyes and spill down his cheeks, to the edge of his jaw, down his neck.

“Go on,” Pantalone encourages, and reiterates himself when Dottore nearly weeps, “you deserve to be satiated.”

“Puh-lease,” Dottore chokes on a sob, “can I?”

“Yes. Feed from me.”

It all happens so quickly. Too quickly for Pantalone to register, as if his heart is not his own, as if these legs are not attached to him. He floats, now, above their conjoined bodies and observes thoughtlessly as Dottore's jaw opens impossibly wide–glistening, predatory–and plunges its fangs into his forearm. 

There is some familiarity here, at the very least: like a shard of ice gliding through his skin, then hot, hot fire lacing up his veins, curdling like venom. His heart flutters with instinctive adrenaline; he squirms, belatedly. Dottore’s hands grip his head and hold him still–but when had they gotten there from his chest?

Dottore's throat pauses on a deep gulp. Well, not that Pantalone can see him as much as he can feel him–all he truly sees is red. So much of it, dripping down the planes of Dottore’s chest, smearing in between their bodies, splattered across the pallor of Dottore’s cheeks. And then he sees nothing at all, his eyes squeezing shut as his body seizes up and convulses, the singular thought of Dottore, Dottore, Dottore ringing in his ears like a church bell.

“Yes,” Dottore gasps against him, and kisses the wound with his tongue, “I am right here.”

Pantalone blinks. Had he been saying his name aloud? His vision swims with blotchy, spiraling stars. His mouth opens, but all he can muster is a moan, and that is that.

Three things occur to him when Pantalone regains consciousness. First of all, his mouth is dry–for how long has he been speaking? Difficult to determine. Secondly, his hips move of their own accord, jerking and writhing in Dottore’s arms. And finally, his body hardly reacts when he, at long last, releases.

It is ecstasy, every millisecond of it. He is weak–so utterly helpless–his limbs cold and his head swimming, riding out his high with Dottore pressed firmly against his prostate. With one last wave, he sighs and murmurs something of a praise; or, at least, he believes he does.

“Good boy,” he hears himself say, and that is all.

But Dottore does not acknowledge him. In fact, he seems to do everything in his power to ignore him, even when Pantalone mumbles a protest and wriggles in his grip. With a carnal growl, he unlatches himself from Pantalone’s arm–wipes one hand across his mouth, sullying his complexion beyond comprehension–and gazes at him with utter awe. Akin to worship.

“You taste,” Dottore moans, clears his throat and licks his lips, “beyond divine.”

How Pantalone can possibly feel an iota of arousal directly after his orgasm, he does not know. His stomach clenches with it all the same, punching him from the base of his spine. His cock gives a pitiful little twitch.

“My, what a greedy mutt,” Pantalone teases. Gods, if Dottore is a mess, then he must be even worse off. He need not look into a mirror to know he is as disheveled as Dottore: sweat-slick and defiled with blood, bruised and thoroughly devoured.

And now, one more aspect of Pantalone’s realization comes to his attention. Unavoidable, impossible to mistake as Dottore shifts, the warmth of his hands uniting behind Pantalone. They rest at the top of his back, fingertips digging into his shoulder blades.

Dottore is still fully erect. With a weak hand, Pantalone dips his fingers to his rim–flinches upon contact–and inspects his findings.

“You did cum, after all,” he murmurs. Physiologically speaking, Dottore had stated. “And yet, you remain hard.”

Curious. What an intense expression he wears, crawling overtop Dottore’s features. It ripples from his eyes, down to his cheeks, and settles with the clenching of his jaw. With a shrug he says, “I did warn you earlier.”

“Oh, am I meant to decode your ominous words here, too?” Pantalone sneers, begins the process of lifting himself off, “if so, I expect to be compensated with overtime because I–Doctor-!”

He begins speaking on Dottore’s lap. He ceases in mid-air, words dying in his chest. Dottore braces his hands underneath his armpits, lifting him with infuriating ease–all the way up, until his cock slips from Pantalone with a vulgar, slick noise. When he pulls back, Pantalone bites his lip and watches the stretch, cheeks burning as Dottore’s cum oozes from his hole and drips onto the marble below. In spite of himself, his cock pulses, precum splattering against his stomach.

“Doctor,” he warns. Dottore merely throws his head back and cackles, and even more when Pantalone tries his best to coax his limbs into movement–but they are far too weak with blood loss, neurological functions obsolete. Shit. Dottore stands, rolls his shoulders back, and lowers Pantalone to the floor. Shit.

Perhaps he had ignored his adrenaline signals for a touch too long–survival mechanisms, cortisol sweltering in between his ribs. Perhaps this is why he finds himself folded in half with his knees braced atop Dottore’s shoulders and his hands in minty hair, pulling him into his orbit. Drip, dripping Pantalone’s own blood onto his chest, in his mouth.

He runs his tongue along his bottom lip. Dottore grits his teeth and descends.

“Do you regret tormenting me now?” Dottore pries. Does not seem to care particularly much for Pantalone’s answer for he lines himself up, again, and grins. “How about this? We can consider this transgression an invitation for you to get even with me.”

“Mmmh,” Pantalone hums, and says nothing else. Now he would complain, mind–about the chill of the marble against his spine, Dottore's rough hands squeezing his thighs, how he'd taken advantage of his blood loss to manhandle him–but he cannot find it in himself to care. This seems to be the correct decision; Dottore scowls. So he grins. “Not particularly.”

“Maybe now you will,” Dottore insists. The head of his cock breaches his rim, stretches him wide. Pantalone’s jaw falls open on a sigh. “Insufferable. I despise you.”

“Ahh, fuck me, Doctor.” Who cares if his tongue feels heavy, if his words come out thin and needy. “Give yourself to me.”

“You were calling me by a different name, before,” Dottore says, and presses himself further against Pantalone–and then rams in faster than Pantalone anticipates. He chokes on his breath and moans. “Do it again… please.”

Dottore’s hips pull out and slam into him. Pantalone's lip splits on a whine, blood bursting in his mouth.

Something about Dottore is different now. Well, perhaps not Dottore alone. Maybe it is because he reaches deeper, far deeper this way, his cock punching into him with a ferocity Pantalone cannot comprehend. It makes him ache, whine, arch his back, toss his head back, his glasses jostling upon each thrust.

“More, more, oh,” he moans, and Dottore whimpers and reorients himself to–yes! “There! Yes!”

His ears ring. Sightless, raw, a blurred film over his eyes. For the longest of moments, all he senses is the press of Dottore into him, uncontrollably, so deep and hard he swears he could not breathe if he tried.

“Please,” Dottore repeats, and again, “please, please-”

“Ahh, yes, beg for me,” Pantalone muses. He grasps Dottore’s face in between his hands–inspects his fangs, all dirtied up with him–and coos, “oh, you poor thing. You want–mmh! You want it that badly, hm?”

“Please!”

Dottore’s hips stammer. Pantalone does not allow him to falter, squeezing him in.

“Hhk–gods, I can’t-”

“Don’t you dare stop,” Pantalone commands. With a dazed nod, Dottore does as such–grinding into him with a resounding slap and gritting his teeth. Twinkling in the warm light, his glasses slip down his nose, and Dottore fixes them without being asked. It seems he has trained him well. “More! Yes, Dottore!”

Oh, it is too much–and not enough. Each thrust drags him up across the floor, echoes back to him in lewd, humiliating noises. Voluptuous, greedy, Pantalone lures Dottore down into a kiss, slotting their lips together. Ownership, yes, he owns Dottore. Here: in his mouth, across his tongue, his spit trickling down Dottore’s chin. Below: Dottore’s hand squeezes his cock in tandem with his thrusts. Erratic, rough.

“Ah, ah, ah, oh-”

He can hardly think. Gossamer threads connect their lips, fill the air with their undefined edges. When Pantalone blinks, his vision clears from tears. Dottore adjusts once again and–gods, he cannot breathe. Clawed into his shoulders, Pantalone wails and jerks.

Broken and glorious, Dottore lifts himself with quivering legs and slams down, spearing his prostate with unreal precision. Pantalone calls out a shattered moan.

“Again!”

The shrill of his voice seems to spur Dottore into nearing the edge. He releases a punched-out moan, pounding into him with little regard for his stability, nor his sanity. 

“Ahh, I’m close,” Dottore says in a conjoined whine, words looping together and overlapping. Pantalone nods, writhes and arches around Dottore. He cannot speak–not now, not when all of his words dissolve into structureless moans. He should really do something about Dottore jerking him while he still aches with oversensitivity–oh, he does not know, he hardly remembers his own name. Everything, everywhere sears impossibly hot with Dottore’s hands, his cock, his teeth against his neck.

Pantalone musters the rest of his willpower to fist his hair and yank him right back where he belongs. Dottore peers at him with heavy eyelids when he gives him a vicious grin.

“Oh, dear,” he scoffs, scrapes his nails across Dottore’s nipples. In raised lines, he paints the muscles of his chest, down his shoulders, to his forearms. “What a selfish lover you are.”

“I need–fuck,” Dottore sobs, eyes disappearing as they roll behind his lids. Pantalone squeezes him with as much force as he can, locking him in place. His, his, his.

“Mmmh, feel me around you.” Pantalone’s lips move of their own accord, delirious laughter and lolling tongue as he releases and feels Dottore twitching within him. “You are mine.”

“Yours,” Dottore agrees, unthinking, “please.”

“Mine,” Pantalone reiterates, yanking Dottore down to his level with a moan, “all mine. Say it again.”

“I–ohh, am all yours, gods.” One last push. Pantalone presses his wrist to Dottore’s mouth and marks him here, too: inside and out, from the flesh of his lips to the marrow of his bones. Ownership, possession, ownership, he is Pantalone’s alone. Dottore’s voice breaks on a moan of, “I am yours, now please let me cum!”

Mine.

“Cum for me, Dottore.”

Dottore stills. Then, from head to toe, he shudders and grows utterly still, gushing hotly into his hole. With one final, broken moan, Pantalone follows suit, spilling ribbons of white along his stomach, up to his chest.

Oh, sweet euphoria. Time slows to a halt, as indicated by the spinning of Pantalone’s vision–unseeing, shapeless flickering lights and wet tears. Lightning smolders him from deep within his core to his chest, then his mouth as he keens, riding out his orgasm in desperate bucks of his hips. Liquid fire down his limbs, to his toes where they curl.

From beyond the barrier, Pantalone is distantly aware of the sensation of Dottore pulling out of him. His cum spills out of his rim–overflowing, inevitably–and drips down the plush insides of his thighs. Pantalone dips his shaking hand down, scoops himself up, and presses his release into Dottore’s mouth. He need not see Dottore to know he licks him up with reverence. Each and every bit, whining at his taste.

And then his vision returns, and there is Dottore–righting his glasses (ah, no wonder), tender movements despite his appearance. Overripe, flushed such a deep shade of red he appears inhuman. Bliss colors him with its tears, flowing endlessly down his cheeks. Pantalone catches him in a vice grip and kisses him, slow and sultry.

“Mmh, you-” Pantalone begins, and clears his throat. Dottore laughs into his mouth and careens backwards, shaking Pantalone’s legs off of his shoulders. They fall beside his hips, so Pantalone cages him in by the small of his back. “You did well for me.”

With a little shake of his head–then a wince, a clench of his jaw–Dottore says, “you are something else.”

“Hm?”

“I should have known you would be this possessive,” Dottore offers, and snorts when Pantalone raises an eyebrow. “Your avarice knows no bounds, it seems.”

“My, I do not see you complaining.” And then, the unexpected: Dottore slips out of his grasp and swoops down–kisses his cock and grins when he twitches–to his thighs. He lifts his hips, licks his own release off of his thighs, marks him up with shortened fangs. With a devious look, he licks Pantalone’s rim–just barely. “Oh! Do not!”

“Why, I would never,” Dottore says, presses a theatrical hand to his chest. And, without having been asked, sets Pantalone down with uncharacteristic tenderness. “I have come to an invaluable conclusion, if you are lucid enough.”

Around the heaving of his chest, Pantalone hums something to the effect of, “hmm, so you say. Continue.”

Dottore shifts to a full kneel–and promptly stumbles on his knees, falling with a curse. Pantalone catches him with open arms, placing him against his chest. He is possessive, indeed; this much is undeniable. Particularly now, with Dottore’s hair in between his fingers, the nape of his neck sticky with sweat.

“Your blood has a peculiar quality to it that I had not anticipated,” Dottore says, vaguely. They are both well aware he chooses to omit details for the express purpose of clearing his throat and posing, “perhaps you would prefer to continue our investigation sooner rather than later?”

And, really. Who is Pantalone to deny him?

The very next morning, an identical letter slips underneath the mahogany of his office door. Unassuming, ordinary. Shadows dance from shivering tree branches, clogged with a decidedly heavier snowfall than yesterday’s, as Pantalone retrieves it.

Regrator,

I hope the morning has been treating you well. As I mentioned, your wounds are to be cleaned nightly and re-dressed every three days. Today, if swelling persists beyond what is typical (your wounds should not be hot to the touch, numb, nor leaking), seek my laboratory immediately; segment twenty-five will tend to you until I am available.

While I do deeply appreciate your aid upon my request, I must reiterate that I am yet again in dire need of sustenance. I shall procure the necessary equipment and enter your quarters at precisely 19:30. Do clear your schedule for me–we do not want unsuspecting visitors to see what a mess we are due to make, do we?

P.S. As an incentive I am bringing my finest bottle of Snezhnayan red with me, aged thirty years. If your preference for wine was to remain a secret, you can blame Capitano’s loose lips.

With love,

Il Dottore