Work Text:
The door to Pantalone’s office collides with the rose gold wainscoting of the wall behind it, thrown open by none other than Dottore. Beneath the frame, his animated silhouette shivers with unbridled delight, dramatically backlit by the flickering torches that line the hall.
“I’ve figured it out!” he proclaims with an absurdly exaggerated pose.
Not again.
“What is it this time?” Pantalone mutters. He sets down the expense report he was auditing and pinches the bridge of his nose.
Plush carpeting sinks beneath Dottore’s heels as he navigates the ostentatious study, weaving between the sculptures and silk screens and painted porcelain vases artfully positioned throughout the room. Upon every surface, treasures gleam in the shafts of light that pierce through lancet windows: mirrors and scrolls and jewel-encrusted artifacts. Silver and gold wherever the eye can land. It’s extravagant. Bordering on obscene.
Dottore pays it no mind at all.
By the time Dottore reaches the cedar desk upon which Teyvat’s financial lifeblood flows, Pantalone has composed himself. He sits with his clasped hands resting over his papers, a patronizing smile masking his irritation. The generous glow of a gilded candelabra catches on his glasses. Dottore finds he looks rather like a proper painting—princely and pretentious.
“Greetings, Doctor,” Pantalone says with false pleasantry. “I’m well, thank you so much for asking.”
“Yes, yes.” Dottore waves a dismissive hand. “How are you, dear Regrator? Should I ask after the weather too?” He doesn’t deign to wait for a response. “I’ve had a tremendous breakthrough in my research. You’ll like this one, I can assure you.”
It’s unlikely that this will be a quick visit, then. Pantalone gestures for the doctor to take a seat. “Would you care for some tea?”
“Yes—no! I’d like a favor—oh, very well, I’ll take tea… but the favor.”
Pantalone has already turned to the teaware he keeps tucked behind his desk. Deftly, he lights the coals at the base of an ornate samovar, a precious piece adorned with floral motifs in champlevé enamel. (He had liberated the item—his preferred term— from its previous owner many moons ago, and still maintains it was well worth the effort.)
While Pantalone gathers loose leaves and pastries and blackcurrant jam, Dottore rattles off a list of variables and hypotheses. It’s all jargon. Pantalone rather thinks Dottore is talking simply because he can’t help himself, filling the room with his own prolixity, blanketing all of Pantalone’s lovely things in a dusting of useless knowledge.
How dearly the man loves to hear himself talk!
The doctor exceeds himself. Caught in the enthusiasm of his own voice, he can’t keep still, crossing and uncrossing his legs, casting them over the arms of the chair, perching upon his heels.
“Kindly remove your feet from my desk.” They’re the first words Pantalone speaks in a quarter of an hour. He slides a steaming porcelain cup into the spot where Dottore’s outrageous boot had just rested. “If it turns out that you scratched the finish, I’ll be quite put out.”
“Oh, I’m certain someone of your means can afford a new slab of wood.”
“It’s an antique bureau and that’s hardly the point, doctor. You’re terribly wasteful and I happen to be fond of my things.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” Dottore scoffs into his unsweetened tea. “Perhaps you could do with being confronted with imperfection now and again. It might humble you a little.”
Pantalone ignores the barb in favor of stirring a dollop of jam into his own cup. Under the doctor’s calculating gaze, he savors that first sip, full-bodied and smoky and just on the right side of too hot.
Tea is a popular custom in Snezhnaya. Pantalone had taken quite a liking to it upon donning the mantle of the Ninth Harbinger. A simple pleasure, to be sure, but he’s hardly one to shy away from easy indulgences.
The cup clinks against its saucer when Pantalone sets it back down. The rich malty flavour lingers on his tongue, sweetening his mood.
“Perhaps we should discuss business, then, now that we have our tea. I imagine you’ve come to my office in search of a test subject.”
“Indeed, I have.” Dottore puts on the mild, inoffensive smile he seems to have been practicing. (Pantalone finds it disconcerting more than anything else.) “Are you volunteering?”
For the time being, Pantalone settles for a noncommittal hum. He knows better than to offer himself outright, not when Dottore is so transparently eager. Patience breeds profit, and Pantalone is partial to profitable investments. Better to make the good doctor wait.
(Such are the games they play.)
“Hmm, your meek little attendants can’t help you with this one because…?” There’s only a handful of reasons Dottore turns to Pantalone rather than the sniveling Fatui that bumble around his lab—most of them veritably lewd.
In lieu of an answer—and with a rather ridiculous flourish—Dottore casts something upon the desk. It skitters over budgets and invoices: a small mechanical device, petal-like and glowing.
“An Akasha Terminal? This is surprising. I thought you put an end to your research on Sumeru’s knowledge system when you returned.”
“What can I say?” Dottore shrugs and runs a gloved finger over the device’s brilliant arc. It pulses at his touch. “Something of my experiment stuck with me. This one is sui generis. I have, shall we say… repurposed it.”
“And I assume you want me to wear it.”
There’s a sudden shift in the doctor’s posture, a coil of tension that twists through his limbs, an unnerving stillness to his every move. It’s there in the way he removes his mask with deliberate hands and lets it tumble to the desk with a clatter that dents the finish. (Curse him.) When Dottore leans forward, fingers splayed out over forgotten papers, his carmine eyes gleam with fervid hunger. The same hunger that roughens his voice.
“Nothing would wake you up, dear. Not a sound, not a feeling. You would be—” a spark, a shiver, rippling over his body “—entirely at my mercy.”
Pantalone’s breath hitches.
They had played such games before: serums and sleeping pills. A light and nervous bedfellow, Pantalone always woke, usually to put a knife to the doctor’s throat before wakefulness set in. It never ruined the mood per se, but it certainly changed it, tipping the balance of power into the banker’s hands.
This, though, would be as unparalleled an invention as the doctor implies if he is as sure of his science as he seems.
“You surmise this would actually keep me asleep?”
“I guarantee it.”
“Would I feel anything?”
“Not while you’re asleep.” The craving in Dottore’s voice is a deadly comfort. “If my hypothesis is correct, you’ll react physiologically. I believe I can even—ah—direct you. But you won’t wake.”
It’s a dangerous proposal. Dangerous enough that Pantalone considers it. Rare are the occasions in which Pantalone can afford to step outside his role as the Fatui’s Regrator. The charade of the affable banker is so much a part of him now, the demure, dissembling dignitary who will sweet-talk and genuflect even as he schemes and coerces in the shadows. Every action so deliberate, so calculated.
By whatever means necessary, he has devoted himself to tearing into the arteries of Teyvat’s trade: money and merchandise, knowledge and the vain scramble to claim it. A mortal man seizing power from the gods.
It’s exhausting enough that, for the right price, the knife’s edge of surrender is always so deathly appealing.
(Besides, Dottore always makes these things so worth his while. Financially, of course, and otherwise.)
“My fee is one million mora and—”
“Done.”
“—and three patents. All those schematics strewn about your laboratory, discarded because you’ve gotten caught up in another project,” Pantalone tuts, eyes narrowed to judgemental slits. Inwardly, he revels in Dottore’s easy acquiescence, the way he so willingly surrenders a fortune. “Your intemperance does little for the Fatui’s coffers. I want at least three finalized and handed over.”
“Yes, yes, as you wish. Does this mean you agree?”
“Conditionally.”
From a false panel beneath a drawer of his desk, Pantalone draws out a document and begins to make several annotations in his tidy script. Dottore carries himself and his tea to the other side, draping his torso over Pantalone’s shoulders, pointing to clauses, and suggesting amendments. Pantalone huffs each time Dottore drops pastry crumbs on the papers.
At the corner of his desk, a silver pocket watch ticks inexorably over the sound of their bargaining, the staccato heartbeat of time itself.
It’s a thorough negotiation and a rather duplicitous one if either were inclined to be honest (they’re not, of course). By the time they’re finished, they’ve drained their cups twice over and the fee has been increased to one and a half million coins.
At last, Pantalone outspreads the contract before them: two pages of artful cursive and crossed out lines, a promise of consummate surrender.
“I believe we have arrived at a satisfactory agreement. What say you, my good doctor?”
“Oh, indeed.” Sparks dance in the smoldering heat of Dottore’s eyes, the red of them brighter than ever in the ruby glow of the Akasha. The madness of the man illuminated by the madness of his science. “This is quite satisfactory indeed.”
“Very well. Consider this contract set in stone. Sign here.”
“In blood?”
What a foolish question—and asked with such relish too! Pantalone attempts a long-suffering sigh, but he’s too eager, too hungry, and the end of his exhale catches on a laugh. He offers Dottore his fountain pen.
“Blood and tears is merely an expression, dear. Ink will do just fine.”
“How terribly dull.”
But he scrawls his name in a sloppy hand upon the dotted line, not the ironic appellation of Il Dottore the man finds so dreadfully humorous. Curiously enough, this one is signed Zandik.
So, it seems this fantasy belongs to the academic. Very well. This will be interesting.
Pantalone breathes out a soft sigh when he sinks a second finger down to the knuckle. Lazily, he works himself open with slow strokes of his hand, nudging against the slick rim of his hole, rocking his hips into the indulgence of his own touch.
Apart from his glasses and the Akasha terminal, Pantalone is naked, sprawled over dark silk sheets and caressed by a pile of cushions. Dottore’s device casts a carmine glow over his skin, but it isn’t otherwise particularly noticeable, comfortably docked over his left ear in a steady prevision of control.
Pantalone had managed very little work after Dottore departed his office with a nonchalant wave and a casual word of thanks for the tea. Numbers—his delightful, reliable numbers—swam before his eyes in nonsensical arrays. Not even the prospect of tallying the Fatui’s quarterly revenue could redirect his attention away from the tantalizing contract reposing upon the surface of his desk. It had been with the utmost resignation that Pantalone had abandoned his audit in favor of a luxurious bath in his chambers, soothing his anticipation with steam and soaps.
Now, silk flower oil, rich and sweet smelling, drips over his knuckles. He slides a third finger inside himself, stroking indolently over his own walls. Only a fool would mistake Dottore for a patient man, so Pantalone takes great care to prepare himself. He can only assume that he’s in for a very thorough fucking under the doctor’s power. His cock thickens against his thigh at the thought.
Oh, he is so terribly eager.
Withdrawing his hand, Pantalone grabs hold of one of his favored treasures: a dildo carved of pure cor lapis, girthy with bulbous tip. He coats it with a generous amount of oil and teases it against his hole, drawing it out a moment before he slowly slips it inside. He relishes the solid feeling of being dragged open and filled up.
“A-ah, yes,” he breathes into the silent comfort of his lavish room.
Although their contract prohibits Pantalone from touching his cock in the intervening hours before the grand affair, it says nothing against grinding the smooth curves of a toy against his prostate until his toes curl. Such is the elegance of a contract. It is a delicate dance and one where Dottore is destined to stumble. Despite his prodigious genius, the doctor lacks subtlety and a keen eye for loopholes; he’s too detestably impatient.
Permissible if unaddressed.
That’s what Liyue’s merchants say. Dottore will have his fun soon enough, but there’s no reason Pantalone can’t allow himself to indulge a little before he’s fast asleep. And what an indulgence it is.
The luxurious sheets slide softly beneath his hips as Pantalone shifts the toy further inside himself, flushed cock drooling a line of precum over his abdomen. The heft of the smooth head rubs deliciously against his sensitive nerve and it makes him gasp with every nudge and scrape. Pleasure laps through his veins, building to a wave. It isn’t long before he feels himself ready to crest, hips twitching, breath quick, imagining those despicable red eyes, those knife-sharp teeth, a scarred and wretched hand at his throat as he lies there, bared and exposed, under the full potency of his surrender.
Pantalone comes with a low moan. His release streaks over his stomach, pooling in the divots of his hips and dripping down in sticky lines. As far as orgasms go, it’s admittedly a little less satisfying than when… well, never mind that. The toy is perfectly adequate.
Pressing a palm to his shuddering chest, Pantalone sinks further into the damask cushions. In a moment, he’ll clean himself up to be ready for the doctor and—
Beep.
There’s a noise, a high-pitched frequency sharp as cut glass. Pantalone’s mind goes blissfully blank.
The world feels still and hushed and unlike anything he has ever known. Gentle. So gentle. A light and tender softness. Gone is the endless greed that has festered since his youth, the bile of jealousy that burns at the back of his throat, the yawning maw of inadequacy
(Beggar, thief, worthless whore.)
In its place: a blank expanse of serenity, pure and white like the static of a Snezhnayan snowstorm.
Beep.
Sleep washes over him like a meltwater stream.
Dottore knows his experiment worked the moment he slips into the Regrator’s opulent quarters.
The lavish bedroom is dominated by an imposing four-poster bed, ornately carved and skillfully lacquered with valences trimmed with fringes of gold. A vast mirror reflects the scene, its gleaming glass set in a giltwood frame of scrolling leaves and elaborate rosettes—a bold testament to the Regrator’s vanity. Everywhere, the room is adorned with gold, so much gold, glittering in the low light of the banked fire. Extravagant and ostentatious.
Sumptuous as it all may be, none of it is where Dottore’s ravenous eyes are drawn. That honour is reserved for the man splayed out upon the sheets, his nude body artfully obscured by luxurious drapes of diaphanous silk.
With bated breath, Dottore strides over to the bed and draws the curtains. The mattress dips under his knees. Caught in the throes of anticipation, he goes short-winded at the sight of the vision before him: the Fatui’s Regrator, a willing test subject. Ripe for the taking.
How tranquil Pantalone appears with his eyes half-lidded, his mouth slack, that insufferable smile smoothed away by Dottore’s technical proficiencies. One arm is draped over his sternum, the other curled loosely by his side. He seems the epitome of repose, a sleeping beauty on the cusp of wakefulness. The warm glow of the Akasha terminal catches on his porcelain skin, the hollow of his throat, his peach-pink nipples.
The streaks of cum cooling over the planes of his toned abdomen also fail to escape Dottore’s observations.
“My, my, how scandalous.” Gloved fingers travel through the mess, smearing it over Pantalone’s chest in an unbroken line. “To think, you couldn’t even wait for the experiment to begin before stuffing your slutty hole. Tsk. Tsk. And you have the nerve to call me impatient, my sweet little hypocrite.”
Nestled between Pantalone’s legs, the base of a cor lapis dildo glints in the light, its lustrous amber shimmering. Dottore’s lip curls over his teeth in a sneer. That damnable toy. An infatuation, modeled after the cock of a fallen god—chosen, no doubt, because Dottore despises the very sight of it.
“Perhaps it would have been wise to think better of testing my patience when I have you at my mercy like this,” he says, dark and threatening, to a man who cannot hear him.
Insistent hands nudge Pantalone’s legs apart. Obscene, the sight of the toy and the glistening rim stretched around it, skin hot and dripping with oil. The dildo too is warm from the heat of the banker’s body. Dottore feels it even through the fine fabric of his gloves. He nudges a thumb over the crystal base, sinking the crystal cock deeper, watching Pantalone’s hungry hole swallow it down.
Dottore’s mouth waters at the lascivious sight. So needy, his Regrator, even in his sleep. So desperate.
“You like that, don’t you?” Dottore coos from between Pantalone’s spread thighs. “Being fucked by a toy. You’ll take anything as long as you’re filled up and used, hmm?”
For a short while, Dottore amuses himself by pushing the dildo against his puffy rim, rocking it slow and gentle. The pure, condensed geo energy seems to thrum beneath his fingers, resonating with each languid thrust.
A brilliant flush blossoms over Pantalone’s cheeks. Against his thigh, his cock begins to fill out, pink and curved and twitching with each scrape of the cor lapis over his prostate.
It’s a crude, physiological response to stimulus, to be sure. Mere impulses from the nervous system, chemical messages to the corpora cavernosa—simple biology. A short-circuit of desire.
But it makes Dottore hot all over, his absolute mastery over the Regrator’s prone body. Impatience crawls beneath his skin and has him hardening in kind.
Slowly, he drags the toy out until just the rounded head remains inside, straining against Pantalone’s hole—only to ram it back in with a slick, vulgar sound. Pantalone makes no noise, but his body tenses each time Dottore tugs at the flared base of amber, clenching down as if his slutty body can hardly bare to part with it.
Dottore laughs at the thought, a harsh cackle dulled by the gold-trimmed tapestries around them. Still thrusting the dildo, he curls his free hand around Pantalone’s cock, spreading precum over the glossy head. He strokes his fist over the satin skin of his shaft, thumbs insistently at the frenulum.
A punishment wrapped up in the guise of reward.
Pantalone’s lips are parted now, his breathing quicker as his body recognizes its proximity to orgasm, his muscles flexing more insistently beneath a mist of sweat. How pretty, he looks, the slivers of his amethyst eyes incognizant behind his glasses. Fanned over the pillow, his obsidian tresses shine like volcanic glass, fragile and magnificent.
Dottore can hardly tear his gaze away from those docile features, not when he feels Pantalone’s cock pulse in his hand, silently adding to the mess of fluids already splattered over his chest.
How easy it had been to take him apart.
This is science at its most achingly human. Under the doctor’s power, Pantalone remains asleep, trembling ever so slightly with the aftershocks of his pleasure. His vitals are all within acceptable parameters: pulse a little quick but that’s only to be expected after climax. How exceedingly perfect.
For once, Dottore finds untampered joy in what he creates. Desire surges through his veins, visceral and cruel, firing across his every nerve. He’s beginning to feel his own mounting urgency.
There’s no denying that Pantalone’s helplessness turns Dottore on. His cock is thick and heavy, straining against the seam of his slacks. Carelessly, he strips, tossing his clothes upon the artful rug before he palms at his cock to give himself a modicum of relief.
Prior to ascending to the Regrator’s quarters, Dottore had treated himself to a clever decoction he had meticulously engineered to reduce his refractory period. (If it also happens to make him just a little bigger, just a little harder, well, even he isn’t above the occasional bout of vanity.)
Ah, but there’s one final thing. Lifting Pantalone’s glasses from his placid face, Dottore sets them down upon the baroque nightstand. The thought of spattering those spectacles with cum is fatally appealing, but Pantalone is so terribly fond of his precious things that the promise of spoiling them hardly seems worth the effort.
Besides, with them out of the way, Dottore can be as vicious as he’d like.
Dottore repositions himself on the bed, straddling Pantalone’s shoulders. He angles his hips so that his cock nudges wetly against the Regrator’s lips, smearing a sticky line of precum over his chin.
“Do you want to suck me, pretty banker? I know how much you love having a cock weighing down that silver tongue of yours.”
Curling a hand beneath Pantalone’s jaw, he coaxes his mouth open with his thumb. Strokes over his plush lower lip. The rough pad of his finger catches a moment at the skin, then presses in to run over the line of his teeth. An avid yearning thrums through Dottore’s chest. The drumbeat of it rings loud in his ears.
Eyes fixed on the softness of Pantalone’s features, Dottore slides himself inside, rubbing his swollen cockhead over that slack pink tongue, pushing against the tender walls of his inner cheeks. Yes, yes! His other hand winds its way through the dark sheaf of hair that tumbles over Pantalone’s face to guide him further down, further, further, yes.
There’s no suction, not like this, but Pantalone’s mouth is hot and wet, and the vacant stare in his violet eyes lights a fire in Dottore’s groin, scouring through his veins. Deeper, he thrusts into Pantalone’s mouth, ramming against the back of his throat, reveling in the involuntary squeeze around him as Pantalone gags. Desperately helpless to his whims.
Perhaps—ah, yes—perhaps it’s time to test one of the minor adjustments he’s made to the Akasha terminal. The mirrored device tucked in the curls of his pale hair pulses with a flash of carmine when Dottore deposits a command directly into Pantalone’s subconscious.
The results are instantaneous.
Pantalone swallows around him, taking him down to the root, down, down until his lips kiss the skin beneath Dottore’s navel. The groan that leaves Dottore’s chest is a ferocious slash of a sound. It isn’t the perfect angle for this, but the back of Pantalone’s throat is warm all the same—tight and hot and perfect as it convulses around the head of Dottore’s cock.
Oh! Oh, this is rather spectacular indeed.
Spit and precum dribble from the corners of Pantalone’s lips, smearing over his chin as he sucks and swallows in his sleep. Such a sloppy mess already, and they’ve only just begun. Poor princely Pantalone.
“Such a perfect cocksucker. Ha!” Dottore breaks out into an untamed laugh. “Even when you’re unconscious, you remain such an utterly perfect cocksucker.”
His hands tremble with power. He wrenches at the waves of Pantalone’s hair, pulling his mouth along his cock while his hips pitch forward. Moisture pools below the empty slivers of Pantalone’s eyes, covering those deep purple crescents with the glass of tears. Pantalone voices no complaint at the harsh treatment—ha, how can he like this? All loose and obedient.
It’s so different from the way he usually indulges Dottore, indulges him the way one might indulge a pet. Even when he’s naked and on his knees, Pantalone always wears that amused little smirk, that intolerable expression that so plainly betrays the way he believes he’s in control. Arrogant even at his most debauched.
But now, like this, there is no doubt. Dottore’s authority is absolute.
And so he is relentless in the way he rails that pretty face. Exacting in his cruelty and desperate for the euphoria of release. His harsh exhales are drowned out by the slick sound of Pantalone’s wet and drooling mouth. Any resistance has melted away by Dottore’s mechanical power, that subconscious command to swallow, swallow, swallow.
Pantalone will be left ragged from this, Dottore thinks with mad delight. Every polite pleasantry, every casual conversation, every snide and insufferably smug remark—all of it will be spoken from a throat reshaped by Dottore’s cock.
It’s that thought—the thought of himself lingering in the rasp of Pantalone’s voice for days—that tips him over the edge.
Dottore comes with a harsh groan and a surge of ecstasy. Hot and thick, he pulses into Pantalone’s mouth, forces him to hold it over his tongue for a moment because he knows it would revolt his proper, dignified darling. It makes Dottore feel frenzied, the knowledge that Pantalone will wake with the raw taste of him on his breath.
Hooking both thumbs inside Pantalone’s pliant mouth, he pulls at the corner of his bruised lips and watches the cum dribble out over his chin in a wet, sticky stream—just enough so that the banker won’t choke.
“So sloppy,” he tuts at the mess of his own creation. He cups Pantalone’s cheek and stares into his sightless eyes, nudging a thumb through the translucent film of spit and semen, smearing it over his face. “Where’s all that decorum now, dear?”
Pantalone gazes back blankly. Like one of his own porcelain dolls. A pretty trinket like the treasures he collects.
“Even for such an extravagant sum of mora,” Dottore whispers, “you are altogether too trusting. The things I can do to you like this.”
Oh, he could. Such wicked, wicked things!
Shifting down Pantalone’s prone body, Dottore resumes playing with the dildo, fingering the glistening skin around it. Silk flower oil drips onto the bedding when he slides the toy out, and Pantalone’s stretched hole winks and beckons in its absence. How very lewd.
He likes Pantalone like this, eager and ready without even having to lift a finger. It appeals to his more impulsive side, the impetuousness that drives so much of his science. Time, time, it always comes back to time. Oh, yes, they have all the time in Teyvat like this. He could draw this out, could rub his spit-slicked cockhead between Pantalone’s thighs until he’s mad with yearning. Savor the feeling of sinking into that sweet, pink hole. But he barely gets halfway in before he pitches his hips forward and slams the rest in to the hilt.
Well, there will be time for more, at any rate.
“Ah,” Dottore groans. Pantalone grips him so perfectly even in his sleep, a silken sheathe around his cock. “I ought to keep you like this forever. Under my command. You have made mora your obsession, but you’re made for fucking with an ass like this.”
Pantalone is tight, but that vulgar toy has left him open, his velvet insides sucking Dottore in with characteristic greed. It’s easy, then, for Dottore to set a fearsome pace, brutal thrusts that sink in deep, rearranging his insides around the shape of his cock.
It’s good. Amazing even. The force of his thrusts is such that Pantalone’s body slowly slides up over the sheets, so Dottore drags him back down by the hips, thumbing over his lithe stomach. He leans forward to press Pantalone’s thighs down against his chest and the angle lets him bite at the skin over his clavicles whenever the fancy strikes. Over the milky flesh dimpled beneath his talon-tight grip, he imparts bites and bruises, plum and scarlet.
Ah, but it’s beyond irritating how much Dottore misses the sweet sounds Pantalone makes!
Those breathless moans and high-pitched whimpers haunt him. Every time Dottore pinches a nipple or glances his palm over his cock, he imagines those aahs, and oohs that break on muffled gasps. But there’s a distinct pleasure to be found in this quiet, in the sordid squelch of pumping into Pantalone’s hole, in the rhythmic collision of skin against skin—all softened by the lavish tapestries in this opulent room. It’s serene, almost. Trancelike.
“You are unparalleled as a cockwarmer, dear Regrator,” Dottore pants. “And it does seem as though you’re enjoying yourself immensely.”
Pantalone’s cock bobs against his taut stomach with every rough thrust, stiff and red, with precum beading again at the tip. It sends another crackle of hunger through Dottore’s groin, the knowledge that he can govern the Regrator’s body so completely. He always had wanted to create divinity.
With eyes full of fever, he snakes a hand between them and fists Pantalone’s cock. Pumps and squeezes at the silken flesh until Pantalone throbs and spills all over his fingers. Pantalone tightens when he comes, his hole fluttering around Dottore’s cock, as if he’s desperate to milk the pleasure out of him in turn.
“Just a little more,” Dottore growls.
He returns his filthy hand to Pantalone’s thighs, smearing cum over his skin. His thrusts are wild and uncontrolled. The flames of arousal scorch through him, sparking through his synapses. He climaxes with a guttural sound, hips canting forward, filling Pantalone with the heat of his release.
Leaning down, he bestows a kiss to Pantalone’s unresponsive mouth, tongue artlessly sweeping over the gently parted seam of his lips, tasting himself there. It’s a farce of a gesture, but he knows how much Pantalone craves being cradled and kissed like a lover. (Terribly sentimental, really). Consider it a sign of the doctor’s generosity.
Until Dottore bites down on that ripe lower lip to lap at the copper taste of him.
For a drawn-out moment, he stays like that, nibbling at Pantalone’s unmoving lips, his jaw, his neck. Then further down lick over his nipples, nipping and sucking until they go puffy and pink beneath this teeth and tongue. Throughout it all, Dottore barely softens, his erection sustained by chemical insistence and the promise of so much more.
Before long, Dottore resumes his thrusts. With Pantalone’s hole now slick with seed, it is altogether too easy for Dottore to shamelessly reprise his brutal pace. Were the other awake, he would no doubt be screaming, begging even, cheeks wet with tears. Overwhelmed and all the more desperate for it.
“Sitting down will torture you for the rest of the week, dear banker,” Dottore promises darkly between panting breaths.
Oh, yes, the Regrator will mask the hurt behind that suave, obsequious smile of his. Of course he will. But Dottore will know.
“I’ll know. In every shuffle of your hips in your seat, in every stuttering step you take in your tower, in every whimper as you thumb through your tedious paperwork, I’ll know. I’ll know that you’re still feeling me inside, that—yes, yes, ahh.”
Dottore’s words cut off into a strangled cry as another orgasm thunders through him, his thrusts faltering, nails cutting half moons into Pantalone’s thighs. His pulsing cock adds to the slick mess collected inside that eager hole. The satisfaction he feels is nothing short of astonishing.
The urgency of his lust reduces to a simmer, a low heat pooled in his groin. Dottore allows himself a moment to stare at his willing test subject. A simple evaluation. Scientific, really.
Dottore rarely sees the Regrator unmasked like this. Without the condescension of that contrived smile, Pantalone’s face is lovely in its debauchery. Dark lashes, sculpted cheeks, the pouting bow of petal-pink lips, swollen from being fucked in the face—all that delicacy concealing a rotten, gluttonous disposition.
“You really are sickeningly pretty.”
With sudden hatred, Dottore’s blunt nails scrape scarlet lines over the flawless flesh of Pantalone’s inner thighs. Pretty, pretty, he’s so perfectly pretty and Dottore despises him for it. Oh, he never could bear the sight of men like him, so pristine, bowing and simpering after power and fortune.
The consummate diplomat with a body Dottore cannot help but covet, his own ruined and reconstituted beyond repair, the refuse of scientific heresy.
Dottore wants to obliterate him, wants to wreck the immaculate shape of him. For all that the Regrator laments and bemoans having been passed over by the gods—Vision this, Celestial favor that—he has been consecrated with such abhorrent beauty, such devastating symmetry. And yet—and yet he remains the embodiment of envy. So attractive that it borders on the divine and yet he cannot see it! It fills Dottore with unspeakable loathing.
Unable to stand the sight of that face a moment longer, he flips Pantalone over onto his front, pressing him down into the richness of the silken sheets. Still so pretty, even his back is pretty, lithe and lean, the line of his spine so effortlessly graceful, the curves of his buttocks so utterly tempting.
Oh, Dottore will ruin him.
“This ass just begs to be hurt,” he says with a full-bodied threat. He palms the supple flesh and it gives way with ease beneath his fingers.
Then Dottore brings one hand down in a sharp slap and watches the skin ripple under the force of it. He shudders at the sight. Again, he cracks his palm off Pantalone’s ass, feeling his muscles tense and relax in instinctive response. Again. Again. Until his body feels programmed by the rhythm of it, smack, smack, alternating between one cheek and the other until both shine cherry red. His palm stings warmly from the friction.
He follows the violence with a bevvy of butterfly kisses against that heated skin, light as the wings of a crystalfly. And then he bites down into the meat of a cheek until his sharp teeth leave their imprints in rubies.
Perhaps, there is a merit to art, after all. Pantalone looks quite the masterpiece like this, his ass so prone to bruising like a ripened peach.
Dottore needs to have him again. He wishes he could tell himself that it’s the effect of his drug, that the fervor of his lust is purely chemical, but he’s too rational to be deluded by such falsities. The drug is mere kindling. Pantalone is the one who sets the desire ablaze.
(Ah, Dottore finds it can be so terribly difficult to make peace with himself whenever the Regrator is concerned.)
Panting hard, he spreads Pantalone’s cheeks to reveal the tempting vision of his well-used hole, gaping and drooling cum. Simply because he can, he lands another spank there: three fingers, smacking right against his swollen hole. Such a strike ought to make him yelp and whimper and squirm and sob, but under the Akasha’s power—under Dottore’s power—he remains silent and motionless. Docile.
Dottore revels in it, in the quiet art of his sadism exercised upon a placid canvas.
“This really is some of my best work if I do say so myself.”
It takes no effort at all for Dottore to slam himself back into Pantalone’s loosened hole. Momentum drags him down until he’s draped over Pantalone’s back, fucking deep into him, each thrust driving his hips against the bruising he left on those tender cheeks, ramming against Pantalone’s prostate.
On somewhat of a whim, Dottore entwines their fingers together, his palms over the backs of Pantalone’s hands, pinning him down unnecessarily upon the bedding. Layers of contrast: dark silk, pale flesh, scarred and blistered skin.
“Pretty, pretty Pantalone,” he sings and it should really be more mocking than it is.
Dottore licks a line through the sweat on Pantalone’s neck, nudges through the raven fall of his hair to nuzzle at his ear. The Akasha terminal buzzes to the thrum of his own pulse beneath his lips, glowing the same ravenous red as his eyes.
“You think I’m yours between your contracts and investments and obsessive need to possess the very world. But you have it all wrong,” he says. “Darling, you don’t even realize that you’re mine, do you?”
He grinds in deeper and deeper, feeling lightheaded from the power that sears through his veins and sparks over his skin. All of Pantalone, captured beneath him, overwhelmed and dissolved by such excruciating pleasure. It’s madness. It’s intoxicating.
Pantalone tightens like a fist when he suddenly comes from the friction against his cock and the ruthless pressure of Dottore fucking inside him. His hole flutters, squeezing Dottore’s cock as he keeps thrusting, incandescent with power and loathing and lust and lo—
Ha! That is not a thought for this moment.
“It will never cease to amaze me what an insatiable slut you are,” Dottore growls instead into the damp skin at the top of Pantalone’s spine. “Your talent at acting the proper gentleman is truly praiseworthy, considering how honest your body is. Surely you are the most accomplished performer of our merry little troupe.”
Pushing himself to his knees, Dottore drags Pantalone up by the hips, thrusting into him harder now, the sound of their sweaty skin slapping together so loud in the overwarm bedroom. In a daze, his hands glide over the rubied flesh of Pantalone’s ass to spread his cheeks, revealing the space where they meet.
It’s obscene. The sight of it is utterly obscene. Pantalone’s hole made red and raw from fucking, the thickness of Dottore’s own cock stretching him wide.
Dottore pulls out right before he crests that edge so he can finish all over that delightfully bruised ass, claiming the art of it under streaks of pearly white. His own blasphemous masterpiece.
Still, his desire festers! He’s wild with it, unhinged. The sight of his cum trickling down over Pantalone’s abused hole chokes the air from his lungs. He returns Pantalone to his back and presses him down in the sheets, consumes the debauched sight of him.
Pantalone is nearly unrecognizable from the demure dignitary he daily presents himself as. His hair is mussed from Dottore’s hands, his violet eyes vacant and uncomprehending. In the low light of the fire and the carmine glow over his ear, he gleams like a garnet. Crystalline with light catching on the diamonds of his tears, on the drying smears of cum on his face, across his chest, still dribbling out of his hole. The Ninth repainted in the image of a whore.
It’s about time he’s humbled.
Dottore leans forward and sinks his dagger-point teeth into the hard ridge of Pantalone’s abdomen. He’s desperate to see the violent ring of his bitemark stark against that porcelain skin. Pantalone always wears his bruises so well. An inventory of Dottore’s violence written in violet blooms.
“You’re such a mess, darling.”
His tongue laps up the ellipsis of blood. Beneath the copper tang he tastes the salt of sweat and the bitterness of himself. He’s so damnably hard again, intoxicated on his desire for the man beneath him.
Dottore folds Pantalone over, thighs to chest, and sinks back inside with a truly lewd squelch.
“Look at this greedy hole of yours, all loosened up. Do you think you could take me and that infernal toy of yours?” He picks the dildo up off the sheets and weighs it in a palm consideringly. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Taking two cocks at once?”
He almost does it. Almost presses the head of the hefty cor lapis dildo into Pantalone’s hole alongside his own cock. The very idea of it makes his head spin with a craving so potent that it feels like pain. But Dottore leashes the temptation. He had not thought to negotiate it earlier—next time, then.
Besides, he would hate to miss out on the wrecked and helpless sounds the Regrator would no doubt emit. No, this would be so much better if his darling were awake.
Instead, his hands go to Pantalone’s nipples, pinching and pulling the pink nubs until they go hard and swollen from the stimulation. Then to his throat, fingers tightening around the elegant column of his neck, squeezing only a little—just enough to feel Pantalone’s ass squeeze around him in response.
“Impossible slut,” he hisses. (Utterly besotted).
Against his abdomen, Pantalone is hard again. Without the benefit of Dottore’s drug, he’s going to be achingly oversensitive. Each touch will be agony. Unbearable, even.
Oops.
Beneath them, the bed groans with the unrelenting force of Dottore’s thrusts. His muscles tremble from the exertion. Briefly, he regrets not making Pantalone ride him, puppeteering his pliant body through the carmine commands of his modified Akasha… Next time again. Next time, he thinks, he’ll lie back and watch the glassy-eyed banker bounce on his cock. Yes, that would be quite the performance.
So much wanting! It’s impossible.
But for now, this is everything he needs, the rough slam of his hips over and over, the bruising collision of his cockhead against Pantalone’s prostate.
“Nothing of your fortune can change the way you’re mine to use and fuck and ruin. My precious Pantalone. My beautiful whore. Just a warm hole for me to fuck.”
In a fit of sentimentality, Dottore considers how easily he could engineer their synchronous release. He’s so close to the edge, the promise of his climax already pooling deep in his belly. It really would be so easy. How terribly romantic of him. His fondness feels like a toothache.
Come for me, he commands, overwriting Pantalone’s nervous system in a flash of the purest vermillion. Come now.
It crashes over them together: Pantalone soundlessly dribbling a few clear droplets over his abdomen from his poor spent cock; Dottore growling as he stuffs Pantalone full of his release.
The stuff of dreams.
Dottore lets his weight fall over the messy, wrecked body beneath him, taking a moment to catch his breath. He feels dizzy and giddy and drunk on the dopamine of multiple orgasms. He seeks out Pantalone’s unresponsive mouth, pressing kisses there before taking his plush lower lip between his teeth and sucking hard.
When he pulls back, Dottore tucks a wave of damp hair behind Pantalone’s ear. Beneath his fingers, the Akasha pulses with a promise: the endless replayability of memory accessible on a whim. His whim. A little hypothesis catalyzed by his most recent research in Sumeru.
The second phase of his experiment is about to begin.
Oh, this really is going to be spectacular.
Beep.
Beep.
Pantalone wakes up overheated and parched, mouth flavoured with the bitter taste of the doctor. He grimaces. Dottore stares down at him in unvarnished fascination, something wild in the carmine of his eyes. It’s all a rather terrifying way to rouse.
“I take it your experiment worked then,” Pantalone says. His voice comes out hoarse and fragile. Ah. Between that and the shuddering ache in his muscles, he’s beginning to piece together some of what must have occurred. “Did you have fun?”
“Indeed, I did. You gave quite the stellar performance, darling.” Dottore leans in then, his serrated smile almost predatory upon his face. “Would you like to see?”
Before he can answer, Dottore presses two fingers to the device perched over Pantalone’s ear.
There’s a prismatic flash, iridescent behind his eyes.
“I don’t know wha—” Pantalone’s voice breaks off into a garbled sound when pleasure fires over his synapses, sudden and unexpected. His muscles tense and treble with it. There’s an appalling pressure deep inside him, a heat spreading outward from his core, exquisite and overwhelming.
“—hngh, agh!”
Pantalone’s fingers snatch at the bedsheets in response to a spectral pressure at the back of his throat. It feels like a cock. It feels like Dottore’s cock. But Dottore is straddling him, watching with deadly fascination as Pantalone gags on nothing.
“Wha—Docto—a-ahh—”
Pantalone’s own cock is achingly hard against taut abdomen, sticky over the mess that had been made of his torso. It should fill him with shame, the sullied state of himself, but all he feels is a sweltering heat. Another rush of desire.
When his airway clears, he manages a gasp before pleasure capsizes him again, sharp and thunderous as the storm of his Delusion. He thinks he comes but his shattering mind is too busy trying to decipher what mad and marvelous science this is. All he knows is pleasure and the vision of Dottore towering above him, grinning and laughing and stroking his own dick at the sight.
“Heh… hehe…hoho! If only you could behold yourself like this, dear Regrator. What a delightful little creation you are!”
“How—gah—doctor! Wha—?” Pantalone’s breathless question breaks off into a scream with another excruciating cascade of bliss. His back arches with it. He’s lightheaded and overheated, sticky all over. Dottore’s climax drips from his abused hole as it clenches over the memory of his cock.
Because that’s what it is, he realizes. Every sensation—magnified to a preposterous degree—of every touch and kiss and thrust when he was under, the inconceivable ghosts of the doctor’s hands and teeth and cock. Absolute hedonism. The decadence of phantom fingers teasing and twisting his nipples.
“A-agh, ah—ung—I can’t! I can’t.”
He could tear off the earpiece right now, cast it aside and put an end to this experiment in depravity. It’s unhinged even by Dottore’s standards. But Pantalone’s mind is fracturing into fragments of bliss and it hurts too good to stop. How rare it is to find something overwhelming enough to sate his greed. How miraculous that Dottore has found a way to do it!
“Oh, but you can,” Dottore murmurs reverently. “You can. Be good for me, won’t you.”
Pantalone come again, eyes rolling back until all that’s left is a gleaming sliver of amethyst. Tears spill over his cheeks and glitter like crystal snow. His poor, overworked cock does little more than dribble out a few clear drops, his balls tender and achingly empty. His hole empty too, a painful, hollow kind of empty. It’s good, the activated memory of being fucked, but it’s not the same as being full, not really, he needs he needs—
“Fill me. Fill me. Ah—mmgh—augh—I’m going to kill you if you don’t—ah, stop—”
“Such mixed messages!” Dottore cackles. The sound of it cuts through the surge Pantalone’s pulse like ice piercing through rushing waves. “Do you like it, darling? Me fucking you. Over and over. Taking you without lifting a finger.”
“Doctor, please!”
“Now, that’s a word you don’t say often. If only I had discovered how to humble you sooner.”
Rather than give Pantalone what he begged for, Dottore arranges himself between Pantalone’s thighs and slams the discarded cor lapis dildo into his hole. The passage is so slick and used that the amber shaft glides in easily, and Dottore wastes no time before he begins to fuck it in and out. Pantalone screams and screams through the raw scrape of his throat.
It’s incomprehensible, the feeling of the resonating stone overlayed with the visceral hallucination of Dottore’s cock, the rhythm such that his prostate is ceaselessly stimulated.
“Yes, yes, ah ah, a-ahh.”
It feels like Dottore is inside him, pressing him open and stroking deep inside, but Dottore is kneeling over him, staring down with a look of boundless fascination. Pantalone shouldn’t be hard again (or still? It’s impossible to tell), but whatever Dottore did to the Akasha is rewiring him on a biological level. He can no longer trust his own mind. He feels a toy, a malleable thing in the doctor’s possession.
Spit coats his lips as he drools and babbles nonsense. Pleasure-pain rips through his nerves. Activations of memory, he tries to tell himself. It’s not real. It’s not real, but it feels real. The strikes—hot and sharp against his ass cheeks—feel real. The degenerate bastard actually spanked him.
Pantalone supposes he earned that additional half a million mora.
“Now I really regret not making use of this earlier,” Dottore chuckles, stroking a thumb over the base of the plug. He sounds far more composed than he looks, his hair silvered with sweat, a rare flush shining through the scars beneath his eyes. “Nearly stuffed you with your favorite toy while I fucked you. You would have loved that, wouldn’t you?”
The thought takes a dreadful hold on the brittle remains of Pantalone’s mind. He almost—oh! Oh, he would be so full. As though it had always been there, simmering beneath his skin, the desire for it rages in his chest.
Had he been capable of forming words, he might have begged for it right that moment.
“Yes,” Dottore hisses. “Just as I thought.”
Dottore runs three fingers over Pantalone’s shuddering abdomen to scoop up some of his cum and then shoves them in Pantalone’s mouth.
For the briefest flash of a second, Pantalone considers biting them off just to spite him. But the insurmountable pleasure makes his jaw go slack and he is powerless to taste the salt of himself scraped against his tongue.
“Agh—hnnnnnng—” he moans around the digits.
Thoughtlessly, he rounds his mouth and sucks, licks over the doctor’s knuckles. It pulls out a low groan from the man above him and he feasts on the lustful sound of it.
“Unhh—hng—uh—”
The pressure against Pantalone’s prostate is unending, the manifestation of memory amplified by the unyielding stone of the toy shoved inside him. It’s like pushing against a freshly blossomed bruise—all pain and a kind of perverse release. The sheets are twist around his limbs from his helpless thrashing.
Another orgasm wracks through his body, snapping his back up into an arch. He’s too hoarse to scream anymore and the sounds he does make are muffled by the doctor’s fingers besides. A spurt of watery cum splashes on his trembling stomach.
His writhing is soon overtaken by exhaustion so pure that he trembles on the bed, fucked out and limp.
“That’s it,” Dottore coos. He draws his hand out from Pantalone’s mouth and wipes the spit off on his cheek, then caresses over the obsidian waves of his hair. His other hand is on his own dick, stroking over himself with a sure fist as he takes in the profligate theatrics. “Almost there.”
Pantalone sobs.
(It’s beautiful, Dottore thinks, the way he takes it. Crying and twitching and aching, but still endlessly responsive.)
Pantalone’s mind breaks the next time he comes, dry of course, more pain than pleasure. The sound he makes is barely human. He shakes so hard it’s nearly a convulsion.
It’s magnificent.
Dottore’s final orgasm splashes over Pantalone’s perfect, ruined face.
Beep.
This time, when Pantalone wakes, it’s to an embrace of silk, a dark robe draped loosely over his limbs. Its an absurd indulgence of modesty after everything that transpired. The fabric prickles against his sensitive skin when he pushes himself up. Luxurious though the silk may be, it feels like a cilice, a furious scrape whenever it brushes over his spent cock.
Wet and clean, his hair smells of fresh lilacs. There’s something astringent smeared over his lips, a sort of salve that soothes their chapped sting. He presumes that the dampness he feels between his thighs is much the same, tenderly applied against the stinging burn of his fucked-out hole. The sheets appear to have been changed.
“Oh, you’re finally awake. Here: I took these off you for safekeeping.”
Pantalone fumbles at the blurred offering, returning his glasses to their home on the bridge of his nose. Dottore comes into focus as a backlit silver shadow, features twisted into somewhat of a sheepish smile, his carmine eyes shining in the low gleam of the banked fire.
“Why don’t I make you some tea,” the doctor says, clapping his hands together in nervous distraction. “Something soothing and hydrating. What say you?”
“You said I wouldn’t feel anything,” Pantalone rasps, raw and ragged. Like cut glass. It hardly sounds like his own voice.
“Not quite,” Dottore can’t help but correct, pedantic as ever. “I said you wouldn’t feel anything while you were asleep. That was technically true. Our little encore happened while you were very much awake. Aren’t you the one always going on about the finer subtleties of contract law?”
Oh.
Pantalone’s eyebrows furrow into a thoughtful frown. Humiliating enough, being overcome by pleasure but to be caught out by his own logic? He says nothing. It doesn’t feel like winning, but it’s better than acknowledging his own folly.
“Petulance is a good look on you,” Dottore murmurs. The words are cruel, but his tone is fond. He hands over a steaming porcelain cup.
Pantalone sips his tea in silence. Mint and lavender, sweetened with wild honey. Not his first choice, but it coats the inflamed ache of his throat, which he assumes is why the doctor selected it. The porcelain clatters with how badly his hand shakes, but he only spills a few drops.
Scarred, blistered fingers stroke over the line of Pantalone’s jaw. The touch is cold—abnormally so considering the heat of the room. Dottore follows the glancing gesture with a line of kisses. Warmer. Pantalone doesn’t lean into them, but neither does he pull away. Dottore takes that as permission enough to begin working out the tangles from Pantalone’s ebon locks.
“Are you upset?”
“And if I am?” Pantalone laughs ruefully. He feels somewhat outside of himself. “What then, Doctor?”
He wants to be angry, wants to challenge Dottore on his unhinged proclivities. The way everything is a little game to him, an experiment in boundary pushing.
But Pantalone knows very well who it is he decides to go to bed with. He asked for this. He asks for him. Again and again.
He sighs and sets his tea aside. “No. Of course not, doctor. I’m not upset.”
Dottore kisses him, then. It’s too gentle a kiss for what they have. A lover’s kiss, lingering and sweet. A present for Pantalone’s patience.
“How many?” Pantalone asks when they finally pull away. His mouth tingles, most of the salve rubbed off by tea and kisses.
The smile that stretches at the doctor’s thin lips is steeped in fascination. “Eight, all told. Nine, actually, if you count the one you gave yourself, you greedy thing. Fitting, isn’t it?”
“You knew about that?”
“Darling, you left yourself a mess. And besides,” he casts his eyes at the discarded earpieces on the nightstand. They’re no longer glowing. His voice pitches to a conspiratorial whisper. “I happened to be watching.”
With a low groan, Pantalone melts back into the bedding. He curls on his side, facing away and stares sightlessly through the spectacles that dig into the tender skin at his temple. Dottore hasn’t finished brushing out his hair, but he doesn’t think he can hold himself up any longer. His body feels boneless and sated and pushed far past its limits. It’s good. It’s a lot, but it’s good.
He doesn’t dare ask Dottore to stay. He certainly doesn’t ask to be held.
But Dottore shuffles close anyway and presses his chest against the gentle curve of Pantalone’s spine, cool through the fabric of the robe. The tip of his nose trails over the slope of Pantalone’s shoulder, up to brush against the red-blue bruises on his neck. Bitemarks and fingerprints, a record of memory on his skin. Dottore presses a kiss to each one.
Pantalone’s throat bobs with a swallow.
“I went too far,” Dottore murmurs into the reddened skin, a rare admission. “You simply—I look at you and I…”
“I know.”
A rush of breath rustles through Pantalone’s dark hair. For a moment, it seems the doctor has something to say.
“It’s all right, doctor. I know. I know.”